One of the worst things about working a graveyard shift is the fact that it gives you too much time to yourself, to contemplate everything in your life. And you can't distract yourself because there's nobody awake to talk to. At least I can't. I get so stuck in the rut of my own mind that I can't get out until someone comes along and helps me out. But then tomorrow when I am done working, I'll be sleeping while everyone else is awake, so I might as well send my thoughts out into oblivion where who knows who'll stumble upon them.
So I guess I should start from the beginning.
I have so many dreams.. I remember one every night, usually. Sometimes more than one. You'd think that with having so many dreams, I'd have a nightmare or two. But nope! Somehow I was always lucky enough to dream of silly things. I couldn't remember the last time I had a nightmare. Gut-gripping adventures and courageous tales are things that usually fill my sleeping mind. And sometimes my dreams don't even make any sense! They usually make sense while I'm asleep, but once I wake up and think about them I realize how bizarre they really are. However, I am a firm believer that in most instances, whatever you're dreaming about has some correlation to your life or your feelings about something. So I spend a lot of time thinking about my dreams and comparing them to things in my life. But my musings are usually somewhat farfetched and I will be the first person to admit it. I have always wondered what a dream would be like if it were more realistic. More life like.
A few weeks ago, a horrible thing happened. I had my first nightmare.
I've had scary dreams. But nothing that caused me actual fear or negativity in my everyday life.
This was different. My dream took two of the people I hold dearest and applied my greatest fears to them. Resentment and change. One of my friends resented me. Making promises to pacify me just long enough to get away from me. The other changed. I don't mean a few differences. I mean this person was a completely different person than I ever knew them to be. This person was once the most intelligent person I know, but they threw everything away and turned down some very dark paths.
And with each person, there was absolutely nothing I could do to help them, and they were hurting me but they didn't care.
The despair I felt was the most dreadful feeling I have ever had. It was crippling. And I remember just  thinking how much happier I would be if I didn't exist.
And then I woke up and I was extremely shaken up. I guess if your brain ever took a life like situation and used it to convince yourself using your own thought patterns to convince you that you were better off dead, you might be pretty shaken up as well.
And ever since then I have been afraid.
I try not to show it but sometimes on nights like these, when nobody else is around...
It just builds up and then explodes out.

I Like Trains.

Let me get this out of the way right now. Trains are cool.
Ever since I was like, two years old, I have had a strange fascination with them. It all started with this SUPER cool onesie I used to wear to bed every night. It was my favorite color, darker than royal blue but not as dark as dark blue. I don't know what to call it. Anyway, all over the beautifully blue onesie were small red and green trains. It was perfect, and I seriously wore it to bed every night until I was way too big for it. I loved it even more when I wore a hole in the bottom of the feet and my mom patched it with a towel (yes it was blue too!). Even though I slightly somewhat resented the fact that I couldn't see my cute little toesies when I woke up in the morning...
Trains are wonderful. I used to go down town and look for trains on the tracks by the museum. When I saw them I would daydream about jumping into a freight car and riding it until I got to Mississippi, where I thought that sort of thing was a normal occurrence. Then I realized I was dreaming in the wrong century and that it would never work out. But still, every time I saw a train I would dream of running away...
A train is like a passport to the past. I mean, when you look at a train don't you kind of expect to look around and see women in dresses, and wagons and horses driving down main street, dirt roads, and trees everywhere? Hmm, I think I'll go see what type of flannel is available at the local General Store. Do you think they'll have fresh made lemon drops or peppermint and brown sugar candy sticks?
WHAT?! I guess I'm just about one hundred years too late..
One of my biggest childhood dreams was to ride in a caboose. I mean, imagine me running after a train (somehow I can catch up to it...) and grabbing onto the rails on the caboose, barely lifting myself up in time before I trip over my own feet. And then when we get close to a city, doing an awesome tuck and roll off the back of the train... Making my way into the city, and nobody has any idea that I just had the adventure of a lifetime.
Trains... They have provided me with innumerable fantasies and daydreams. But as with most childhood fantasies, you wake up one day and realize that's all they can ever be. Dreams. So real to me, yet ethereal to the reality which I live in. And then you have to move on with your life, though it's so painful to say goodbye to those dreams and memories.
I guess I was born a hundred years too late. Train conductors aren't very high in demand anymore, and I am at peace with that fact now although it was tragic and biting on the day I realized it.
But you know what? I can always look back on those dreams and that onesie with fondness. I will never forget the bittersweet day that my mom gave my brother that onesie. Faded blue and foot patched with a towel, it comes up to about mid-thigh. I don't ever remember feeling that small.
My brother loved that onesie, although he never loved it as much as I did.
But you know what I realized as I watched him (with jealousy) wearing it?
It doesn't have any trains on it.
They're cars.
CARS.
..........
..........
In my mind they will always be trains though. And I'll try not to let my dreams (founded on misperception!) collapse.
I might need a therapist...
Also...I think I need to get my eyes checked.

Nothing, Round Two..?.. . Actually, Three.

Once, I wrote a brilliant article about nothing. Unbeknownst to me, someone posted a clever essay in reply to my essay on a website I'd never heard of, all about nothing! It was surprisingly deep. As I read it, some thoughts came to mind. I jotted them down here.

As a full time student for the last two years, I have discovered that there is something I love more than everything! And that is, in fact, nothing. Nothing is everywhere I go. I have nothing, I do nothing, nothing is bothering me...
There is really so much to know about nothing. It's mind boggling. How can there be so much to nothing? What a conundrum. The idea of nothing as something strips the word nothing of its very meaning. And the idea of nothing means so much to so many people which makes it, in fact, something.
Juggling the idea of 'nothing' is a puzzle, a paradox if you will. How can something that doesn't exist be so multifaceted? And yet, there are people who spend much time pondering the pieces of that which does not and yet somehow still does exist, and that is, Nothing. Nothing at all.  
Please, just for a moment, imagine the darkest, emptiest space you can. What exists there?
Nothing.
But at the very  moment upon which you label it as 'Nothing,' are you not in fact turning it into something? Therefore that nothing becomes something and that something, in being nothing, is actually something which therefore makes it not nothing.
Can that purest form of nothing truly exist in our conscious state of mind?

Springtime

I realize that a good percentage of what I post on this blog is dramatic and depressing most days. I'm sorry, my emotions dictate the tone of my writing a lot more than I ever realized, and I've been working through some really hard stuff since.. pretty much forever I guess. Especially the last couple years. Life is never easy, especially when you're alone, or far away from people that you wish you could be closer to. The problem with wishing you were somewhere else, is missing out on what happens where you ARE. And that makes you more alone.
And when you're alone, it feels like winter all the time.
This poem is dedicated to a person who has helped me (perhaps without knowing)time and again, find springtime inside myself when I thought only frozen winter existed. Though you may not know it now, you have made a difference in my life too. Some day I will give you a proper thank you, but until then this will have to do.



Though my thoughts are like stormy black weather,
And my temper runs hot or stands chill
When, my friend, you and I are together
I can feel my heart quicken, then still.

When you're with me my heart bleeds out sunshine
When you're gone clouds come back here to stay.
Please don't leave me, dear friend, if you don't mind
Please come back, I've got something to say.

It was dark. In my heart was December,
All the colors had faded away .
It was then that I found you. Remember?
Then we danced all the darkness away.

Then alone. Tears had come but long since dried.
I was frozen, limbs heavy as lead
And within me a voice lashing out cried
"You've got nothing upstairs in your head!"

Then you came and sat down right beside me
And with you came a change in the weather.
It is springtime again, deep inside me
When, my friend, we are walking together.

Regrets.

Regrets.
Don't have them.
You know what they do?
They eat you alive.
Regret.

Sometimes I get to thinking about life and people and things like that..
And as I think, I realize that there are a million things I did that I would change if I could.
And there are a million sorrys I wish I could say. (What is the plural for sorry? In English, there isn't one.)
But sorry is just a word, and there's no way that it could ever fully encompass the feeling I'm feeling.
When someone hears sorry too many times it loses its meaning.
But the reason I say it so often is because it's the only way I know how to express this... this...
Regret.
I wish I could take it all back.
I'm sorry.

How do you deal with regret?

My Grand Adventure

You may notice that my blog looks a little different.
Or maybe a lot different.
Depending on whether or not you're looking at the mobile version.
What? You didn't know I had a mobile version?
SURPRISE! I do.
You need to know that I am obsessed with notebooks and journals of every kind. It was only a matter of time before I figured out how to make it happen. An online notebook has been my dream for an entire year. It almost happened in November, but then...
My computer died. I was very sad, as I had spent many hours detailing my laptop case. It being one of the only things I have left from home, I was reluctant to replace it. Finally after weeks of frustrating computer usage (It automatically shut down programs while I was trying to do homework at least three times per assignment. I had to manually save my documents every 5 minutes to prevent copious amounts of REWRITING) I decided I had had enough. And I bought a new computer.
I love it almost more than I loved the old one!
Finally after several months of figuring out my new computer, I decided to try something.
I wanted to update my blog design.
And I tried my hand at HTML.
It only took 6 hours to edit the template I wanted...
Computer language is a lot more complicated than it looks..
But then I realized that it wasn't as scary as it looked at first glance. It actually kind of made sense. Every element starts with a certain code, and it ends with a repeat of the same code. To remove an element in the template you had to figure out where in the HTML it lay (This is the most tedious part) and then delete everything. The beginning code, the end code, and everything in between.
Once I had it all figured out, the editing took about 20 minutes.
Adding things to a template though... that is a whole different story.
Maybe next time I'll just get someone to do it for me.

My Writers Block

So today I'm going through all my drafts and posting the ones I finished but never published. This particular one I wrote several years back but never published due whatever reason. It's full of feels, and most of them aren't necessarily relevant to my life today beyond the fact that this experience made me part of who I am today.
So whoever's out there reading this, now you know a piece of what's inside my heart.


Without further ado, I give you:

My Writer's Block


There is something very important that I need to write about.

My writers block. 

All my life I have felt the need to express myself through words on a page. 

Whether it had anything to do with my current life struggle or not, as long as I held a pen in my hand and there was paper, I was alright. Being able to create a place where my problems did not exist... it fueled me. It gave me strength, and courage to go on even when I didn't think I could. When I felt alone all I had to do was close my eyes and imagine the characters I had invented into life, walking next to me. Their problems were worse than mine. I made them that way.

I had big plans. Write a novel, send it to a publisher, become a best seller overnight, and move to a place that would fuel my imagination so I could keep writing forever. Very few people knew of my love of writing. I shared it with few people because I was afraid of imperfection.

And then life happened. It hit me like a train, while I was standing still.

I moved to college. I was swept away, and very overwhelmed by the newness of it all. A new town, a new life, and not knowing anybody. 

All the people I cared about were so far away, and precious few of them talked to me at all once I was gone. Those who did meant the world to me, no matter the duration of our conversation. Being quite introverted and afraid of new people caused me a bit of trouble when it came to making new friends. I spent nearly every minute I wasn't in class laying in my bed. 

But despite the lack of activity on my part, I was exhausted. Mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted.

I forgot who I was.

But I still wanted to write. 

But I couldn't.

And it wasn't that I didn't have ideas. Ideas flew through my brain at a rate of roughly 600 miles per hour. Notebooks exist, just full of ideas. But when I held a pen in my hand, instead of seeing stories all I could see was darkness and a blank page. 

The page. It taunted me every day. I wanted more than anything to fill it. To keep a promise.

A few words would slip out every now and again, but it seemed as though I were rewriting myself instead of creating something. The person I was becoming was not at all the person I wanted myself to be.

And every day that I couldn't fill that page was another day I spent breaking a promise. Promises from me once meant something, but now I felt the guilt of each unfulfilled promise weighing down on my shoulders. 

I'll have it next week. Tomorrow for sure. I'm sorry, not today. 

My word meant precious little now.

Frustration ensued.

Nearly two years had passed. One day, a ray of sunshine broke through my writers block and I filled that page. And then another. My masterpiece was finished, my promise no longer broken.

But the dark fell again, and I couldn't write. 

Because a broken promise is so much more than just something you didn't do. 

When you break a promise, you hurt other people. Because that promise signifies trust, trust that you can and will do something to the best of your ability. And breaking that promise breaks that trust.

I have spent so many nights looking out at the stars and wondering if there is anyone in the world that I haven't let down. 

And the guilt and the tears overtake me sometimes because I don't know how I will ever fix the wrongs that I did, the trusts that I broke. 

I never intended this.

But each day my pen grows lighter in my hand. 

And each day, I fight to write a little more. 

This writer's block will not get the best of me again.

The Open Book

There lies an open book upon my table
And with one glance, to read it, I am able.
But with a single look, no book is truly comprehended.
To understand, a few more looks are highly recommended.
Now, some may say "You never really understand a book."
And so it is with people--You can read them if you look,
But with one look you cannot learn their secrets, held for ages.
Countless secrets, buried deep inside their many pages.

Dusty Old Tomes

Because we all have those days where we just wish someone would ask what we were thinking.

Dusty Old Tomes

by Kari Olsen

My pen lays flat on the table.

What to do? Pick it up

Grasp it tight, start to write.

So many thoughts are inside me.

Scribble fast, let them out.

Shed a tear, no one’s here.

All my thoughts scratched out on paper.

And what now, do I share?

Out of sight, hold them tight.

Dusty old tomes in the closet.

Full of thoughts, never seen.

Smell the must, see the dust.

If anyone wanted to read them,

If they asked, I would share.

But they don’t, so I won’t.

MDD

What does it mean to be depressed? 

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According to Google dictionary, it is "severe despondency and dejection, typically felt over a period of time and accompanied by feelings of hopelessness and inadequacy."

According to Merriam-Webster, depression is "the

 state of feeling sad."
A medical website defines depression as "feeling sad, blue, unhappy, miserable, or down in the dumps." It then goes on to say that most people feel this way at some point.

What does it mean to be depressed though?

Well, I'll tell you.

It means feeling miserable without knowing why. 

It means walking around with a raincloud over your head all day. Every day. For weeks at a time.

It means that even when things are going fine, you're still frustrated and the fact that you're frustrated while things are just fine just makes you more miserable.

It means feeling completely, one hundred percent alone. 

It means not being able to get out of bed in the morning because you think there's no reason to get up. 

When you're depressed, the world is grey. Where did all the colors go? And why aren't the birds singing? They are singing, but you can't hear them.

Being depressed is like looking at your life and seeing a hollow shell. It seems like no matter how hard you try, you will never be able to fill that hollow shell with things that matter. All the things you've done seem inadequate, and you feel like there's no hope because you've already spent your whole life doing things that you thought would matter but actually didn't. So what makes you think you can change it?

Being depressed makes even the tiniest misfortunes seem like the entire universe has turned against you. Did your pencil break during class? You might be out for the next ten minutes crying about it.

Being depressed means being withdrawn. You don't want to be around anyone because they don't understand. They don't understand why you're upset, and they don't see why you feel so hopeless. They try to give you advice when all you really want is for someone to just sit with you and say "Yes, life sucks sometimes," or just give you a hug.

Honestly, being depressed sucks. It doesn't last forever, but it feels like it's going to. And that's the worst thing about it. 

If you know someone who is depressed--and you probably do because 20-26% of women and 8-12% of men suffer from Major Depressive Disorder--please. Don't give them advice. Unless they ask for it specifically, that's not what they want. Just let them talk to you so they don't feel alone. Give them a hug. Or a cookie. Or a pencil. Just let them know you care, and that you are there for them. Depression can last for weeks at a time. And who wants to feel alone and friendless for even one day? One hour? Five minutes?

Chains

The chains that bind my ankles and wrists jangle with each step that I take. Slowly, step after step becomes mile after mile. Every thought has fled my mind, save one.

Onward.

Every fiber of my being screams for me to keep going. I continue taking mindless steps forward, unsure of where I am going or what I am looking for. 

I have been walking through the blistering heat of afternoon and the arctic chill of night for days, but I don't recall how many. My lips are parched and chapped by the merciless wind. I have lost all sense of time and self. The only thing that remains within me is a sense of urgency. I must move on.

Blisters form on my feet, yet I continue to trudge forward. My stomach aches. I can't recall the last time I ate, and I have consumed every last drop that remained in my canteen. My hunger is crippling, and with each step the trailing links grow longer. I fall to my knees.

I am unable to get back on my feet. But I mustn't give up. Fueled by my iron will, I move forward on my knees. Soon, my knees can no longer support me and I collapse onto the ground.

I can not stop now, not here, in the middle of nowhere--where my existence will pass away without so much as a blink. I inch my way forward on my stomach using the little strength I have left, but it isn't long until that too is gone.

I lay paralyzed on the sand. All thoughts are lost, and I watch the vultures circling above me. They are hungry too.

My vision blurs. I can no longer see them.

The dusty color surrounding me fades to gray, and the lids of my eyes are getting heavier by the second. Keeping them open is a fight, one that I do not have the strength of will to win.

Blackness envelops me, and I feel as if I am nowhere and everywhere. Insubstantially existent, a part of nothing and everything all at the same time.




My eyes snap open. 

I am dazed. Confused.

Redundant.

Looking around, I try to orient myself. This is not the scene I remember. Where have the sand and the vultures gone?

Another dream?

An empty room now surrounds me. The sand is gone, but the same empty feeling of desolation that haunted me there has followed me here. I stand, and take a few steps. 

I am strong. 

I am strong?

I am walking again. I leave the house, and--not knowing anything better to do--begin to move down the cold cobblestone road. It is one hundred different shades of gray, each just as bleak as the last.

There is one thing different now--I am in a city filled with people. The chains that bind my ankles and wrists jangle with every step I take. Minutes turn to hours, and the sun quickly flees the sky.

The street lights are bright, the traffic is loud. I wander through the streets without a purpose. The resounding metallic sound of metal on stone accompanies every step I take.

The path I follow is turning to dark. I keep walking because it is the only thing I know how to do. But I am not alone this time. There are thousands of people walking on this road. Can they hear my chains? With each step they are getting heavier.

The eyes of the people are hollow, lifeless. No, they can't hear my chains. They can't hear anything.

I am surrounded by people, but I have never felt so alone. The wind is howling.

I am alone.




I have wandered from the beaten path. How I came to this place, I scarcely know.

In the darkness I sit, utterly alone. The cruel wind blows. It is an icy draft that chills me to the bone. My chains, which once merely bound me, now stretch a hundred miles behind me. The immeasurable weight of a lifetime of wandering steps is too much.

I am lost. I cannot move on.

But lo, a soft voice is calling?

It couldn't possibly be. It has been so long since I heard a voice.

Words drift over the vast landscape and fall on my ears a second time. My heart races as I listen to the words, though they are nearly indecipherable. Then, just as quickly as they came, they are lost again.

My head hangs in despair, all hope has fled.

'How came you to this place?' 

It is the voice. I sit still, I sit in fear.

'How came you to be here?' The voice, threatening, and icy as the wind, chilled me to the depths of my soul. The wind howled around me. Tears streamed down my face.

'SPEAK! From where do you come?'

My mind flashed back to the desert. Hot. Tired. Thirsty. Weakness. Chains. Blackness. Waking. Walking. Chains. People. Deaf. Alone. Wandering.

Alone. Wandering.

A single sob tore itself from my throat. The wind is merciless, stabbing like icy daggers. I try to stand, to escape, but the chains that bind me will not relinquish their grip.

I lay on the ground, hugging my knees tightly to my chest. I close my eyes. This is the end.

When I opened my eyes again, I looked around. There were stars, sparkling in the midnight sky. The icy chill was gone.

There was a warm breeze. 

Warmth, not scorching. Pleasant. My lips curl up, giving the slightest hint of a smile.

There is a whisper in the breeze. Soft, and gentle.

'Hello?' I whisper.

'Greetings, wanderer.' It responded, weaving in and out of the blades of grass upon which I lay.

'Who are you?' I asked aloud, using a voice that I had nearly forgotten I possessed.

A long silence ensued, but I could feel the presence in the breeze.
'I... I am the spirit of the wind.' The voice lilted around me in a delicate dance, and the light, beautiful fragrance of flowers followed where it went. 'Long have I watched your journeyings, lonely traveler. Long have I watched as you wandered from place to place. Long have you traveled, long have you been alone.'

'Can you help me?' I asked, hopeful.

'If I knew how to help a mortal,' the voice softly laughed, 'would not I have done so, many years ago?'

My hope fell.

'Do not despair,' the voice whispered. 'I will do what I can to improve your situation. One thing you may ask of me, one wish I will grant you. Whatever you wish, it will be yours. Ponder long and hard.'

But I already knew what I would wish for. 'Please, make the people see me. If they could only see me, things would be much better.' 

The musical laughter came again. 'But they can see you.'

'Then why, in my time of need, did not they help me?' I shouted angrily. 'Why, when they saw a weary traveler, did they walk past with blind eyes and deaf ears?' 

'That which you see in others, is merely a reflection of yourself. Did you truly see them, or did you also walk past with eyes so blinded by your own misery that you could not see them for what they were?'

'Then help me with this chain. If only I could be free of it, I could make a life for myself. I could be happy.'

'This is a chain of your own creation.' The voice said. 'What power it has, it has been given by you. You are the only one who can rid yourself of this chain.' 

The presence began to withdraw.

'How do I escape from it?' I cried out in despair. 'Please, tell me! Do not leave me here!'

'You have to let it go. Farewell, traveler.' 

And then it was gone.



I spent a long time pondering the words the voice had left me. 

A chain of my own creation? I examined it carefully. Each link was flawless. Alone they were not heavy, but when they were combined it was impossible to budge. Was it true, did I really have the power to be rid of it?

I had to let it go.

And as I stared at the chains which had bound me for so many years... I realized that it was easy to let it go.

I stood up. The shackles fell.

I smiled. I threw the chains from my body and leapt for joy. 

I laughed. It was as if the weight of seven worlds had been lifted from my shoulders. I felt like I could fly.

And fly I did.

Towards the sunrise and full of hope. With a warm fragrant breeze at my heels, I began to fly.

The Faceless Pt. 2

Sometimes I write poetry, and sometimes I write the same poem several times.
I'm in love with it, and I don't know which is better.
So, here it is. Part 2.

So many faceless people drifting by...
They do not see me, nor see them can I.
I turn my eyes from them, towards the sky.
In this myriad of faceless,
Who am I?