Art Is Hard

My big brother graduated college this weekend. I'm going to miss him when he leaves for the west coast this fall, but that's not really the point of this post. Because the ceremony was yesterday afternoon, a good part of our family came to congratulate him. My parents, my sisters, my oldest brother, an aunt and an uncle, and both sets of grandparents.

We went out to dinner Saturday evening, and I got seated across from my maternal grandparents. Now, I love them to death; my grandpa was one of the first people to encourage my writing. He used to ask to see what I'd written between times we'd seen each other, and then read it aloud (I would ask him not to do, and then hide under the table in embarrassment when he did it anyway). Since my writing has kicked up a bit, and our visits aren't as frequent as they used to be, he's stopped asking to see it, and started asking about it. So, on Saturday, I decided to tell him--and, by extension, my grandma--about my Minecraft project.

I started by explaining Minecraft. Now, my grandparents aren't the most tech-savvy of people (and the Understatement of the Year Award goes to...), so I told them that it's basically a videogame version of LEGOs for adults. Once they knew what I could do with the game, I started telling them my plans; use Creative Mode, create a small community surrounded by a huge wall, create a huge world outside the wall, make a dissatisfied character, tell the story of how (s)he finds a way past the wall.

The idea is really to use Minecraft as the medium with which to tell my story, instead of words or pictures or words and pictures, to film it, and to post it on YouTube. When I told my grandparents this, my grandpa's first question was, "Will people pay to see it?"

I didn't really know how to respond. I mean, everything else aside, I'm pretty sure that that would be illegal. I may own a copy of the game, but Minecraft itself isn't mine; I'd have to get permission and pay royalties and all sorts of other ridiculous bullshit that I can't even pretend to understand.

But let's look at the aforementioned everything else that I put aside. I've been working on this project since January, and not once did I even consider the idea of charging for this. Yeah, if everything works out and the gods of fortune smile on me, I want to be a successful author when I graduate college. Much as I may joke about becoming rich and famous, though, that's never what it's been about for me. Writing, and every other type of art I do, has always been about the art itself. When I say that I want to be successful, that it would be lovely to be as beloved and as widely read as, say, J.K. Rowling or J.R.R. Tolkien, for instance, it wouldn't be lovely because of the money; I want to know that something that I have done, something that I have created, has touched people. I want to know that I have helped someone the way Brian Jacques helped me. I want to receive letters like ones that I myself have written, telling me that the stories I have told have given someone enough light to make it through the darkest times of their life. All in all, though, I just want to make art for art's sake.

Maybe I'm spoiled in that I'm surrounded, on the Internet, by people who see art as I do; not as a means to an end, but as the end in and of itself. Maybe it's that, being so surrounded by people with a passion for what they do, I've forgotten that there are people out there who simply don't care, who do their job because it's a job and it brings in money.

Or maybe it's because my grandfather isn't an artist, and so he doesn't really know how it works. He doesn't understand the blood and sweat and tears and heart-wrenching agony that go into creating art of any sort. He doesn't understand the passion necessary to keep at it, even when you're only getting quarters thrown at you for standing on a corner, reading your work. He's never felt the pounding of a story longing to be free, no matter what it takes, even if no one wants it. He's heard of these J.K.s Rowling and Stephanies Meyer (what now, Grammar Nazis!), and he thinks that it's just churn out a novel and get rich quick.

Maybe, if I could organize my thoughts while speaking, and not just when I'm at a keyboard, brain-vomiting onto the screen, I could have explained it to him. Maybe, if I weren't so afraid of offending him, I'd have been able to explain the concept of art for art's sake. Maybe, if I weren't so damned shy, I'd have quoted Amanda Palmer at him: "Stop pretending. Art is hard."

Remember

It is three in the morning, five days before I turn nineteen. I am so scared of the things I must do while nineteen. I must be up in six hours to be at the theatre in seven, but I cannot sleep. Instead, I remember.

I remember being tiny, playing frog in a pond-themed kids' area in a mall. I remember slipping, falling, lying on a bench, unable to breathe or remember how I got there.

I remember being little, having a friend, a "friend", and a stuck-up brat. I remember ignoring Barbies and Bratz in favor of creating worlds in chalk on my friend's giant drive-way. I remember learning my first swear word. I remember forgetting it a few days after, only to remember learning it the next time I heard it, years later. I remember the first time I gave up on another person. I remember being teased, though I don't remember for what, by my "friend" and the stuck-up brat I remember leaving without telling anyone, walking the half-block home, being missed immediately. I remember my mother scolding me for worrying the brat's mom, only to stop reprimanding and start hugging when I burst into tears. I remember telling her, being told, very gently, to ignore her and the brat would stop, but to never leave without telling anyone again. I remember being coddled for the rest of the week.

I remember being homeschooled through fifth grade. I remember the first—the only—"D" I got on a report card. I remember realizing that I wasn't as smart as my siblings. I remember knowing that it wasn't going to be as easy for me. I remember the disappointed look in my parents' eyes. I remember realizing that they thought I hadn't tried. I remember promising myself to work as hard as possible so I never had to see that look again.

I remember Friday afternoons that stopped when I was seven or eight. I remember my Daddy coming home for lunch. I remember wrestling in the family room and people sandwiches on a golden couch. I remember learning to ride a bike. I remember falling, crying, being cheered up, getting back up and trying again. I remember Daddy-and-Me Days and Mommy-and-Me Days. I remember one day every four months, going out with one of my parents, doing whatever I wanted. I remember Atlantis and the Rain Forest Café and riding my bike through forests. I remember being happy.

I remember my big brother, the oldest of the four of us. I remember Weird Al and "Stairway to Heaven" and secret stashes of chocolate in his desk. I remember being teased by the brother between us. I remember my biggest brother sticking up for me. I remember the neighborhood boys teasing me, just because I was a girl. I remember both my brothers sticking up for me. I remember being loved.

I remember second grade. I remember getting bitten by my friend's dog over the summer. I remember going to Oregon, a single stitch still in my knee, unable to wade in the ocean with my siblings. I remember waking up one early September morning, not understanding what was going on. I remember trying to comprehend what was happening. I remember being seven and not getting it. I remember the "friend" and the stuck-up brat moving, getting a new neighbor, making friends. I remember that spring, going to New York with my Daddy for my Communion trip. I remember driving past the ruins of the World Trade Center, not being allowed in the Statue of Liberty, roller skating in Central Park, turning down a play on Broadway. I remember going to Washington, D.C. afterwards, meeting the rest of my family. I remember learning to read that summer. I remember yelling it down the stairs to my Mommy. I remember, "That's nice. Go back to bed." I remember running to my big brothers' room, yelling that I read a book. I remember a noise of disinterest, and "You probably just memorized it." I remember being crushed. I remember my older friend moving away. I remember getting closer and closer to my new friend and my little sister.

I remember 2003. I remember learning that my mom was going to have a baby. I remember my brother upset about the due date; it was six days before his birthday. I remember an emergency C-section almost a month before the due date. I remember her umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck and could start choking her at any second. I remember being nine and not knowing what that meant and just being excited that we were having a baby! I remember my not-so-new-anymore friend being jealous but loving my baby sister to pieces.

I remember summer 2004. I remember drama camp. I remember acting in Annie. I remember a terrible night. I remember reading late and hearing shouting and my oldest brother's fist in the wall and him slamming the screen door as he ran away. I remember my mom crying and my dad shaking. I remember sitting with my other big brother and learning about what "drunk" meant. I remember being thirsty. I remember crossing the kitchen. I remember my oldest brother on the ground, handcuffed, shouting and swearing at the police. I remember my friend's dad coming to stay with us for the night. I remember Auntie taking over after that. I remember milkshakes that were supposed to make everything better. I remember the pact to keep this from the littlest two at all costs. I remember not being allowed to talk to "other people" about it. I remember translating that to "don't ever talk about this." I remember bottling everything up after that.

I remember starting regular school. I remember not knowing what to do. I remember not having a thick skin. I remember changing what I could so I would fit in better. I remember wearing skirts—even though I hated them—and pressuring my mom to let me start shaving—even though I didn't understand it—and starting to play sports—even though I didn't care about them. I remember still being teased for being the smartest, for actually reading when we were supposed to do, and even when we didn't have to do, but could if we wanted. I remember the best thing was the teachers. I remember wanting to get the hell out as soon as possible.

I remember my first crush. I remember not understanding it—why was I thinking about a woman like that? I remember being scared that something was wrong with me. I remember creating a fictitious crush and letting that leak so that no one learn how I was thinking about my teacher. I remember watching Tin Man and feeling the same way about the lead actress, Zooey Deschanel, and wondering what on God's green Earth was wrong with me. I remember hearing about "gay". I remember Googling it. I remember crying from relief.

I remember freshman year. I remember my brand new best friend on 22 April, 2008. I remember Doctor Who over the summer. I remember a hell of a car-pool and getting closer to my brother and the housing market crash and having to leave private school at the end of the year. I remember lying and keeping secrets. I remember leaning on my new show, praying with my wavering faith for a madman with a box to come rescue me. I remember my big brother leaving me.

I remember public school. I remember swim team and a determination not to make friends and a cold silence broken by a Doctor Who joke. I remember opening up to my team, finally telling someone about my sexuality, being accepted at face value.I remember coming out to my private school friends. I remember bullshit and fuckwittery and poor communication from everyone—including me. I remember everyone leaving me—or maybe it was me leaving everyone. I remember the fifteen minutes after every practice when we could just be stupid and laugh our asses off. I remember getting up every morning just for that. I remember my best friend coming back and the two of us wondering if we could ever again be what we were and healing our relationship and being stronger now than ever before and my promise never to go back. I remember becoming best friends with my little sister. I remember learning about my baby sister's mental health issues.

I remember my own mental health issues being identified. I remember being hurt and self-destructive. I remember my parents swallowing my lies. I remember when they finally didn't. I remember being promised that they had seen it before, that they just hadn't known what to do. I remember saying that it would have been so much better had they just called me on my bullshit in the beginning. I remember thinking that, at least then I wouldn't feel so goddamn invisible anymore. I remember starting to sort it with my parents' help. I remember not being able to talk to them. I remember they never made an effort to keep communication flowing. I remember, six months in, they figured I was okay and everything went back to "normal". I remember "Let's pretend this never happened." I remember going on without them. I remember having my friends to help.

I remember starting this blog. I remember longing to leave. I remember my first girlfriend. I remember why that didn't work. I remember my first boyfriend. I remember how much that didn't work. I remember getting my tattoo, my permanent reminder of love. I remember leaving. I remember leaving the hell my parents' house had become, but leaving my two best friends, too.

I remember finding my home. I remember making my new family. I remember the bliss of the summer, tainted only by what I didn't realize was an emotionally abusive relationship—though it was long distance. I remember refusing to put up with shit, even before I realized what it was. I remember breaking up with him in the worst fucking way possible. I remember starting moving into my dorm. I remember starting classes. I remember falling in love with my campus, with my professors—yeah, even the boring ones—with my social group, with my friends. I remember getting even closer to my big brother. I remember the first time my anxiety was accepted by an adult without need of proof or disappointment. I remember having problems and breakdowns and cry fests. I remember being happy anyway.

I remember my life tonight. I remember what I have done, what I have gone through and what I have gotten through. I remember that it could be worse. I remember that that's never much help. I remember all the scary things I still have to do. I remember my friends, my campus family, my big brother, my little sister, my best friend. I remember my own strength. I remember my strength when supported by all these people.

I remember that I can do anything.

Five days from nineteen, five days from the beginning of the year that will truly make me an adult, and I am not longer afraid. I store away the fear, though, and my subsequent vanquishment of it, for the next time I must remember.

Neverland

I don't want to grow up.

I don't mean that I wish to forever remain eighteen. Much as I love it here, I don't want to be in college forever. I do want to get older, gain experience, go on with my life, do things, learn things, meet people. I just don't want to grow up.

I don't want to lose the child-like joy I find in simple things. I don't ever want to feel like I can't play. I don't want to give in to the idea that, because I am a grown-up, I cannot play certain games, watch certain movies, or read certain books.

I don't want to grow up.

I want to read books all day, carefree. I want to play pretend games. I want to take my plastic, collapsible lightsaber and have a duel with my Big in the middle of campus. I want to be silly and stupid in ways that won't ruin my life. I want to play videogames and board games and watch Disney movies.

I want to remain a child.

Some days, I stop for a moment and I think about what I've done. Today, I worked in a theatre for four hours. I did my homework. I had a meeting about housing for next semester. I got my medication. I signed up for an Amazon selling account, so I can get rid of my textbooks. I made appointments for tests. I made a doctor's appointment. I have nothing but responsible. On days like those, I feel proud of myself. I have managed, so far, to stay afloat in a world that rejects people like me: the depressed, the socially anxious and backwards, the troubled, the lost. But, too, I feel disappointed. I look at my accomplishments, my adult-ness. and I'm sad, because, in all that responsibility, I haven't truly done a thing for myself. I haven't read, I haven't written, I haven't drawn, I haven't played.

On these days, I have grown up. I am not a child.

I don't want that. I accept that, to be totally independent of my parents for the rest pf my life, I have to be responsible. I have to make and keep appointments, work, take care of myself. I understand that I have to be an adult. But I want to be able to stay child-like, at the same time.

It's a matter of happiness. Children are happy with small accomplishments, with little things. Most children are easy to please: a little attention, a small gift, a short, silly story, and they are content. That is what I want. I want to remain easy to please. I want to keep my happiness at a nice day, a new book, a random hug from a friend.

And I want to be able to cry. I have been told that I am a rock, a source of strength for my friends. Much as I love that, I want it to be okay for me to break, to fall apart. I don't want always to have to hold myself together, until I am so fragile that the smallest touch will shatter me. I want the option of a good, therapeutic cry when I need it. I want be able to throw a fit, to punch pillows and break things, because it makes me feel better.

I want the option of being childish. I don't want that door closed to me. I promise to be responsible, to think and to do the right thing, but I want to be a child sometimes, too.

In the words of the good Doctor, there's no point in being grown up if you can't be childish sometimes.

This, That, and The Other: An Update on Life

It is one in the morning. I have a maths exam in eight hours. If it were up to me, I would not be awake right now.

But it's not up to me. It's up to my biology. Because guess what.

I'M FUCKING NOCTURNAL.

World, you need to shape up. So many people are all about inclusiveness: include the blacks and Hispanics and gays and all those other minorities, and I'm not bashing that, but how about we get a little inclusiveness for the nocturnal people? How about we get more all-night stores and restaurants, more night classes and work opportunities for people who function better at midnight than at noon?

Seriously, my sleep schedule can flip in a day. No matter how much sleep I have gotten during the week, when I don't have anywhere to be before, I will literally sleep until one or two in the afternoon. I went to bed at five AM yesterday morning. I woke up at two-thirty in the afternoon. I am perfectly peachy, and would be happy to spend the rest of my life like this. I'm not going to get to do, but I can hope, can't I?

I don't even know what the point of this is. I'm angry and upset about something completely different, and I feel like yelling and swearing about it, but I can't react the way I want to, so I suppose that's where this came from.

Maybe I'm just feeling misunderstood and excluded. Not like that's different than usual, but hey, what can I say? I have to have a talk with my German professor at eleven about social anxiety, and I have to figure out how I'm going to get through it without yelling at him or crying. Merlin only knows if I'm going to manage...

On a completely different note, I've decided to post at least once a week from now on. Perhaps it will be a Twilight recap. Perhaps it will be a ramble of ramblyness, like this one. Perhaps (this'll be fun) it will be a short story of mine. Who knows? But there will be a post every week.

With that, dear readers, I leave you and go back to my GameBoy.

Night

I step outside into the icy cold. My breath fogs in front of me, and I smile. A memory drifts on the still night air, a memory of eighth grade, a time before I knew of my allergy, and "the only good thing about smoking". I let the memory float to me, and then past, choosing instead to look up at the night sky.

It it cloudless, save for the steam coming out of the paper mill to the north, so similar to my own foggy breath, but so much bigger. A little to the south, I spy Abby's buddy, Orion, and above me, I think I see the Big Dipper. I grin, my knowledge of astronomy so very limited.

I should have been home hours ago, but my Big started watching Firefly, and I couldn't exactly walk away. It's midnight, and I'm tired, and I still have to shower; the night is cold and empty, but I am fine walking this way by myself.

I take a deep breath to revel in the night; the air is icy, and it pierces my lungs. My body is wracked by coughs from my brand of the Con Death Plague, and I remember that I should really be wearing a hat, a scarf, and probably a thicker coat. I couldn't be bothered, though, to find them on my way out the door to my social group meeting.

I am almost at the door to my dorm now; I tread a longer path than usual, to avoid the snow and keep my shoes from getting wet (they're canvas, and they take a long time to dry). I do not want to take my hands from my pockets to open the door; I'm not wearing any gloves, and my hands chap easily when it's this cold out. I have to do, though, because it's midnight, and not many people will be around to let me in. I pull out my ID and swipe it through the lock, yanking the door open before it has a chance to be an ass and close on me.

Inside now, I am almost immediately warmer. I trudge up the fourty steps to my room, and practically fall through the door. I wave at my roommate. She grins back. My coat comes off and I am cold again. I should shower and go to sleep. I have class and work tomorrow and I'm tired and sick. But I haven't been writing, and I feel the need to do. So I sit down, open my browser, and, still chilly, start to type.

In Which I Get Personal And Interpret a Song in a Way it Probably Wasn't Intended to Be

There is a song called “Jar of Hearts”, sung by Christina Perri.  It’s about a girl running from the hopeful return of someone she has been in an abusive relationship with before.  Looking at it, it would appear that the relationship was with a boy who has a history of abusing and abandoning people, and maybe that’s what the writer intended.  Maybe it is the story of a girl staying away from a boy, who has hurt her before, when he tries to come back.  But maybe it’s something more.

I heard this song on a bad day.  It wasn’t the first time I’d heard it, and it wasn’t the first time this idea occurred to me.  But this time, it was a source of strength against temptation.

No, I can’t take one more step towards you

‘Cause all that’s waiting is regret.

Don’t you know I’m not you ghost anymore?

You lost the love I loved the most.

In this, the first verse, there is a declaration of independence.  “I’m not going to accept you this time,” it says.  “I don’t love you anymore, I don’t need you anymore.  I’m walking away.  The only thing choosing you would give me is regret, and I don’t want that.”

I’ve learned to live half alive

And now you want me one more time.

This small couplet is accusatory.  “By the time you left,” it says, “I was half dead. And you’re thinking about coming back?”  The implied anger and indignation of this couplet can be easily felt.

And who do you think you are

Running ‘round leaving scars

Collecting your jar of hearts

And tearing love apart?

You’re gonna catch a cold

From the ice inside your soul

So don’t come back for me.

Who do you think you are?

The same indignation from the previous couplet is echoed in the refrain.  “Who are you to do all this?” it demands.  “Who are you to hurt so many people?”  It continues, “If you keep going like this, you’re going to end up cold and dead, and if you have me in your clutches then, I’m going to go down with you.  But I don’t want to, so keep away.”

I hear you’re asking all around

If I am anywhere to be found

But I have grown too strong

To ever fall back in your arms

The second verse again declares independence.  “I don’t need you,” it says again.  “You may be looking for me, you may be tempting me back to you, and yes, it would be easy to come back, but I’m strong now.  I won’t take the easy way out, especially because I know what it will do to me in the long run.”

The couplet and the refrain are repeated.

And it took so long just to feel all right

Remember how to put back the light in my eyes

I wish I had missed the first time that we kissed

‘Cause you broke all your promises

And you’re back

You don’t get to get me back.

The bridge is perhaps my favorite part of the song.  It admits weakness, the struggle to regain control, and expresses the wish that it had never happened.  “You promised me things,” it says.  “You promised me relief and hope and happiness, and you didn’t give me any of that.  You made me hurt.  You can apologize and smile and look pretty all you want, but I’m standing firm, and you are not getting me back.  I refuse to surrender to you again.”

As the refrain repeats twice more, I wonder at the hearts that have been collected.  In my interpretation of the song, what is doing the hurting and collecting is not someone who moves from person to person, snagging their hearts on the way past, but a self-destructive tendency.  So do these hearts represent everyone who has participated in this tendency?

I rather think not.  The song can be sung by everyone who has hurt themselves intentionally, but the hearts do not refer to the others who have done so.  The hearts represent all the people who are touched by one person’s self-destructive acts.  So many things are hurt by this action; trusts are broken, relationships are damaged, people are wracked by guilt, wondering what they could have done to stop this.

So many of us do this, thinking that we are only hurting ourselves, that this is okay, because at least we’re not taking it out on other people, and besides, we’re not really worth as much anyway, are we?  I tend to think that maybe, the people who think like that would stop when they realize how much else they’re hurting.  I know I did.

As I lay here, under my warm, toasty covers, at quarter after three in the morning, typing despite the fact that I know I need to get up in two and a half hours, I look back at what I wrote and realize that, no matter what this song is really talking about, no matter how you interpret it, it has a message it’s shouting loud and clear, and that message is, “I don’t need you anymore.”

“I don’t need you anymore.”  It’s a thought I myself often express, in the usual arrogant, pigheaded manner of teenagers everywhere.  Of course I don’t need older, wiser people.  I know everything, and I know it way better than they do!  A lot of the time, that arrogance and pigheadedness is undeserved, unwarranted, and I do need these older, smarter, wiser people.  But sometimes, it’s not.  Sometimes, I really don’t need what these people and things are giving me.  I don’t need my aunt’s opinion on being “weird” and what will come of that.  I don’t need my mother’s lectures on tolerating other people’s stupidity.  I don’t need my father’s angry glares every time I make the slightest mistake.

I don’t need the silver flash of a knife and the scarlet drip of blood to make me feel okay.  Not anymore.  I am stronger than the pull of this, I have walked away from it once, and I can damn well stay away.  I’d like to think that I never needed it, but now I know I don’t.  So you can bloody well stop tempting me, because really, who do you think you are?

Rain

Rain.  It’s a beautiful thing.  Some people hate it, complain about the inconveniences it causes, the dates it ruins, rage against the dark sky.  Some people are afraid, when the lightning flashes and the thunder crashes, and they dive under their covers or put pillows over their heads.

Some people like the rain, blessing the water that helps their plants grow, that makes their grass green.  Some people love it, for the drinking water it brings, for the end of the raging thirst, for the hope that maybe, this time around, things will be better.

I?  I find pure and simple happiness in rain.  When it’s warm, I dance and laugh as it falls, finding energy and joy in the insanity of what I am doing.  At night, I’ll sit on my desk, near my window, watching the rain fall, searching out streaks of lightning, waiting for the reassuring rumble of thunder.  In a world of surprises and things gone wrong, rain is dependable.  It will always come, eventually, and when it brings the thunder and lightning, they are always in the right order, and that order will never change.

When the storm is over, but the clouds are still dark, if the sun is setting and can be seen on the western horizon, the beauty of the sun’s dying light cast on the underbelly of the black clouds is breathtaking, more beautiful than the sunrise, more beautiful than a rainbow.  The purple-black clouds themselves are lovely, a wondrous mix of anger and beauty.

And in its nature, rain is wonderful.  When it hits the earth, it can provide a much-needed drink for plants, create a bath for critters, or simply make a puddle for a child to splash in.  When it hits me, wets my hair, slides across my skin, and soaks my clothes, as it drips off, I can almost see all the grime, all the pain of life, all my mistakes, and everything else that makes me imperfect wash away, leave me clean and pure.  As it hits the ground, no longer clear, but black from my dirt, I can almost hear it whisper, “Here’s a fresh start; use it, try again, keep trying, and you will win.”

Yes, some people are afraid of rain, some hate it, some like it, some love it.  I thank God daily for the rain, and pray that He sends more soon.  If it can clean me of my mistakes and pain, maybe, one day, it can clean the world.

Summer Insomnia

Silence save for the cicadas outside.

Darkness save for glow of my computer screen.

Solitude save for the Internet.

What little coldness that can be provided by the AC.

My mind runs rampant with the thoughts of today.  Wordless ideas and idea-less words flit through my brain, trying to match up together.  Stories come to mind and write themselves in seconds, faster than I could ever type out.  They settle for the recognition they get from me, realizing that they are too quick for me to catch, too complicated for me to write, the voiceless thoughts in my head that are shunted to the side, the ones that are never spoken of.

The ache in my knee is forgotten.  My back cramps from my awkward position, but I don't care.  Thoughts of tomorrow, of the eight o'clock wake-up call, of the chores and the appointments, of taking my meds and remembering to get my flash drive, do not matter to me.  What matters is the fleshless lives I hold inside me.  What matters is the stories clammering to be told.  What matters is sorting through them, picking the right ones out, telling what needs to be told, leaving the others behind in the dark.

I cannot apologize to them enough.  I cannot say anything to these thoughts that makes staying in a dark closet any more bearable.  I can promise to come back, but the older occupants of the closet know that the only time I return, it is to add to their number, not to take anything away.

The Closet in my head is a sad place.  It is dark and dank.  The floor around it is covered in dust, revealing a place where few wish to tread, but dust tracked with footprints, signifying the need to go there.  The Closet is a place where Voiced Ideas never wish to go.  They know all too well that it could have been them in there, it could have been the lying in the dust, forgotten and unused, but they don't want to think about it.

Every so often, though, one of them will.  The idea will consciously acknowledge what has become of its kin, and will fall into a depressive funk.  Nothing will come out of that idea for days, perhaps even months.  At times, its mood will be picked up by the rest--or just several others--of the Voiced Ideas.  They will mourn for the Voiceless, they will refuse to offer up anything new, and they will mope and sulk for the state of things.

Now and again, a Voiceless Idea will sneak from the closet.  It will come again to me, and present itself in a different way.  "Look at me," it will say.  "I have a Voice.  I am not Prose, dear Writer, but Poetry.  Write one page about me; give me a moment to speak.  I will not let you down.  Surely you have time for a page of rhyming verse."

So often, too, these Ideas come through.  They are the Recycled, the Voiceless given a Voice, and they sing loud and strong, reminders that there will always be hope, whatever their message is.

And I sit here, hunched over a computer, in my semi-Silence, semi-Darkness, semi-Solitude, and somewhat-Cold, having said a sad no to another idea, but asking it to think, to find a different side of itself to show me.

I figure, as I slip under my blanket and head towards dreams, if I can present myself to the world in a different light than before, why can't my Ideas?