...

I cry when no one's looking.

-Jen

Seeking Superman

I don't know what I expected... But, I never dreamed that I would find Superman.

As a child, I often looked for him. And when finding that the hero within my life was actually the villain, I suspected that Superman... was me. Shortly after, I figured that I was just a weak, insignificant citizen. But, I later realized that I was a bit off. Sure, I was a bit needy, but I was headstrong and steadfast. I was determined, though I often fell prey to villainous foes. 

Still, Superman never came for me. I soon believed that there was no such man. There was no such entity who would swoop in when I needed him most and save me from the destruction and chaos--the twisted, metal wreck which was my life.

It was my job to save myself. There was no "super" man. There was only me. And, that's how it would always be. 

But instead of saving myself, I decided to rescue everyone else. 

What a heady feeling to know you're needed--to feel relied upon--to feel essential. How tiring it is to always answer when you're called--to always go forth when you're needed--to stretch a helping hand beyond its natural reach. This is what Superman must feel like.

Eventually, my determination subsided.
I was only human.
My will to endure waned. 

I never dreamed that I would search for Superman only to find that he did not exist--or, rather, he did exist in minuscule doses, living vicariously through liars and villains with welcoming smiles and trusting faces. 

For my own sake, I changed tactics... I found Spider-man, but realized that I could not be his Mary Jane. 
Batman arrived. And, I was smitten. Sadly, he was not.
Either way, we didn't mesh. It was like... I belonged to an entirely different universe. 

As of late, I've come across someone else. He has his flaws, but--there is something about him that I cannot shake. I know that he's no superhero and that he could never be. But, I don't care... He fits me.

All this time, I've been chasing an idea--seeking Superman, only to find... Clark.

"Tall" Tales.

     I hated peas. I hated squash. I hated tomatoes. And, I wasn't too partial to broccoli in those days. I wasn't too happy about eating my veggies, but my mother made sure I sat still  until I did. 
     "You will be short if you don't eat them--!" she'd say. "You're not moving one inch until you finish it--!" she'd continue on. 
     So, I got into the habit of holding my nose, scooping a spoonful of food, and swallowing it whole. I ate the green, leafy stuff. My mother was pleased. 
     Years later, I'm still no taller than five-feet one-inch. Vegetables don't make you tall, mom.

-Jen (:

Bike Chains and Tall Hills.

     A few days ago, I hopped on a bright-green bike and rode through the countryside. The September wind  tore through my raven hair, and the sunset was soft upon my skin. I smiled. The air, sprinkled with mist and powdered with chimney smoke, was cool. And, I was content.

     When I got onto that bike and raced down the road, I was quickly spirited away into my childhood... I would hop on my bike--pink and white with little purple and pink streamers hanging from the handle bars--and I would pedal as quickly as I could. Whenever I'd reach the top of the hill, there was a point in which my heart stopped and my stomach fluttered... And then, I'd slowly begin my descent. 
     The hill would decline for seconds, moments--my heart would fly into my throat--and then triumphantly I'd reach the base of the hill at such extreme speed that my heart would quickly drop into the pit of my stomach. And tragically, my bike chain would pop.
     I'd slide down from my bike and walk it back up the hill. And then, once I've reached the top, I'd pull over onto the side of the road, pull up the kickstand, and pop my bike chain back into place. And then, I'd ride my bike back home, happily zigging and zagging in and out of the road all the way there.

...The only difference these days is that I rode my bike back up the hill. And, my bike chain is much more sturdy.

Marshmallows over an Open Flame.

     My mother never had much money to do what she would have liked to do for us. But, she made due. And, we never fully realized how much she improvised. The things she did to make up for what we didn't have just seemed... well, normal. And, I'm certain that I didn't know it wasn't normal until I observed other people doing those same things differently.
     We didn't eat much candy growing up. Families with extra spending money had that luxury. We didn't. So, my mother would buy marshmallows---before your mind runs rampant with all the possibilities and creations that one could concoct with a handful of marshmallows, please remember this one thing: We only had the marshmallows. No chocolate. No graham crackers. No thin, wooden stakes on which to "roast" them over an open fire outdoors.
     My mom would go to the store, buy a bag of jumbo marshmallows, and when she'd get home, she'd gather us around the stove, turn on the eye, and hand us each a metal fork. Then, she'd demonstrate--
     She placed a marshmallow on the end of her fork and our eyes quickly became alight with awe... The marshmallow expanded--and, it expanded some more--and then, she removed it and bit--! Oh, how eager we were to try what she had done!
     She was pleased with our elation at her simple "magic trick." She then placed a marshmallow on the tips of each of our forks and carefully watched as we cooed and gasped and beamed brightly at the expanding white pillows of gooey sugar on the tips of our own forks.
     For years, I sincerely thought that everyone ate marshmallows this way... And then, at school... I learned of s'mores.

Sixth Grade

     My sixth grade teacher once told me that I was poor, and I'd never have anything. To be fair, we were poor. Dirt poor. A few of us students were. But, our families managed. And, no one ever talked about it--at least not in such a harsh way.

     Nonetheless, she was so irate because I refused to accept old clothing from her--clothing she thought was far better than my own. 

     Either way, she said it in front of the entire 6th grade class. I recall hushed giggles and faint gasps... That day, I decided to stay in class rather than go to lunch. I used that time to cry. 

     I recently told my mother of this. She was outraged--because days later, as it turns out, that same teacher bypassed me and politely gave the clothing to my mother.

     "I wish I had known that at the time--" my mother said in a huff. "And to think, I accepted them hoping to spare her the embarrassment of rejection--!"

-Jen

The Slumber Party

     I was invited to a slumber party. Once. I had never been to one before, and I wanted so badly to go. 
     Even though my mom said I could, I tip-toed around it all day. About an hour before the sleepover was to begin, I told my mother I didn't want to go. And, I went to bed.
     No one ever knew why I decided not to go. Truth is, I was mortified. I thought that if I went, I'd wet the bed.
     Consequently, there were many other slumber parties to follow. Seeing as how I missed the first, I wasn't invited to any of the others, of course. 
     As a result, those same girls who invited me to the initial sleepover bullied me throughout elementary school.

Left or Right?

     When  I was a kid, my Mom wrote L and R under each one of my shoes so I'd know which foot to put them on. I couldn't do it based on the lettering, however.
     My problem wasn't the shoes. I just could never seem to figure which way was left and which was right.

The Truth about Me...

     As a young girl, I had the privilege of growing up on a farm. My childhood home wasn't the typical farm you'd see on movies where the children run eagerly to the scarlet-coloured barn to fetch pails of milk from the eager father in overalls, a red shirt, big black boots, and a straw hat. No. But, we did have cows. And, we also had pigs. We had acres and acres of rolling farmland--wide, green pastures bordered by a thin stretch of towering pines and gum trees, ancient white oaks... and a dense grove of emerald kudzu and sage ivy.
     Sure, we had a barn. It was decrepit but sturdy. It's antiquated walls, forever copper-coloured, were never painted. And, I seriously doubt that anyone had ever attempted to do so.
     The barn was filled with bales of hay. I mean, there were stacks upon stacks of the stuff--thousands of stray, pallid-gold blades littered the floor. And, the smell... The smell may be the reason why I utterly adore Home Depot to this day. The air was sickeningly sweet, stagnant, and it smelled of sweet oats and warm mist... barley, fresh wood chips and sawdust.
    Some days, I would go out to the barn and just sit on the lower deck inside. I'd just sit and stare across at faint streams of gold and illumined green seeping through the numerous cracks and chasms in the wooden walls and door--until I'd hear my mother calling for me to come inside.
     

Alas, a portion of childhood I pride myself on remembering--

Sincerely,

--Jen.

Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo, & Violet...

I cried last night, and no one cared.

I sincerely wonder if I even cared a little...

I scarcely wonder whether or not I even knew why.

     I sat square in the middle of my bed. I took out my color pencils and aligned them--side-by-side--by color... Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet---careful to blend them according to the spectrum... 
     I was nearly halfway through the sorting--I have nearly one-hundred different color pencils in various colors, mind you--and my niece, as sweet as the day is long, wandered into my quarters, grabbed a handful of the pencils I had just sorted, and threw them as far as she could. Bless her little heart, she can't throw very far; but this alone sent me into a silent rage. 
     I stared blankly down at the interrupted line of color pencils... red, orange, blue--blue? No... blue doesn't belong there... Yellow, orange... no.... wrong... WRONG--
     I was shocked... so much so that I physically shrank down into myself... I slowly leaned my back against the headboard and brought my knees up to meet my chin. I hugged my ankles and quietly watched as she destroyed what remained of the line of color pencils that I had carefully sorted.
     Before long, a single hot tear rolled down my cold cheek. Somewhere inside, I was truly startled that I had actually begun crying. I hadn't cried in so long... not physically--. Sure, we all cry deep down inside without shedding any physical tears. But, I actually cried... I kid you not... I could have filled three, small shot glasses with my tears by the time I was done--no, by the time I had realized that I was crying over a dissheveled line of color pencils.
     Color pencils...! D: 
Geez...

     Before silently coming apart at the seams, I did manage to dole out this little jewel, though:

-With Love,

Jen

The Art of Communication

     I wish I could "get" it together and "keep" it together. He likes you, Jen. Now, take a deep breath... and talk to him already!
     So, here's the deal: I met someone. He's intelligent, witty, humorous--all of these great things. He has to have a pitfall, right? It just so happens that he does! What is this crippling flaw? Ahem, it's "his attraction to me." 
     Yes, yes. I know. I can be quite the self-aware basket case. It almost comes off as paranoia--no, no, wait... It "does" come off as paranoia. So, I often end up questioning myself, asking, "Why me?" When I should really be asking, "Why not me...?" 
     I realize that I tend to count myself out before I've even had time to size up my situation. But this time, no way. I can't say whether I will successfully stay afloat. But, I can try. It will be worth putting forth the effort... right? One thing, though. I have a problem with communication, which is strange, for I can be quite the conversationalist--though I am inherently observant and thus quite silent. 
     Thing is, I get socially awkward--even more so if I'm not entirely keen on each of their temperaments. It's even worse if I'm interested and I actually want to converse. It's at those times I become a blithering idiot. No, really--my thoughts are totally cohesive and filled with curious inquisition--right up until I actually attempt to share that brilliant curiosity. It is then that a wave of incoherent, nonsensical blabber spills from my anxious lips. Pft.
     Human interaction... How hilariously daunting.

With "tongue-in-cheek,"

Jen

Heavy Rain

     It rained today... and yesterday--and the day before. I suppose in a typical post, the previous sentence would be followed up with another sentence like, "And, I was so bored!" or "I couldn't wait for it to stop!" But, no... I love rain. So, let's try this again, shall we?
     It rained today... and yesterday--and the day before. And each time, it seemed to fall right out of nowhere. Today, though, I actually made it to my destination before the rain decided to trap me.
     I don't mind being trapped in the rain. In fact, I actually find it quite pleasant. What's more, I don't mind walking through it if it catches me unawares--which reminds me of a small occurrence...
     Once in college, my senior year, I was chosen to represent my department--on senior day, obviously--and to give a speech about my matriculation and experience at the institution.
     Early that morning, I got up, showered and got dressed. And gee, did I get dressed...
     I donned a very well-fitting, black dress, with long, flowing, sheer pants underneath. And to be honest, it actually looked like it could be the bottom half of the little dress I was wearing.
     I had grown accustomed to wearing my hair in a bun, but that day I wore my hair down; it slithered past my shoulders and came to rest at the small of my back. I draped a set of pearls about my neck. And, I did something I hardly ever do--I wore high-heels. I mean, I wore a dangerously steep pair of black, high-heels. And, I also put on lipstick.
     It was a flattering hue of deep blood-red--which complimented my lips and clothing quite well. I don't wear lipstick--I don't wear makeup; so, imagine my speechless surprise when looking into the mirror and finding everything perfectly in order.
     I felt great. I felt confident. With typed speech in hand, I exited the dorm building and made my way across campus to the senior venue.
     After listening to a few speeches, it was my turn to get on stage. I stood at the podium and accepted the audible musings of faculty, professors, and peers, who were positively surprised at my tastefully bold attire.
     The clothing was one thing, for when I opened my mouth to speak, I gave them quite another show. I produced wit, humor, modesty, gratitude, tasteful cynicism-----In short, everyone in that crowd enjoyed some part of my speech. And, I enjoyed their laughs, their smiles, their nods of agreement, and in some cases their tears--when remembering.
     To cut to the chase, I received a number of compliments for my speech and my delivery. And afterwards, I exited the building with my head held high and with my high-heels and speech in hand. The sky was bright, and filled with the sun, mind you. So imagine my utter helplessness when the entire bottom fell out of the sky and immersed me in cold, April rain.
     At first, I thought to run--because my destination (the dormitory) was afar off. I was a long way from any shelter, and, I had no umbrella. The thought to run quickly passed. 
     I placed my speech inside one of my heels, whose straps I held firmly in my hand, and found myself slowly walking, being pelted indiscriminately with rather large drops of heavy rain. 
     It was interesting enough that my lipstick didn't wash away. 
     Either way, every so often, I'd raise a hand and wipe a stream of water away from my eyes.
     I felt alive--I felt free. I was sopping wet---my soaked clothing clung to my body; my hair hung in bone-straight rivulets about my neck, shoulders, and back; but, I didn't care. 
     I remember drawing nigh unto the steps of the dormitory; I looked up and saw all the astonished faces looking down at me... I remember the whispers; the gasps. And once I reached the door, I remember someone saying very clearly to a friend, "How graceful---I know she's soaking wet, but she's so graceful. She didn't try to run when she got caught in the rain--She just accepted it and walked through. That's so beautiful."
     I felt taken aback by this compliment--at least, I considered it to be one... And, I pretended not to hear. But inside, I danced. 
     So, it rained today... and yesterday--and the day before. And whenever there's heavy rain, seemingly out of the blue, I find myself thinking of that particular time... A time when I let go and connected with something deeper; something real; something bold and free.

Thoughtfully,

Jen

War Inside

     I get a bit despondent when I'm in the city. There, I work for food and board, and I live in an apartment complex which is huddled between other massive complexes--each one the same tone of pallid viridian and terra cotta.
     Each morning, I roll out of bed and open the curtains. My weary eyes, soon filled with light, flutter around sprightly; and my cool skin delightfully absorbs the brilliant light of the morning sun. Then once those few moments have ended and the sun has disappeared behind a rather large cluster of towering pines, I stare down into the scarcely occupied car lot below and sigh... Then, I retire to the bathroom, wash my face, and prepare for "work."
     Work is work, I should say, but it's not what I expected to be doing after graduating from a 4-year institute, Magna Cum Laude--0.1 point shy of achieving the highest academic honors at graduation.
     The low hum of cars whizzing along the road just a few yards away slowly drives me mad... And, I often find myself longing to go home--not to my apartment complex in the city but to my childhood home, complete with wide-open pastures filled with jade green grass, and scarcely traveled country roads which are paved with loosely knitted, washed-out gravel. But when I do get the chance to return home to the country, I slowly begin to realize why I left in the first place...

Seeking Something...

-Jen

Random Little Fact...

     I don't really like to talk much, though there are some people who can pull an exhilarating conversation out of me from time to time. There's a certain sense of peace I feel when I keep to myself. And innately, I'm an introvert. However, I do get a slight thrill when pushed out of my comfort zone for a short time. 
     Usually if I want to say something bold, I write it down... I know, right? Defeats the purpose of wanting to say it. But trust me, I'm doing everyone a favor by writing it down. 

Nostalgia

     As a child, I often fantasized of one day living in the city. Being a farmer's daughter and an obvious lover of trees and foliage, somehow the allure of streetlights as radiant as the sun itself captivated me. 
     Some lazy summer nights, after weeks of spending my summer vacation at home, my parents would randomly pack up our bags, load them into the car, and we'd leave our sleepy little hometown behind in the collapsing darkness of night... And to my extreme delight, after hours of sleeping in the backseat, I'd wake up and see in the distance the soft glow of hazy, orange light streaking across the dark heavens of the early-morning sky... 
     The sight of the city elated me then. But now, as a young woman, I long for wide-open, green pastures. My heart aches when remembering the stagnant scent of sweltering pine lingering in the nearly non-existent, sultry wind.
     Now that I'm living my fantasy--now that every night I get to see the brilliant light of the sun trickle down beneath the neon skyline, I've scarcely come to realize that maybe my fantasy was meant to be just that... and not a permanent destination.

Wistfully,

Jen

It has been a While...

Dear diary,

    It has been a while since i had last written to you, but maybe I 'm the only one who has been missing our cathartic sessions.
     

Looking forward to writing you soon,

Jen