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Hi there! Welcome to my corner of the internets. I'm a 26 year old therapist, photographer, and shop owner currently living in Seattle, Washington. My online spaces are educational and lifestyle accounts dedicated to educating, engaging, and empowering women through digital art, home design, and travel.... with a touch of humor and personality sprinkled throughout. Stay a while!

Friday, March 26, 2010

Everyone wants to be heard. 
But no one wants to listen.

This hole is black. 
Every person shoved into it, just makes it grow bigger. 
Fill it with the tangible. The tangible won't leave. 
Can't leave.
Stuff it full of art and music.
Try and feel complete.

toothpick arms
and fuzzy hair.
mouth sealed shut
and doesn't care.
shaking hands
and broken eyes.
aching feet
and twisted lies.
secrets hidden
behind marble doors.
bodies too weak
hit bathroom floors.
minds that don't care enough to see. 
the truth behind beauty.
the truth behind me.

shove it. 
all in.
as far as possible.

cram it.
with empty words.

lost promises.

stitch it.
with pitiful attempts.

and chocolate pudding.

paint it.
a bright shade of yellow.

to bring out the happiness that isn't there.

seal it in a box.
and send it into the world.

see how long until. 
the box breaks,
and the stitches rip.

useless and empty 
swaying in awkward 
middle ground 
doesn't get anyone anywhere.

in a place where,                  feelings and emotions are so 
           unpredictable and random.
words shouldn't be allowed to roam free.

and tongues
should only be used for kissing. 
forming words 
shouldn't be a part of their job 

Everyone carves their thoughts into words.

They write poetry to fill desolate holes inside themselves. 

They attempt to explain feelings in a verse or a stanza.

As if black lines
angrily scratched onto a white canvas 
can solve something,
can ease the pain,
can pass the time.

As if someone will read a poem 
that will actually enlighten, 
that will actually make a difference, 
that will actually stand out.

As if poetry 
can help, 
can heal, 
can inspire, 
can matter.

Grow your own heart. 
Soak it in gold. 
Lock it away.
Do what you're told.

Make your own soul. 
Inhale bright blue. 
Savor the scene. 
Forget what to do.

Raise your own eyes. 
Spill out the pain. 
Retry just once. 
See what you gain.

Write down your words. 
Let hands unwind. 
Lose haunting fear. 
Maybe they'll mind.

I aspire to be broken.
I used to be able to pour out words that could make you feel. But now I'm dry and cold. I use all that's left for defense from the people. They make me cringe with jealousy. My lips are stuck together or else I'd tell them how I felt. Maybe it's a good thing. It probably wouldn't make a difference anyhow.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

If you say something, and mean what you say, then act like it. Do it. Say it. Trust it. Push all fear and caution aside.
If you say something and mean it at the time, but now the time has passed, then be honest. Be blunt. No one likes to wait for what’s not going to come. It’s better to move on, and throw wishful thinking in the drain.
If you said it, and you didn’t mean it, then I hope you burn in hell.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

The Salesman

“She deserved to die. She was nothing but a self-destructive, mess of a woman.” Ronny thought as he stared out his window. There were police surrounding the shop and an eager crowd of people pushing and shoving each other trying to get a better view.

The police officer came out and cleared everyone out of the way. They were bringing out the body and any evidence that hinted at foul play. Ronny pushed the blinds away and pressed his binoculars against the glass. There was the stretcher with the body on it, and something else, something small and white. He adjusted the focus. A box? Why would they be taking a white box? What was in it? Body parts?

He didn’t know, and to be honest he didn’t care. People make too big of a deal out of things that don’t matter. Who cares if someone dies? Everyone dies. Usually the ones who matter most...

He pulled his bathrobe tightly around himself, and returned to the couch. He picked up his glass, and continued watching people who didn’t matter do things that didn’t matter.

“Just like me.” He said to the empty apartment walls.

He heaved a heavy sigh and lay down. He stared at the ceiling and thought about what he was worth. Secretly, he wished he could leave, start over. Go somewhere completely different, and get out of the boring day to day routine he had lived for too long. He never talked to people, and people never talked to him. He didn’t like it being like that, but he figured that they were too cruel to ever honestly care about what someone else felt.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. He shook his head in confusion, and then quickly checked himself over. Brown hair tangled, green eyes bloodshot, his breath smelled like death, and he had been wearing the same sweats for weeks. He slowly rose up from the couch, his breathing labored. He walked down the hallway to the door and thought about the last time he had heard someone knock on his door. The occasional mailman didn’t count.

The mirror by the door caught his eye. He stared into it, and his reflection stared back at him. A young man’s face was lost in tragedy and alcohol. Where had his life gone?

His thoughts were interrupted by yet another knock on the door, this time more urgent. His eyes strayed from the stranger in the mirror, and his feet reluctantly moved towards the door.

His hands pulled open the door to reveal a tall, pale, thin man dressed entirely in black. He had a small knowing grin on his face, and Ronny had nothing on his own.

“Can I help you?” Ronny muttered.

“Yes. I believe you can. Are you Ronny Baesin?” the man asked in a deep, slow tone.

“Yeah. Who are you?”

“Hi Ronny, I’m here to help you.” The man ignored his question and pulled an object out of his pocket.

“Who are you?” Ronny asked yet again, starting to feel a little cautious towards the man.

“You will know my name soon enough.” The man chuckled. He then handed Ronny a small white box. “What’s in this?” Ronny asked, shaking it to the best of his drunken ability.

The man just smiled, turned, and walked away.

Ronny stared after him. “I’m not paying for this!” he yelled. The man disappeared around the corner. His brows furrowed in confusion. He looked down at the box and curiously ripped the lid away. He ran his finger along the inside, searching for something hidden, but nothing was there.

What a strange joke. He threw the box on the floor and went back to the couch. Staring once again at the ceiling, but before long he was asleep.

He dreamt that he was walking down a hallway of open doors, all which had no handles. He was nude aside from a white gown crusted with dirt. He looked down the hallway and saw her.

She was reaching out to him, her dark eyes pleading for help. Her mouth was stitched shut and she had bruises and cuts running all over her body. She was helpless, so thin and frail. His eyes leapt at the sight of her, and he automatically ran towards her. As he ran the doors slammed shut. At first just one, but the faster he ran, the more doors shut. Slamming against the wood and sealing themselves. He reached the end of the hallway, but to his horror she was gone. In her place lay a casket. The lid was open and a white box lay inside. He hesitantly picked it up and slid the lid off. A black piece of paper lay inside. He brought it closer to his face, his hands trembling. His eyes quickly scanned three sentences.

Ronny Baesin. Born January 16th, 1964. Died November 23rd, 2009.

He dropped the paper and backed away from the casket. He turned to run, but two hands stopped him dead in his tracks. He raised his eyes to meet the cold, icy eyes of the salesman.

He awoke to darkness, the sound of his heart beating violently in his chest, and memories flooding into his mind. He stared at the ceiling, and then decided not to think about it. He went into the kitchen and poured what was left of the bottle into his empty glass. He looked out the window and watched the trees blow in the wind, framing the windows of all the dark, empty shops. His mind wandered back to the dream.

He shook his head and turned to check the time. His heart skipped, it was 2:48 a.m. on November 23rd.

He took a nervous glance around himself, feeling that he wasn’t alone. When he didn’t spot anything suspicious, he cautiously walked back to the couch and sat for a moment in silence.

The dream once again crept back into his mind. He violently shook his head and pushed up off of the couch. He had been improving, he didn’t need this.

He went into the bathroom. A long bath would help. He plugged in his radio and flipped through stations until he found a song that could block out all of his thoughts. He turned on the bathtub faucet and until the water was steamy, just the way he liked it. He climbed in and relaxed. Too much had happened. There was nothing more with the salesman, he told himself. It was just a dream about a creepy guy who thought he was a comedian with his little tricks and his little gimmicks. What kind of gig can you get with that anyways? None, probably. He wasn’t going to let it bother him. He was going to be all right. Everything was going to be all right.

He stood in front of the mirror and undressed. His reflection wavered and doubled, no doubt a result of his self medication. His reflection reached out to touch the mirror. He was so wasted. No feeling anywhere, not even in his arm. He couldn’t even feel the mirror as he watched himself caress it in slow, methodical circles. “The mirror games are getting old” he said to himself, repeating phrases his therapist claimed would “help in times of trouble”. He turned and stepped into the tub. Only his reflection didn’t. Sure he was seeing things because of all the booze, Ronny took a step back and waved his hands. The reflection stared back at him. Ronny shook his head and gave his eyes a good, long rub. This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened, and he didn’t need another know-it-all treatment center trying to convince him he was schizophrenic. When he opened his eyes and looked back at the mirror, his reflection mimicked him. Relieved at the avoidance of an “episode” Ronny turned and stepped towards the bathtub, except there was already someone in there. It was himself, in fact, dressed entirely in black.

He let out a scream and leaped back towards the door, only to slam into something cold and clammy. It was his reflection from the mirror. He had a little grin on his face, as he reached out and touched Ronny’s chest, right outside his heart. At 10:42 on November 23rd, 2009, Ronny Baesin passed away.
Olivia sat staring at the news reporter. Another death? Who even cared? If you’re drinking and popping pills, you’ve obviously got problems. The news reporter was hurting her ears. She shut off the t.v. and absent mindedly traced the scars on her wrist. Her thoughts wandered to a place far away.
A knock at the door brought her back as she quickly pulled her sleeves back down. She walked to the door and opened it to be greeted by a tall, pale, thin man dressed entirely in black.