We all have a face we show to the world, and who can tell what lies behind that mask besides ourselves. It's a barrier that protects or conceals our inner souls; some for fear of being hurt, and some for fear of being loved. We exist on a perpetual stage, playing the part we think other's will be most entertained by or love the most, but who are we really? Are our true selves so fragile that they will disintegrate in the face of any scrutiny? Aren't we made of sterner stuff than dandelion seeds, shattered by a slight puff of air? Or is the mask a way of presenting our true selves in an acceptable manner?
Maybe within our heart and mind is a tangle of emotions and facets so complex that we must filter which pieces make themselves public. Some parts of ourselves must be kept under lock and key, for fear that someone will know us. Are we afraid of being known?
The mask is a distance that keeps us from others, in some small way. If only we had someone to whom we could be completely and honestly bare...we must be known.

Raindrop gems adorn
the beaming dawn-lit window;
Night's farewell off'ring

Goodness gracious! Great balls of fire!

I really do love college life.
Tonight my roommate called me asking what she needed to make sushi, so I helped her and another friend of ours plan out what we would need. I brought some things from home and we lugged all the rice, seaweed and fillings to the dorm kitchen. After some straightening up, we started cooking our rice and sat on the floor singing Smashmouth songs. About fifteen people stopped by to chat and ask what we were making. I think we impressed them with our sushi skills. We spread the rice onto our seaweed paper, and rolled the delicious fillings into the center of our sushi. The knife we used was in poor condition, so our sushi pieces looked more like ovals than circles, but they still tasted just a good! We cleaned the kitchen, went back up to our room and sat on my zebra-print rug with plastic plates, stolen chopsticks and duck sauce. We took off our shoes for the occasion(feeling like we should act asian). Then...we ate as much as we could hold and still had two pieces to spare. Glorious. That morphed into a two hour long conversation about Germany and culture. Sushi, culture, music and friends. I'd say today was pretty amazing.

After writing my previous sonnet, I felt like mixing it up a bit with a "love sucks" type of sonnet. Here you are!

Frailty

Our love was blossoms nearing summer's end,
that sigh and grieve their tiring colors' fade,
and cling with fervor to bare branches frayed,
which shiver, shying from the spiteful winds.

Our souls were two thoughts by one poet penned;
together twined, yet best apart displayed,
Unwary of the hungry, slow-death shade;
the night that sparked our bitter hearts to rend.

Bleak memory, yet precious glimpse of bliss!
Both fondness swept aside and treasured trials,
now haunt this empty, wintered heart of grey.

Sweet memories of your soft, silken kiss,
and depths of love that stretched 'cross endless miles
died 'long with fainting petals, blown away.

I'm beginning to realize that I thrive on being unique. I can't stand to be or look just like everyone else around me. I guess thats because my concept of "normal" is boring to me. I never want to be "normal." I am comfortable being the odd kid in the middle of the cookie cutter kids. And everyone has quirks, but it seems like mine are very obvious sometimes. haha. I'm not terrible upset about this though. I embrace that I am a nerdy, easily excited, loving, soul searching, slightly rebellious, sweet and weird girl with an attitude sometimes. :)
I rarely buy things because I have things given to me all the time. Like seriously, my dorm room? Carpet, curtains, furniture, rugs, more curtains, bedding, lighting....all given to me. As a result, I'm kind of like a big patchwork quilt, nothing quite matches, but it's all good. I like the fall because I can wear warm clothing (backwards much?).
It does get discouraging sometimes though when people see me as less somehow. I know i'm not the perfect woman, but I don't think i'm all that bad by any means. I hate that feeling of being judged for how I dress or who I hang out with. But I don't associate myself with those people anyway.
Being a free spirit has its down sides, but for the most part, its wonderful.
(Sorry this isn't a very thought-out or poetic post, but if you don't like it, you don't have to read it. ;) )

That I could merit so wondrous a feat,
so lovely; hopeless as a desert rain,
as to with your fond gaze my soul complete,
or hear your sweet lips softly paint my name.

How like the spring time lights your lovely face;
your laugh it lifts my heart through storm and gale.
The heav'ns e'er crave your all prevailing grace,
and can your starry virtues ne'er detail.

So through this guarded passion must I last;
Perchance your eyes will match the love in mine.
Content to revel in this glory vast,
and pray our distant futures might entwine.

On misty shores I long, with dreams of thee
and gaze upon the dawn-still distant sea.

I am from yellow painted walls, from uhauls and midnight skype call.
I am from various sites of our rental homes.
I am from the yellow carnations we planted to support the troops, the gusts of wind that chill the soul on the coast of Oregon.
I am from Valentines day dinners and easy smiles, from Tim, Paige, Emily and Stephen.
I am from dramatic women and steady men.
From "beauty is as beauty does," and "a job worth doing is worth doing well."
I am from a steady stream of biblical commentary on movies by my mother to make sure we understood what was right.
I'm from Alabama and Ireland, Coacoa coolwhip and Soy milk.
From the promised beanie baby tree that never lived, the menagerie of animals we owned, and the countless campfires that burned, warming marshmallows to reach golden, fluffy perfection.
I am from a messy shelf and eternally unpacked boxes of photo, VHS tapes and finger painted pictures. These are our history, our memories are our hometown and our roots.

Two days ago, a guy friend of mine was going to come visit my roommate and I in our dorm. My roommate and I don't necessarily keep our room clean all the time, and at this particular time, our room was somewhat of a disaster area. After deciding to have him over, roomie and I both ran back to our room from class, and did a quick, cleaning job (more like frantically tossing things into boxes and under beds.) We even set up a new lamp so the lighting would be good. He came over, we talked and hung out, it was fun. After he left, we walked back into the room and just kind of stopped and looked at each other. Our room was clean for the first time since move-in day! It didnt even look the same. Now it was clean, well lit and the air freshener was working. Even that night, as we were laying in our beds about to drift off, we kept talking about how amazing it was that our room was clean. We were just giddy over it. It's a wonderful feeling, living in a clean room. Its just a shame that it takes having someone over to motivate us to do anything about the mess. haha. So, we have proposed having someone over every week to motivate ourselves to clean more. It might work.

You know, life is always just that. Life.
I find myself doing this and I have heard friends say the same. We always imagine how amazing (or un-amazing) our lives will be in a few years, or even a few days. As if some fundamental shift will happen in our existence and make our life feel different. We may change small things about ourselves over the course of time, but we still remain the same people, deep down. Like, I don't feel much older than I did when I was 15, but I used to imagine that I would be much more sure of myself at 21 than I find myself feeling now. I think the rest of our lives will be like this. The grass isn't always greener, sometimes its really just the same grass and one or two new lawn ornaments. Location of residence, a lack of a relationship or the presence of one, profession, age, friends or few friends, etc; we are still just us. Life is still just life and people are just people. I've heard people say that we always romanticize the past, remembering mostly what we want to remember. We also do this with the future though, we only expect a shining, more-fulfilling, wise and perfect life if something will only happen. I want to be happy where I am, no matter where I am. That way, when I look back, I know I didn't spend my past wishing for the future.

A Plea

Rampant unrest breathes.
It grows, festers, lingers there
in the souls of those who find no peace

Constantly striving,
cursing at the prison that
they perceive themselves to be caught in

This fire smoulders black,
tainting all good with its poison.
Souls cannot survive, gasping for life

You can fly dear bird,
or you can find life here; now.
Please; you must choose to ever be free.

Sometimes when I write I just start typing and the thoughts and words appear like perfect, poetic lines. More often than not though, it takes some foot tapping, some laying my head against the desk, some effort to try and delve into the riveting insights somewhere in my psyche that people would actually care to read. I can sit for hours, never moving once, racking my brain for some tid-bit of truth I can fasten to the page and relieve myself of it's weight. Thoughts are heavy. A thought, if left unexamined, sits unquietly, tinting all other mental processes and burning its imprint into the soul. Sometimes I can't think clearly because that one thought, that one insistent and indomitable idea, keeps bullying its way into my head. The best way I have found to combat these unruly creatures is to capture them on paper.
Lets imagine for a second that invisible creatures exist. They run around and you know they are there, but you cannot see them. One way I think I would fix this problem is to throw colored paint on them or something. That way, the paint would define them from their environment, it would help us see them for what they truly are instead of only guessing. This is a strange and slightly fantastic example of why writing helps me define my own thoughts and understand myself a little more with each splash of ink I put to the page.