Failure

The past two weeks have been really hard, and I have no idea why. My life is good. I enjoy it, seriously, I do. But I don't feel like myself. I feel like someone lost. Like I'm supposed to be somewhere else, someone else. My mind's foggy. I keep losing things and finding them hours later, exactly where I thought I'd left them in the first place. I can't think. I can't even write.

I keep crying. If I see or read or hear anything remotely sad or sweet, I'm fighting back the tears. And if I'm alone, I don't even try to fight them.

I look at myself and I don't know what I see.

I feel like such a failure. I don't know why. I can't put it into words. I just feel like I could be so much better than I am. I could be a better writer. I could be nicer. I could be more worthwhile. I could be a person who deserves to be where I am.

I'm stressed over school, too. That's new to me. I usually never worry about that, even when I procrastinate. And that usually works for me. I got straight As last semester. But this semester I feel like I'm just going to fail everything. And then when I graduate, I'm going to go straight home and never do anything with my life. Never go anywhere, never become anything. Honestly, I'm absolutely terrified of the future.

On the bright side, I did make a pretty cool dress out of newspaper. I guess if I fail at everything else, I can always go into newspaper fashion design.

When I wake up in the morning, I want to wake up as myself, again.

it's so weird right now

I don't think I've ever been so conflicted in my life.

I REALLY want to stay in Dublin.

I REALLY want to go home.

I want to do so many things in Ireland, still, but at the same time, I just wanna go home. I want to see all of my friends I've left behind, and I want to see my family. I want to go to the beach and swim and hang out and eat cheese that isn't Irish because it tastes weird and salads and not to have to worry about money. And to write more run-on sentences because clearly I like them.

But I DON'T WANT TO GO. Because I don't know when I come back. Ideally, after I graduate, I'll do this thing where if you were in school a year ago or less, you get to get a work visa for a year. I would totally do that (except I would live in Galway because it's totes the shit and I'm still in love with that city), but I have no idea if I'll be able, because I'll be about a hundred million dollars in debt when I graduate, and that's a lot of money. What if I can't ever come back?

I don't want to think about that.

But I do want to go home, too, and to see home, again. I've missed the Cape, and everyone in it. And in Burlington. It's really hard to have so many homes. I can't even express it. I've just been a bundle of emotions for days.

Anyway, random things I'm gonna miss:

The people selling strawberries and grapes out of baby carriages on Henry Street in their best Irish-Cockney accents.

All the performers on Grafton Street.

The flowers!!

Dancing in pubs...

Being able to get into pubs. I still have three whole months before I'm 21!! (NOT FAIR)

Cobblestone streets (except when I'm in heels. I won't miss them then).

The words, "cheers," "gaff," "grand," and "love," and probably a bunch of others. But I'm totally bringing them back.

Not always being carded.

The walk behind christchurch to get to pubs.

Stealing pint glasses. Oh, how I'll miss that.

Multicolored doors.

The walk to campus.

Random hen parties in the lobby.

The accents.

The PEOPLE.

But, one thing I won't miss is being the shortest person wherever I go. And I am excited to go home. Sort of. I'm probably gonna cry on the plane.

Yeah No.

Look! I'm posting! And it hasn't been a whole week!

Yay responsibility!

Except not. Being responsible kind of completely sucks. And me writing isn't being responsible. Because I have about a million essays to write and, well, yeah.

But, I'm kind of completely devastated. Because I only have two weeks here. Less. This time in two weeks, I'll be on a plane, only hours away from the Cape. And even though I'm really excited (Vermont cheese! Good salad dressings! Friends! No more crazy ridiculous drama!) I'm really sad about it, too.

And it's not just because I'll still have more than two months before I'll be able to drink (in public) again.

I'm going to miss it here, so, so unbelievably much. I'm going to miss the accents, the people, the buildings, the nightlife, the freedom, the EVERYTHINGEVEROHMYGOD.

I know I'm going to come back. There's this thing, apparently, where if you were a student for up to a year ago, you can get a working visa to live in Ireland for a year. I might to that. It'd be pretty cool. But that wouldn't be for ages and that's so sad.

I can't even believe it, really Sometimes I still forget that I'm in Ireland, really. I can't even begin to imagine how weird it will once I'm back home. Ahhhhhh. I know I've said this about eighty times, but it's going to be wicked, wicked, unbelievably sad. Beyond words.

I guess all I can say, really, is that I'm going to do my best to make these next two weeks the best ones of my life.

Last Year

Jess, Ryan, Me, Meg

It's my favorite Megan's 21st birthday today. For the past two months, a lot of my favorite people have been getting older. Without me. As much as I adore it here, sometimes I wish I could jump back to New England to celebrate with them. And to play in their eighty kajillion feet of snow. But mostly, just to be with them. I haven't seen them in ages.

Last year, sophomore year, was one of my favorite years ever. Except for a couple bits of drama, which'll always happen, anyway, it was like a never ending laugh.

It was that year we started to say, "toes," instead of, "totally," and saying "'n shit," at the end of everything. Oh, and, "a shit ton of ketchup," after Velvet asked for exactly that one late night, ordering food over the phone. Oh, and then Velvet, with her mad New York axing powers, taught us this rhyme about killing Crypts and watching your favorite color drip, and it was pretty legit. We said it all the time when she was around, just to (lovingly) torture her, of course. It's what any good friends would do.

Me and Velvet. She pretty much taught me how to be a Gangsta.

We almost died a couple of times (well, I did, especially), and we completely trashed kitchens making cupcakes with extra chocolate chips and no mixer. We discovered Bo Burnham and played him loudly in public until the neighbors yelled at us to turn it off, even though I'm pretty sure they couldn't actually hear the lyrics. Their revenge was to knock on our door with brownies that were so bad, we couldn't even find any boys willing to eat them.

We hid from horror movies and mirrors, and decided that the dorm was haunted. (Though, who knows? It might have been. Our TV was sketchy, at least.)

Yeah, we were watching Ghost Adventures. That's what cool people do, you know.

We heard that NASA was going to bomb the moon, and reacted. According to the depths of my facebook, we reacted by, "running to Champlain Farms and getting fun dip, and then running back to the dorm singing, "It's My Life," and making posters about being sad about the moon being blown up. " Oh, and, funny story, we also got stopped by the police that night, because we were being so loud, but we didn't actually get into trouble. I can't believe I only just remembered that. It was a pretty fun night.

It was a pretty fun year.

Easter Grass Fight!

I could go on and on, but really what I'm trying to say is that, everyone back home? I miss you guys! But, all that stuff? It's not over, yet. This summer is going to be the most lovely and ridiculous yet. Life should only ever get better, so that's what I'm gonna make it do. <3

Northern Ireland!!

I'm pretty sure that Northern Ireland is the most beautiful place I've even been to, and that's saying a lot. It was so incredibly amazingly lovely that, on the bus ride home, I was actually disappointed that we were going back to Dublin. Really.

We went to Belfast first. In some ways, Belfast seemed more city like than Dublin-- its buildings were higher, at least-- but there were less people around, and the people who were there, seemed friendlier. They smiled more, and seemed happier to see the people around them. Even with their murals and memorials and Peace Wall, it didn't really feel like like a city that had been paralyzed by what was basically civil war just decades earlier. I think that might just have been me, though. I still have a hard time imagining that something like that could have happened to such a developed country not that long ago. I mean, I was alive during some of it! Not that I had any idea of it, I was only a kid. But, I'd never even heard of The Troubles until college! I signed the Peace Wall, anyway. Because peace is awesome.

Then, I took pictures of things that made me smile.

There were a lot.

But, when we got out to the country? That was my favorite. I'm not used to living in cities, and I've missed nature desperately. As we drove north, it was just so exciting, because there were trees! I adore trees, and Dublin just doesn't have enough. We drove for a while, and didn't stop until we got to Ballintoy, at the tip of Northern Ireland.

It was beautiful. So beautiful. It was already starting to get dark but, as soon as we got out things into the hostel, and few friends and I set out to explore.

We found a playground! Complete with a creepy bear trashcan. One of the things that I don't understand about Ireland is how you never see college kids on playgrounds. Actually, you don't really see many people on them at all. It's kind of sad. We played the hell out of that playground, though. It needed it.

The next day was a mix of sheep, running around rocks and ruins and climbing everything in sight. We almost died a couple of times.

Like when we went on the Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge.

And stood on cliffs.

And ran around the Giant's Causeway like crazy people.

And climbed on things we weren't supposed to. Like castles.

It was magical.

Someday, I'm going back.

Lightning Bugs

I don’t know if you remember but
once we went dancing
in your bumpy green front yard
and laughed at all the passing cars.
They were in such a hurry
and the warm swirling air
couldn’t hold their burning metal as closely as it did us.

We didn’t stop brightlight spinning until the sun
became the moon
even though we knew that the moon was just as beautiful.
Next time, we said, and under it whispered
secret silences
and questions we knew could only be true.

The grass tickled our faces
and the moon had never shown so bright.
We took its glow as a promise
that life might stand still, just for a few more years.
It didn’t, but that night
we watched the white moths flutter in slow motion
and were sure our hearts stopped beating.

I don’t want to add you to my list
of all I’ve lost.
If I could,
I would race for a plane so I could paint the sky
a fluorescent pink lightning cloud sunset,
all so that I could run back to your house and point,
say, “look. The moon’s almost out.
Let’s go dancing.”

Half

I feel like I should be doing more than I am. I feel like I should be grabbing this country as tightly as I can, until its heart beats inside me and echos to me what it’s all about. I feel like I should be running everywhere, so that I can do everything, so that not a second passes me by. I should be constantly beaming, like everyone else. I should be planning trips and making bonds that will never fade. But I’m not. I’m not and I want to and I can’t. I mean, part of that has to do with my lack of money, which is understandable. The other part, though? I don’t know.

I feel like no one sees me, like I’m invisible. I can go out with my friends, and no one will look at me. That's not even an exaggeration. They’ll look at my friends. They’ll look at their friends. They’ll smile and order drinks for anyone, just not me. Because I’m that half person and half isn’t good enough. But I don’t know how to become whole.

I feel sometimes like I’m not supposed to be anything but happy. Because I’m in Ireland and that’s an amazing opportunity that most people never ever get to have, so I better be fucking jovial or I might as well go home. But, I don’t want to go home. I want to be here, and I want here to be real. I want to figure out how to make here real. I just haven’t, yet.

***

On a positive note, though, because I feel really bad writing this sort of post, I saw the cutest dog today. It was tiny, fluffy, and white, and it was literally skipping. And by literally, I mean literally. It even had a grin on its face. I hadn’t even known it was possible for dogs to grin until then.

What Life Can Be Like

I think I could spend my whole life exploring. Just wandering everywhere. Over hills, on top towering cliffs, by the sea. I want to breathe in the air of every different continent, and as many countries as I can get to. I want to go to the remote parts, especially. And I want to meet people. Those people who live everywhere I don't, and who have the stories I've never even thought to imagine. I want to turn my life into something it just isn't-- at least, not yet. The sort of life that only seems possible in day dreams.

A couple of my friends and I are planning on leaving Dublin sometime on Friday and not coming back until Saturday morning. Because we don't have too much money, we're not planning on staying a hostel or anything like that. We're not planning on sleeping-- we can sleep when we get back home the next day. We're just going to walk around in the pitch-blackness with food in our backpacks and flashlights, and explore. I'm stoked, because that's really what I want my life to be like. (Well, that and I want to live in a castle. A wicked old one that's partially in ruins. With lots of towers. And leprechauns. You know.)

Anyway, I don't really know how many other people usually go about traipsing around the Irish countryside past dark, but I'm guessing there can't be too many, even on Friday nights. Too bad, because I think that would be one of the most perfect ways to meet someone. Provided they're not some sort of ax murderer. Luckily, I don't think that's too likely. And even if it was, I'm totally, definitely big enough to kick anyone's ass, right? Seriously, though, if we met someone out there, and then actually got to know them, I think my life just might become complete.

But even if that doesn't happen I don't think I'll mind too much, anyway, because what could be more carefree? What could be more wonderful? I can't think of much.

Not Real

I kind of wonder when it's going to hit me. When I'm going to realize that I'm actually actually going to a foreign country, and that I'm really really going to live there for four hopefully spectacular months. Because it hasn't yet, even though I leave in less than three days. I mean, rationally I know I'm going to Ireland. I know that mid-Monday, I'll be crossing Sagamore Bridge on my way to the airport. I know that by early Tuesday morning, I'll be in Ireland. But it doesn't feel like that. I feel like I'm still living my life as usual on Cape Cod, and that when I leave it, I'll just be on my way to Vermont, of course, because that's how it goes.

When I first started college, I didn't think I'd study abroad. I wanted to, but I didn't think I'd be able to because of the cost, so I didn't much think about it at all. But when I found out that my college had a teeny campus in Ireland, and that it costs exactly what it does to go to normal Champlain, that sounded doable. So, I applied. But even then, I didn't really think I'd get in. I figured that probably everyone was applying, and since there's technically limited spaces, there was no chance I'd get in, ever. I figured only really awesome people actually got to study abroad. People to whom life comes as easily as a smile. Not me. I was almost amazed when I actually did get in, even though, as far as I know, everyone who applied was accepted. All of that was ages ago, but it-- the fact that Ireland's actually happening-- still feels like a fairy tale. Like I'll wake up to find that all of this was just a dream. I mean, I know that's cliche, but I think some cliches are only cliches because they're true so often.

Anyway, before I bore all of you with my basically incoherent ramblings, here's what I'm leaving:

West Dennis Beach. Not the Cape's prettiest beach, but it has a little board walk that's perfect when you don't want to get your boots all sandy. Beaches are best without shoes, but it's not quite bare feet weather. You know, though, in May, when I get back, it will be.

Next

Tomorrow's my last full day on Campus until next fall.

In three weeks, I'll be finishing up all the last minute things for Ireland

A couple days later, I'll be in Ireland. A foreign country in a different continent where everyone has an awesome accent. Everyone who's been there keeps telling me how wicked incredible it is, how they're definitely going back as soon as they can, and they can't wait for that day. It's fantastic and as close to perfect as possible.

But, what if it isn't, for me? Not that I think it won't be amazing, but life is weird. Like, this semester I'm finishing up. I can't even explain it. It's been confusing and dazed and almost lost. It's been hard to put words together, or anything. And for no reason at all, really. Honestly, I don't even know how to explain it.

I'm kind of counting on Ireland to change that, and make everything as amazing as life should be. But what if it doesn't?

I think that's my biggest fear.

Two Homes

Living in college is a weird thing, especially when that college is so far away from your other home, the place where you grew up. You live in one place for a couple months, and then another, and then you go back to the first. It's strange, and it feels strange each time you come and go. You never even entirely know whether you actually want to leave.

And then, when you get to wherever you were going to, it feels as if you've never left it, until you remember that really you've been living hundreds of miles away for months.

Pretty much all of you already know this, of course, but I'm from Cape Cod and go to school in Vermont. Burlington. I adore both. They're both crazy amazing and crazy beautiful. They both have the things that can seem hard to live without.

Burlington is living with your friends and going out every weekend. Cape Cod is family and seeing friends only when cars and schedules can make peace with each other. Burlington is city and walking everywhere. The Cape is nature, but nearly always needing to use a car. Burlington has its brick, Victorian houses. The Cape has its white, centuries old farm and captain's houses. Burlington has the waterfront, with layers of pristine mountains shadowing behind it. The Cape has the ocean and never ending clouds. Burlington has trees with leaves that turn so gold, you can see their color glowing even against the navy night sky. Cape Cod has pine needles the color of rust. They're impossible to rake, so they stay strewn across most everyone's lawns, poking through the light snows, until spring. They make good additions to magic potions when you're little.

Sometimes, it seems like if these two different homes were able to blend into one, they would make something almost perfect.

I wonder how it'll be when I go to Ireland. I'll have three homes, then. Three different kinds of fantastic not-quite-perfection.

(Except, I'm sure, Ireland really will be perfect.)

(This is coming out to be a really muddled post, but it's kind of a muddled thought, too, I think.)

Can I go to Ireland... Today?

I. Am. Excited.

We had our first official meeting about Dublin last night, and I want to go now. Just run to the nearest airport and hop on the nearest plane. Go to Ireland and stay there forever. Except, I'd also go to other places in Europe basically all the time. And I'd come back to the US every, you know, once in a while. Just to visit people and stuff. And then I'd come back to the land of the pretty accents, and everything would be fucking fantastic.

I can't believe I have to wait basically two months. On the other hand, though, I can't believe I will be in Ireland in just under two months. It barely seems possible.

I feel like I did back in fifth grade, when the big, exciting field trip was to go to the National Seashore for a week. We would stay there in a big, centuries old house and do nature stuff away from our parents. We were all, "Yay, we're gonna get to eat ice cream all day and never go to bed and sleep in bunk beds and do stuff that we think is awesome but probably isn't because we're ten!!!" I remember the day we got there, we were kind of all in awe. The Seashore (never mind the fact that we were all little Cape Codders, and so pretty used to the beaches. We were away from our parents, dammit, and that made it special) was just this thing was so talked about, so mythologized, that it didn't feel real.

I think it will be kind of like that when I get to Ireland. I'll be in shock, practically, and at first it won't seem possible that I'm actually in this fairy tale place where everyone speaks in the most fantastic accent ever. But then it will. And I can't wait, for either of those stages.

Oh, but unlike the Seashore, which ended up being kind of lame, Ireland is going to live up to every one of my expectations, and more. I totally expect the day I come back to be the most depressing day of my life.

A poem with no name. Yet.

she was born beside graves of crisp white sheets
bleached too many times to count,
and beds that could never stay warm long.

she learned to talk listening to footsteps that couldn’t remember
how to hold onto the floor,
under lights that blinked in urgent red whispers.

there were never any songs sung, not
to her, but as she got older
she learned to make her own,
molded from the smiles that echoed out of her scratchy TV.

she swirled words under her tongue
and hid them there,
waited for the day They would come one last time,
wearing cartoon scrub shirts and sudden, sudden smiles--
take out her tubes and wires
take off her bandages
and say, Be Free.

she saved her songs for running in the bright yellow
leaves she could see falling from her window.

but, whenever They came, Their palms
clutched no key, no quick happy chance
of a drifting cloud dancing dream, just rain,
coloring books stained with fingerprints, and I’m Sorry.

Nature is Perfection

Somethings are just beautiful. Like nature, and my friends. (Well, all people are beautiful in one way or another, but I'm convinced that I have the most gorgeous friends ever. And the most fantastically fun!)

We (well, me and the two main roomies, Meg and Ryan) went hiking today/technically yesterday, and it was amazing is basically every way. It was just too short. You know, nature is one of my all time favorite things. There's nothing that makes me feel more alive than being outside in the wilderness. I think I'd even prefer a day hiking to a day playing around in amusement parks, which is really saying something. Nature is just so magnificent, and so inspiring. It makes you think of everything and everyone in the world, and of everything your life might be. It makes you take your guard down, and just run around and dance. It makes you live.

I took this picture of Meg, and I just think it perfectly illustrates everything I feel. I mean, look how immense the clouds are. It's the world, and it's huge and beautiful and unknowable.

I love it.

Sometimes, I want to just start walking and never stop. I want to walk through cities, to tiny towns, over mountains, in the boonies, everywhere. I want to walk leisurely, and take in everything. I want to run and dance in the wind. I want to be carefree in the best way. I want to be alive.

Little Things

• I was at CVS earlier today, looking at nail polish and stuff, when this guy walked in, with this little brown bird following. It fluttered around a bit, and then landed on the ground, looking around. No one else noticed. I even said something like, "oh, hey, a bird," and no one even looked over. A few seconds later, the bird disappeared over shelves of cosmetics and candy bars. Still, no one saw it but me. It was the weirdest, most surreal thing ever. Especially since I had my earbuds in, so all I could hear was music.

• The other day, I was walking somewhere when I heard someone rev their engine behind me. I looked over, expecting it to be some kids my age or older, but instead, they were just two old ladies. Like, they were eighty or ninety, and they were revving their engine. It made me laugh. It was kind of like this one time at work, when I had two old ladies buy a bunch of shot glasses. You know, when I get old, I want to still live life like that. I don't want to stop having fun.

Almost

Sun
beating down heavy
light. Tropical sugar sunscreen seeped

into the poetry of air.

We could be at the beach,
our feet buried in sand.
Warm, soft.
A thousand beads of sunshine,
freezing waves lapping close,
and we can feel the ocean
currents swaying inside our skin.

We aren’t. But the passing cars
roaring beside us
and the people
tossing and turning together
remember the sea
rolling back and forth
endlessly.

telephone lines

she followed the lines,
the sunset sepia ghost roads
for hours
counting the telephone poles:
one one hundred two hundred.

infinity.

names and tones thunder leapt from the wires
into her throat.
they cried out conversations
secreted away like lies
years ago.

they marked her like a bruise,
the truths,
the panics and the cries.

she walked that long road
to the sea.
the last pole was just
an indented slice of drift wood
shifting inwardly between the surf

and the blinking highway.

the sky stretched
aimlessly, rusted
with cracked mascara and dew.

she turned around before her heels could sink
into the shore.

the sun rose and set
and she walked back.
the historic static heaved
away from her with each step,
each gust.

only a few buzzing fragments stayed, still
piercing her eyes
with barbed wire and muttered
moments.

Fog and Pirates. Arrr.

When it’s foggy and windy, it feels like you’re in the ocean. You can smell the sea water, and you can feel the churning of the waves. You know that even after the fog goes away, there will probably be a storm, and it's exciting. You long to hear the wind howl, and those very howls bring you back to a time when you didn’t exist, when there were wooden ships and storms constantly meeting as they fought to cross the sea. You’re a sailor, or a pirate, or even just another passenger, trying to sooth your crying baby as everything, including you, is tossed around by the wind and waves. Or you’re a lighthouse keeper, squinting out at the viciousness of the saltwater with the help of the lighthouse’s slight glow. You wonder who it will grab this time.

Sometimes when I think of fog, I think of pirate ships, lost forever in the middle of the blurry whiteness of the churning.

I thought I saw a pirate ship when I was six. I was at the beach-- Cold Storage, I think, in Dennis-- and it was nighttime. It was clear and the sky was starry and dark. And far out, where the night sky met the water, there was a ship. It was big, but didn’t look like a ferry or anything like that. It didn’t look modern. I was sure that it must be the old and wooden kind pirates always captained. Squinting, I was sure that I could make out the knobby, freshly swabbed rails and steering wheel. I didn’t see a flag with a skull and cross bones, but I could explain that. I figured that pirates were probably simply less likely to fly it at night, when everything’s so much harder to see. No; they would fly it when everyone could see it, and wonder at it and be afraid. Either that, or it’s just the sort of thing the pirates don’t want you to see until it’s all too late.

I wondered if it was a ghost ship or the kind where everyone’s still alive. Both seemed pretty likely.

I squinted out to the sea, trying to see if I could make out any moving shapes or shadows. It seemed like a good way to see if the ships’ crew was living or not. Basically, my theory went that if the figures were sort of see-through and had long, floaty tails, then they were probably ghosts. If they were solid, without long, floaty tails, and really looked like people, then chances were that they were probably still alive. Both ideas were equally exciting.

The waves were tiny, but they still crashed against the shore with little white bubbles of surf. I imagined that they were much bigger the farther you get out to sea, and they jostled and threw the pirate ship around. The entire crew would have to be on deck, swabbing it and steering and climbing the tall yellowing ropes that blew in the wind. They would shout things about the, “starboard side!” and, “Iceberg at four o’clock!” even though this was Cape Cod in the summertime, so ice was an impossibility. And, of course, throughout it all there would be plenty of, “arrrs,” and, “ahoy maties,” mixed in, and they all would sing, “yo ho, yo ho; it’s a pirate’s life for me,” in the perfect pirate fashion. I decided that all pirates must love being pirates, because otherwise they wouldn’t sing that song.

I also decided that the fact that it was a clear night must have been an anomaly for the pirates. Pirates are supposed to love cloudy, foggy nights, because it makes it easier for them to sneak up on other ships and take their treasure.

Fog's different for everyone else. It mystifies the world. It makes everything new and makes you helpless. It’s beautifully thrilling, but to anyone who isn’t a pirate or playing hide-and-go-seek, the fog is not so much an ally. When the fog is so thick that you have only the slightest guess as to what’s in front of you, you have to rely on your deepest instincts to get you home*. You have to rely on your deepest instincts to get you anywhere at all.

It’s easy to imagine the fog as a giant body of spirits or ghosts. Fog is aimless and almost seems sad. It almost seems alive, too, as it flows on and blocks everything, but still not quite. It just goes through the motions, not really caring about the outcome. When fog comes, it doesn’t mean to hide everything. It doesn’t mean to create fun and laughter, either. Just as a ghost ship is forced to wonder forever, no matter what, the fog doesn’t stop. It just goes.


*Of course, when you have my sense of direction, it really doesn't make that much of a difference.

Twelve Days

I'm going to be twenty in twelve days.

No. I'm gonna be old in twelve days

(Not cool, World. I really don't appreciate how you're trying to snatch my childhood away like that. It's mean. And I thought we were friends.)

I'm going to be halfway to forty. A quarter to eighty. And I'm guessing I won't be ready to turn those ages, either, when the time comes.

I wish there were a way to go back and forth in your life. One day, you could choose to be eight years old and totally carefree. The next day, you could skip to being twenty-something with a baby. Then, you could go back to being nineteen and laughing. You could even visit the best days again and again. When you finally got tired of it all, you could choose to die, but not before you were ready. Not before you got hundreds of years of happiness in. And because you would know the future, you wouldn't have to worry about everything working out in the end. I mean, even if it happened that nothing worked out, that nothing was fine and you just end up miserable and wrinkled, you could choose to never become that. You could choose to never visit the awful ages. You could just hang out in the times when you were happy, over and over again.

The Wall

Okay, guys, I actually need some help with this. I can't figure out what to do with the first stanza of this poem. Part of me just wants to get rid of it, but I'm worried that then the poem won't make any sense. Or maybe it would since its title is The Wall? So, basically, I want you to tell me what you think. But don't limit yourself to just talking about that. I want all the advice I can get.*

**


The bubblegum paint’s on top, pealed
away telephone wire lines-- remember, the same color as the ball--
(look how high it can go
up up up over the house
almost to the sun)

On the bottom, the scribbles
are almost gone.
Scraps of names and voices collect
ripped and faded waiting
to be puzzled back together before
they’re blown away. Hoping.
Floorboards are sad company.

The hydrangea wallpaper behind it all
is the one the most awake.
You can see it in the corner, by the bits of wrinkled
scratch marks. That tiny speck of yellow dimness splatter.
Soon, soon, it knows
it will be back to before.
Cerulean petals and glimmering in the flashes of
once again.

***

*Update: I got rid of the first stanza. I'll post it in the comment section, though, incase anyone else wants to see it or something.