There are moments you know, “I’m not okay.” Its not when you imagine the worst possible outcome, and its not even when you wish bad things upon others. You know you’re not okay when you think about dying from AIDS, and what comes out of your mouth is “at least I’d die skinny,” or when you’re driving somewhere and you think of all the ways you could get into a car accident that would seriously injure you. And you contemplate it because maybe it would provide an escape..because maybe you wouldn’t have to deal with anything for a while if you were in the hospital-or at all if you didn’t survive. But really, because I’d get out of waking up early, or doing homework. 

Solution to getting out of something you don’t want to do…Death.

You really know you’re not okay when you actually go through with these ideas-There’s a difference between suicidal thoughts and actually being suicidal. So what is it that separates the two? What is that eventually pushes you to one side or the other? I once thought about setting myself on fire. I don’t remember why I thought this, or how I even got to the idea..but what I do remember is that I was calm about it. I was okay with it, accepted it. But soon after came to the realization that it would hurt like a bitch. And just like that the idea was gone. 

Even in my state of suicidal thoughts, I am logical. Not in a way most people would be logical, though. In fact, my logic is considered a bit strange by most. Most would say “Don’t light yourself on fire, you’d die…” while I’d say, “no, that would hurt too much.” Most would say “Don’t kill yourself, you’re worth it. Life is worth it.” While I’d say “I’m sure my family and friends would be sad..I don’t want that. Plus, my birthday is coming up.” So is that it? Is that what keeps me in the thought process and not the action? Is that what pushes over people over? The lack of illogical logic? The feeling of not being okay with these thoughts? Because most of the time just thinking about it is sufficient enough for me. 

Its funny how your mind can play tricks on you. 

If I stood in front of a group of people..lets say 10 people..I could be seen 10 different ways. Someone would notice the color of my hair, the bulges under my shirt, or the way my feet are neither straight nor crooked-they are slightly off, one pointing diagonally in, the other straight forward. You could make inferences based off those observations. Like:

“she slightly cares about her appearance because she’ll alter the color of her hair, but she won’t exercise.”

or

“she must feel awkward because of her crooked stance.”

But even after all the assumptions are wasted, they’d still never see me for who i am, or really…what and why I am. To do that, they’d have to see bits of me that only I remember..memories that are only caught in old videos and photos. But if I could somehow reveal my past to them, If I could be seen for what I’ve done- I’d do it like this…….

I’d wave my hand in front of my eyes and as my hand slowly dropped to my side, it’d reveal a brilliant blue shimmering behind dark, full lashes. Slight specks of shiny white would be splashed around the color. Each sparkle would be in place for every tear I’ve cried. The blue, though, would shine through-representing what lies behind, beneath the marks of sadness. A sort of curiosity, a warmth. 

I’d pick my hands up and run them through my hair. From blonde to brilliant blood red. From short, to long and flowing in curls just at my lower back-my need for something different, something outrageous. I’d turn to show off my locks and looking back over my shoulder, my face would slim. My nose would fit just right so not to take over my growing check bones, my pointed chin, and my plump, blush colored lips. 

The beauty I wish people could see on the outside.

I’d tense up my shoulders and release them into a boned, smooth-skinned picture. My collar bone visible, my neck long, and slim. My chest would rise to a pleasing stature and right under my left breast, my skin would rust away. My muscles and veins would disappear and behind my ribs my heart would beat-protected by a web of nerves and fortress of bone. Just like my ability to show love, I show my desire to be cautious..my desire to protect myself. But even though I keep it locked away, every attempt of pillage is caught in my nerves, shooting a pain throughout my limbs. A crack in my bones-visible signs of attempted and failed entry. But, every pain is numbed, and every crack is healed. My bones grow over one another, making entry more difficult, but more painful with every attempt. 

Next, I’d stretch my left arm above my head and my waist would shrink with the pull. I’d stretch my right arm above my head to meet the other. My skin would tear at my hip, peeling apart like old paint off a door. The sound of my muscles separating is like tearing a thick stack of papers in half. My veins and nerves would pop apart like kernels of popcorn while my pelvic bone shattered, throwing my spine in to a curve. My leg would hang in a limp mass off of my hip, bending at the knee behind me leaving the top of my foot resting against the cold floor. A massacre of tissue, a grotesque yet clean wound. This gapping hole would make me look as if someone had tried to tear me in half, separating top from bottom. 

This is him. This is his attempt at my heart. This is the day he left..because even after my body learns to morph back together, I’d still have a scar. I’d still have a limp and a pain would shoot straight to my chest with every step-with every memory. 

Small scars would start to form over my skin. A few scars on my lower arm for the loss of pets. Cut marks across my wrist for an ex-lover..which only made me cause harm to myself. A burn, covered by new, shiny young skin crosses my thigh. Its always growing, always healing. Its the only living scar I have. Its the moments my dreams are crushed, the moments I realize they are unreachable, and the moments I put new dreams in their place. It curves around my leg like a vine, breathing, moving, and feeding. Regenerating. 

So here I am. A person. A creature made not only of flesh and bone, but beauty, heart break, realizations, and hidden treasures. I am shaped by events, and morphed from tragedies. My life played out in skin cells, hair follicles, and pigments. My skin, the blank canvas for my future. 

So, when I’m finally laid to rest, I’ll be covered in scars, tattoos of my life’s stories, smells of all the different places I’ve been. I can only hope that at the end, there will be no blank spaces, no open skin, no where to serve as a reminder of what I never did. I hope to be covered in life. 

So here you are..watching yourself wipe the makeup from your face in the spotted mirror of your bathroom. Outside the cars go by, the people of the night walk past, and the traffic lights shine their semi-primary colors to organize traffic…to save lives.

The lights in the small room accent the oils on your forehead. They accent your frizzy hair, your misshapen nose, and your uneven eyebrows. They brighten the blue in your sweatshirt and they gleam off the ring on your fourth finger, left hand. No significance. But the darkness you’ve settled yourself with makes your blood run cold. The lights at an opening of a film could burn your skin and make you go blind…but the darkness you’ve slumped into couldn’t be pushed aside by anything. Not even a film opening.

So you continue to wipe away at your eyes-at the make up that has already been washed away. You wipe away at your flaws, and you wipe away at your thoughts that leak out of the corners of your eyes. Your vision begins to shake, and your mouth begins to move. There’s a lump in your throat grows, malignant with infected emotions. Steady. Steady. All hell is about to break loose. 

And even though you tip toe around the house, the thoughts in your head are screaming so loud, you flinch with every word. 

And they scream..

and you scream..

“NO ONE EVER ACKNOWLEDGES HOW HORRIBLE THE WORLD ACTUALLY IS. YOU CAN STOP AND SMELL THE FLOWERS, BUT YOU CAN’T IGNORE THE PILE OF SHIT THAT OVER POWERS THEM. THE HARDEST THING TO DO IS TO FIND HAPPINESS IN THIS FUCKED UP WORLD, AND I FOUND IT. I FOUND HIM AND I LOST HIM.” 

and you just scream…

and scream…

and scream.

until you open your eyes and the room is dark. and everyone is still asleep. and your ears are ringing, and the room reverberates..

and you’re stuck.

How long has it been? I can count the weeks, the days, and the hours. But how long has it really been since the day you disappeared? And it didn’t even take you the entire day, you did it in a matter of minutes. How easy it must have been for you to just..flick a switch..snap your fingers..blink and fade into a split second of darkness. So where did you go? Did you fall into the sound of your fingers striking one another..could I close my eyes and find you hidden behind my eye lids?

No, that would be too easy. That would be too close. To find you, I’d have to find a hidden door. Unlock it with a hidden key, and light my way with a hidden lamp. I had done it once. I had just started to light my way when the wind blew and I was thrown off my feet. My lamp was tossed to the ground, shattered. My key was picked up, and carried off into the darkness. The door slammed shut behind me as I ran from the debris. A journey like that..an epic tale of that magnitude can only be completed once. Those items, are one of a kind. I was pushed back out into the cold..snow had fallen around me, and I turned. I left with my eyes to the ground, and my head in the air. My insides were swirling with the wind, unsteady from the storm. I was a walking Picasso painting, from the blue period. A jumble of body parts morphed into alien shapes. A hue of blue that would send a shiver down your spine just from looking at it.

Every day I’m reminded of my failed attempt. I had never noticed how much of you surrounded me. Your songs, your words, your pictures. Each one shooting me off into another universe..another realm. But what affects me the most is your name. Every time I see your name I’m struck. A bolt of electricity shoots through my chest, between my shoulder blades, and exits through my spine. I’m paralyzed, stuck in a world of you. The air carries a familiar smell, the skies line up into pictures and moments of happiness. The trees whisper your words, and the wind hugs me..cradles my head softly in its arms, pulling me closer and closer to warmth.

I force my way back to reality. Back to where I was, where I am now. And as I look down, my legs begin to straighten. They form into working, functioning body parts. They turn different shades of pink, red, and yellow. Memory by memory..I am becoming human again. Bit by bit, I’ll return to my former self. My arms will elongate. My neck will straighten, my eyes will align. Every time I’m forced to remember you, I gain a piece of myself back.

Eventually, everyone will stop staring. Eventually, the cries of terror will stop, mothers protecting their child’s eyes, the women hiding behind their men, the dogs cowering in fear..it will all go away. And I’ll become normal. My pain will become invisible..my failure will become irrelevant. 

Eventually, the door will reappear to someone else. The lantern will burn brighter, and the key will be dipped in gold. Eventually the winds will die down, and your storm will pass. The skies will beam with blue, and the darkness will vanish. All behind that door..all for someone else. And I’ll watch as she crouches down, closing the door behind her. I’ll see a peak of blue, a glimmer of sun in the crack of the door as it closes. And it will close, and the lock will disappear.

Though my body has been returned to normal..my heart will forever remain a twisted, rectangled shape..turned the slighted shade of blue.

“Let me help you,” is a phrase my best friend and I use whenever we encounter stupid people at our jobs, driving, or just in life. It basically means that we notice someone is struggling with something insanely simple, and being far more intelligent than they are, we will show pity and do whatever simple task they were trying to do for them.

I find myself saying this phrase over and over again at my job..that I hate. My boss is a moron and has no idea how to handle kids or run this mess of a camp. He refuses to take my suggestions (as well as my “help”), so I decided a few weeks ago to just flat out ignore him. It works. But, I’m not satisfied with my ideas not being hears. So I decided to come up with a list of things that, in my own fantasy world, would actually happen at a camp I worked with.

The first thing I imagined would happen during the trips we take, as an entire camp, on Fridays. This past friday, we went to a park. On our way to the parking lot, we passed a huge, open field and then my imagination let loose. I imagined that the trips would be more like survival days. We would release the kids, one bus at a time, and have them survive the random, and mostly deadly, obstacles we had placed in the woods. Much like The Hunger Games (actually, EXACTLY like The Hunger Games), the kids would fight for spots to return back to civilization. The only thing that differed from THG story, is that my kids acted like frighten animals as they ran away from the bus. Like monkeys, deer, and birds that had just been released from a short captivity. Running, but confused and looking back towards the bus. We would crash pans and pots together to scare them off. They would frighten easily.

The second idea I had would handle the fights that break out every day. Instead of being taught to fight, the kids would randomly break out in hip-hop dance battles. There would already be a sound system set up, and all they had to do was pretend to throw a punch, then the music, and their sick-nasty dance moves, would commence. Awesome.

The final thing I thought of were stench bubbles. There’s a problem in the older groups at camp because its about the age they start becoming physically attracted to each other. They aren’t allowed to touch or date at camp, so to help out the workers, the kids would be fitted with tiny green, gaseous bubbles that would explode in their faces whenever they touched. The stench would be horrible, like a skunk died inside someone’ asshole. That would teach them. 

I know these remedies are far off from actually being usable, or even humane. But, I also know that there are times I need to escape the real world and recede into the craziest corner of my mind and just think of things. Anything, really, to ease my horrible, horrible job. 

When I was little, I was so attached to my grandfather..and my grandfather was attached to me. There are a few things I know for sure about him. 

1. He is the smartest person I know

2. He has the best heart

3. He has a magic hat

My grandfather, like most stereotypical grandfathers, had a comb-over. You know, the “hairstyle” balding men have? They take the really long hair still growing (miraculously) from one side of their head, and swoop it over to the other to make it look like the hair belongs to the whole head. For years he wore his hair this way, and for years my family begged him to just cut the hair off! And he did, recently. But in the years he struggled letting go of his last remaining follicles, he mostly wore hats. Mostly baseball hats, maybe a fishing or “tourist” floppy beach hat here or there…but he also had this one green hat. I don’t know how to describe it but it looked like he had been wearing it for a while. Like one of those hats kids worn back in the day when people still called out the headlines of the newspapers on the corners they were sold. 

This hat is a staple in my memories of him. One particular memory has recently caught up with me. He had taken the green hat off to brush his one hair over, and he set it down. As he did, I decided I needed to check it out, investigate it. I did. I looked inside, pretty normal. I looked around the outside, pretty normal. But it was when I went outside, wearing the green hat, did the wind pick up under its tiny brim and it was swooped off my head. I remember in that moment how it had somehow changed. The few seconds it was in the air, before it was laid on the ground again, its essence had become…more. 

I picked it up, and tossed it. Just a few feet, but still I saw it change. The background behind it as it spun around made it “pop.” So I threw it up instead of out. First, a few feet, then a few more. As I continued to toss the hat without pause, I could see it starting to sustain itself more and more. It took longer for it to come back down, which meant it lasted longer in the air, the change was staying longer. I thought, “If I could just throw it higher, toss it farther into the air it could reach the clouds.” From there it would be able to see far beyond the normal sights from the top of my grandfather’s head. And if it could see farther, it could go farther. And if it could go farther, maybe it could change forever. Maybe it could become a totally different hat..or maybe it could become a different thing. It could fly with the birds, learn their ways and become one some day. If I could only throw it high enough. 

Now I think, if a hat could make it that high, why couldn’t I? A few pieces of fabric, held together with thread and worn out over the years, an old, but sturdy green hat had the potential to become something different than someone else made it to be, and I don’t? Or do I? The change I saw in the hat, was not the actual hat. It was the way I was seeing the hat. In the air, against the colors of the bark on the trees, the white clouds and the blue sky, the green in the fabric stood out. But, as it fell back to the earth, the colors of the grass, leaves, and dirt blended with the hat and it was just a hat again. No potential. No change. 

So how can I make myself standout? How can I toss myself far enough into the air to completely change what I was made to be? There’s got to be a way that I can see beyond what I normally see. And if I could see farther, I could go farther. And if I could go farther, I could change. I could reinvent myself. I could fly with the birds and remain in the clouds and the blue sky and stand out from everyone else who was stuck in the grass and the dirt. 

I’m waiting for the wind to pick me up, and take me away. To change my essence and my set background. I’m waiting for the right time to redirect my course, my biology and to become something I hope to be. I’m waiting to be happy..and free. 

Today I started my job as a camp counselor for an inner city camp. The camp takes place at an elementary school in Trenton. It it already wasn’t bad enough that I have to get up at 8am during the summer, the scenic drive through Trenton just adds to the bad. The worn down houses, abandoned strollers, and men/women dressed in every article of clothing they have looking for a place to park it for a while in the blistering heat. Yes, Trenton is a magical place.

This camp holds kids in different age groups ranging from 6-13. Throughout the day the kids go to different activities including music, art, physical education, outside time, and the pool. The pool was closed today..so it was a complete clusterfuck or tiny children running around to different drops and actives when they weren’t supposed to. 

The Group I’m co-in charge of is full of 7year olds. They tend to be really good, actually. The younger kids don’t really listen or know how to respond, and the older kids either don’t want to be there or back talk everything because they think they’re hot shit. My Co-counselor is Kyree. He is a giant, flamboyant gay guy. He does greek stepping during “outside time” and the kids follow. Which is funny. His way of handling those who misbehave is probably one of the greatest I’ve ever seen. 

“OSMEAR!! GET OVER HERE!…sit down. I saw you throw that dirt down the slide. Now, you are going to sit here and loose your play time. (osmosis chooses not to sit and complain the whole time). Listen, osmalanda-ding-dong…I am not going to yell at you. If you do not listen to me, I will call your mother and tell her about what you did today and she is going to rip.you.a.new.one…” Onomotopia behaved for the rest of the time outside. But I was still giggling at the site and sound of Kyree talking to this kid. 

He said it in a way that made it seem like he had been there. He had experiences a mothers tearing of their own child, and he knew that must be the thing they fear the most. Being one of 3 white counselors in the entire camp, I felt left out. Slightly…my own mother knows how to tear me apart..but I still feel like what they know and what I know are two completely different things. The way these kids talk to each other and insult each other is much different than I have ever experienced. Today I heard a wide range of examples from “(to a girl) Come here little BOY!”, “I swear I’m going to punch him out!”, “you a dirty slut!” 

I mean REALLY? These kids learn this somewhere, and the way some of the siblings talk to each other tells me that at home, they are yelled at constantly. And they don’t know how to deal with their own anger because when I tried to talk to them and calm them down, all they did was scream with their mouths closed. 

*sigh* after working for almost 2 more hours than I was supposed to, I finally got to go home. But, not before I remembered that I had an abandoned tooth in my backpack..I remembered a girl lost it earlier in the day but I didn’t know her name, and there were so many kids that day I couldn’t remember what she was wearing or looked like. So my brain decided that it would be a good idea to call out in a the whole group of kids in the gym, “Whose tooth is this??!!!” As I held up a tiny baggy, a little girl came over and claimed it..it was then I remembered her throwing the tooth baggy at me earlier in the day. I think I wouldn’t let her go outside, so the child decided to throw her extracted body part at me. 

When you ask someone about me, I’m sure they could give you enough information to fill a book. But, one of the things they may forget to mention, or not know at all is that I LOVE paranormal TV shows and scary movies. Now, if someone were to ask me if I believed in ghosts or demons, I would reply with uncertainty. I’m not entirely sure that ghosts or demons exist (though I am not sure, I am sure that if ghosts were real, demons would be too). Yet, when someone says they don’t believe in it at all, and that its total bullshit, I’m quick to advocate for the possibility of it. Especially people that I know are religious…because aren’t you praying to a ghost?

Jesus was a real person, I agree and understand that…but he died, right? I mean, my religious facts (oxymoron?) aren’t quite up to par with most church-goers, but he died. In a cave. And then rose again…right? Then floated off to live with God. Aren’t we waiting for the second coming? For him to live again? So technically, he’s a ghost. And you pray to him. And you believe he exists, so why is it so hard to believe that the spirit or energy from a non-magical being exists? 

End rant.

So although I don’t come right out and say, “Fuck yeah, bro. Ghosts are real as shit!” I do have some paranormal, or unexplained, happenings that have left me questioning alternate dimensions.

Dish Ghost

Yesterday, I was on my way to my best friend’s house to let her dog out and feed him. I cam prepared with a book to read outside with the dog because it was a beautiful day. I leave my purse and belongings on the table, hook the dog up to his lead, grab my book and sit outside with him. I go in get a glass of water after a few minutes, but the ice machine isn’t working. Straight glass of water it is. I let the dog in and sit in the living room with him for a few minutes so I could finish a few more chapters of my book. As I’m reading, I hear what sounds like someone walking in the hallway attached to the dining room. The dog gets up and stands at the doorway to the bathroom. The door is open, but no on is in there…the light isn’t even on. He’s just looking in the room, tilting his head from side to side, and his ears perking up every few seconds. He leaves after a few minutes and comes to lay by my feet. I think nothing of it and keep reading. After a few more words, I hear plates being moved out in the dining room. And I didn’t say “what sounded like plates being moved.” I’m a musician, I have keen ears and porcelain plates have a specific tone and ring to them. Plates were being moved. It was strange because initially I thought someone was home, but both of her parents were on a camping trip and she was at work while the dog was lying right next to me. The first time I heard it, it was just for a second. I ignore it, and again I hear plates being moved like someone was putting them away, or taking the out and placing them onto of one another. It was longer, more time passed during while the sound was occurring. I get up, and hear nothing. No sound and the dog hadn’t budged. He was laying on the floor and didn’t even pick up his head. I found this strange because I have often read that animals and babies can see spirits, and if anything were to alarm him, he would have gotten up and barked. I decided to leave, i put the dog back in his space in the house and locked the door and left. I told my friend about it and she suggested a loud bang, the wind, or the ice machine. But I know that sound. I know what plates sounded like. I offered her to stay at my place, but assured her that I would never spend the night at hers. 

Strange Dreams

One of the paranormal encounters I experienced involved my own dreams, and what I think was astral projection. When I was younger, I had always remembered my dreams. They were extremely vivid and detailed, and I would remember all most all of them, who was there, what I felt, and what happened. Few times was I able to give information about real life places and occurrences that I had never been exposed to. The first one was when I was probably in my early double digits, and I had a dream about my sister’s best friend’s, aunt’s house. See, I had NEVER set foot in this house, knew where it was, never met her aunt, knew her name or anything. I had only met my sister’s best friend. But from that dream, I was able to tell her the color, size and where her house was located. What the backyard looked like, the porch, how many dogs and what kind they were, along with a pond and fountain she had. Still to this day, I can see it and describe it in detail. 

The next time I had a dream like this was when my mother’s partner lost her father. I don’t remember how much time had passed between his death and the night my dream happened, but it was short. Maybe a few days. My mom and her partner were sleeping in my mother’s room. This room was on the first floor, directly below my room. On that night, I had a dream that I was in the ceiling of their room, looking down on them directly above the bed. And as I was there, I could see her partner’s father walk from the end of the bed, to the side her partner was sleeping on. He simply, stood there and watched. I’m sure it was his way of saying goodbye, and assuring that she would be ok. He never acknowledged me, but I could see him perfectly. No floating, not blurry. He was clear as day, but he was slightly glowing blue. I woke up the next morning and remembered exactly what happened and told my mom and her partner. My mom didn’t really say much, but her partner seemed to be affected. 

The next, and last time I had one of these dreams was when I was in High School. I was becoming friends, and possible lover, with a boy in my English class. We had been hanging out for a while, and one night I had a dream about his mother. I had never met her, but I knew that she once had cancer. That’s about it. We were sitting in a car, being driven from school and I told him about how I dreamt of his mother. Her long brown hair, tiny stature, but I could not, for the life of me, remember the color of her eyes. As I told him about the physical features of his own mother, he told me that his mother was one of those people who’s eye color changed with their mood or weather, or whatever colors they were wearing. I guess that’s why I couldn’t remember the color of her eyes, because they were constantly changing. And if you’re wondering, he is now one of my best friends and dates scummy girls.

While the Children are Sleeping

One of the earliest experiences I had was on one of the many nights I spent at my grandparent’s house. Their house was an old, colonial 3 story with basement and attic. It was also the place my great grandmother, or gigi, passed away. Creepily enough, the pull out couch we (my sister and I) were sleeping in, was the couch and room that my gigi passed away in. So it was bound to happen, that I experience her that night. I remember lying in the bed on the side away from the wall. My sister was sound asleep next to me under the same blanket I was. I was asleep, but remember being woken up by a pressure on the empty bed space next to me, and the blankets being pulled up over my shoulders. I looked around a bit in a dazed mind. I saw nothing, but I wasn’t scared…at all, actually. I was calmed, and now warm from the blanket. So as I told my family about the happenings of the night before, it was brought up that it could possibly be the spirit of my great grandmother assuring me a safe and warm sleep. I am still comforted by that experience, many years later. 

Its coming. Like footsteps on the stairs behind you..rushing towards your frail, 5 year old body like a rogue ocean wave that fills your lungs with salt. 

GRADUATION

This event has always been so distant to me. When I say to myself “Linsay, think of graduation..now think of how you felt when you actually learned what graduation was..” I bring myself to high school. Graduation from high school was welcomed. It was celebrated and shouted and kissed and hugged. Because it meant that I was moving on to bigger and better things, I loved every moment and I couldn’t wait for what was beyond that day. I was a big fish in a little pond, and I wanted more cliché’s. I wanted to be more sayings, more labels….MORE EVERYTHING. 

But now..now I’m actually scared. I am openly admitting, on a blog that no one reads, that I am so weary of my future, and it isn’t even here yet! (or is it?, different question for a different mind).  I still have one more year in school. And by one more year, I basically mean one more semester, because my last semester will be student teaching, and I’ll mainly be doing that. In all honesty, I’m slightly happy that I can finally stop taking classes after four straight years…but stopping orchestra? That’s a whole new story.

I’ve been in an orchestra since I started playing cello in 4th grade..that was almost 13 years ago! I’ve been in an orchestra as long as most people attend school! That’s nuts. But to just stop taking part in something like that? Its hard..terrifying. A major part of any musician’s life is ensemble. And mine is done..unless I decide to join a volunteer orchestra with a bunch of old people..maybe. But I think I’m so weary of it because you hear about music teachers who just stop playing once they get jobs. For more than half of our lives, or even our entire lives we dedicate our time and sweat to this ability, this skill just to be told that most of the time you just stop? That means I won’t be a cellist anymore..my only title, my only pride and something that few people have is going to be so hard to hold on to. Its been my crowning glory for so long…

But as I was discussing this earlier with a friend of mine, she told me that we never know what tomorrow is going to bring. Who knows where I’ll be a year from now, if I’ll still be on my way to teach or I’ve discovered a new path that will take me to far more beautiful places. And as I so easily, and almost internally replied “you’re right. some days…I just decide to change myself.” And its true, I decide to change my looks, my personality, my tolerance, my reactions. So why not change my future? 

Why not change me.