The Train to Nowhere

The train let out another howl as it chugged past the plain scenery of the Midwest. A ghost of another time, it brazenly shrieked into the stillness of the night. It was romantic in a way, this outdated mode of transportation. With every whistle it seemed to be its last, panicked scream. Tears filled my eyes as I stared into the darkness, occasionally blinded by stoplights, which harshly reminded me of the appropriate era.
It felt right somehow, crying on a train. It seemed to be epic, as if I had just left the love of life at the station, only waving out the window as he runs beside it. I secretly hoped I had something that trite to shed tears over. Only hours before I had sat in a high school gymnasium watching my younger brother in The Mouse That Roared. I had come in on a train at 7:30 in the morning and was on the outbound by midnight. He was marvelous, a riot I dare say. He had always been the funny one, making scrapes less painful and scars heal faster. I am not sure when he grew up, but I suppose it happened shortly after I did. It hurt me to leave him, just as much as the first time.
He seemed sure of himself in front of everyone, bold and vulnerable. He didn’t seem worried about the reaction of the crowd, because somehow he knew they would laugh. We have always had unspoken conversations, my brother and I. All that needs to be said is said, with or without dialogue. He never had to tell me he was sorry. He would simply come up to me, eyes lowered, and hug me. He never had to tell me he was scared. He would come into my room in the middle of the night and we would watch infomercials until he fell asleep. He never had to tell me he loved me. He would simply be there with me, every day. Now that I have left for college, we cannot manifest these things without words. I cannot let him know it’s all going to be alright because I cannot brush his hair from his eyes. I cannot tell him I worry for him because I cannot give him the “don’t you dare or I will take your very life” eye glance. I cannot tell him I love him because I am not there every day.
We are strangers now, and are not sure how to move from this place of awkward introduction. I have become this ghost to him, all too comparable to the train that takes me home. I swept into his life tonight, screaming to be closer while speeding on past him. I could picture him there on the platform, the wind from my passing only enough to move the hair from his eyes for an instant. For a pathetic second he knew it would be alright.
We have to begin again. We have to know what it is to be adults and siblings, which are the most polar of opposites. We have to love enough to say the words; be bold and vulnerable with each other as we are with the audiences in our lives.
The train chugs to a stop as pillars of smoke billow into the cold morning air. As I search the sea of unfamiliar faces I pull out my phone and text: You were great tonight buddy, I love you. It may not be dialogue, but it’s certainly a start.

Beauty Comes From Empty Gums

I felt safe behind my over sized sunglasses as I rode public transit number ten. Of the few conversations around me, most were drowned underneath the metal hammer clanging of the inevitable bus versus pothole battle. As usual, the potholes emerged victorious. My head swelled from a migraine and I fought nausea at every jolt of the brakes, considering whether it was worth it to walk the next five miles. Just as I thought that my chances would be better on the sidewalk, I felt a tug on my sleeve. I turned to face a set of toothless gums turned up in a broad smile. The man was fragile, holding a worn Bible in his bony hand. "It is a beautiful day", he said to me, in a voice that seemed to conquer the bus symphony. At first I recoiled, wondering how I was supposed to answer this man. I settled for a nod, hoping he would understand that I didn't actually want to talk to him. "It was foggy and rainy this morning, and now it is sunny. It is a beautiful day", he repeated. He laughed aloud, his voice now booming above all side conversation, bearing the emptiness of his mouth, completely unashamed.
I couldn't help but laugh with him, feeling the power of his openness fill my aching head, and more pressingly, my aching heart. I tore down the wall between us, removing my sunglasses. He gabbed his chest and whispered to me, "You have such beautiful eyes, brown eyes are the most beautiful of all". Although he spoke so simply, his words echoed within me. He pointed to the promise ring on my left hand and asked if I was married. I replied honestly, telling him I planned to be someday soon. He seemed to ripple with joy, genuinely excited about my future. As he continued to talk, he told me of his own wedding where he wore flowers in his hair, and could never afford a stone for his late wife's ring. He was there, next to me, pouring out the deepness of his love and devotion to this woman. He held nothing from me, never considering me the stranger that I truly was.
His stop came all too soon, and as he walked slowly to the front he paused to give the parting words, "Remember, it is a beautiful day". I was not sure if these were directed at me, or rather the collective, and captive audience before him. As he stepped onto the sidewalk I almost expected him to open an umbrella and float into the clouds. I moved over into the window seat and watched as the scenery turned into whizzing color. I placed those over sized glasses onto my face, and couldn't help but mumble to myself, "Autumn, it is such a beautiful day".

The Pursuit of Well Lit Eyes

As I look around my room the remnants of an all-nighter are scattered across my floor. Markers are strewn between research materials, and dried up highlighters have been angrily tossed in the direction of my overflowing trash can. I know I need to get in the shower, but my body aches from fatigue and I wonder just how dirty I am and if anyone would notice if I skipped today. I have to shower. I know I do.
The same giant framed print has been crooked on my wall since Christmas. I have come to the realization that I will never straighten it, but rather tilt my head whenever I glance at it. It is insane how many things I obsess over and then how many little things I let go. I wish I obsessed over straight paintings and not GPAs. I pull more all nighters than anyone really should. During an average week I skip two or three nights of sleep, and not always because I have papers due in the morning.
There are few things that bring me greater relief than finishing an assignment at the deadline and getting an A on it. Having realized this about myself, I now know that I am the most boring person in the world if I get my thrills from tirelessly working on research papers. I used to be more fun than I am now. I used to be spontaneous and loud, though not dancing- drunk- girl- at- a -crosswalk -yelling -at-strangers loud. I used to get sucker punched at concerts but keep moshing until the song was over. I used to do a lot of things before the light in my eyes went out.
I can't really pinpoint the day that the light fully extinguished, but at some point I lost the confidence to be ridiculous. Ever since I realized this, I have been tirelessly searching for ways to bring back that joy, that laughter that used to double me over in pain.
I realized tonight, as I smiled into the face of my best friend that possibly I am working too hard. I didn't lose the confidence to be ridiculous, but the confidence to be myself- serious, vulnerable, or giggling. I may not have all the answers, and I may not be so sure of why I lost that part of myself, but I know that I am coming back one smile at a time. Each time take that step and choose to live I am given the chance to reinvent myself. Maybe losing myself wasn't so bad after all, because life does seem more fulfilling in the pursuit of well lit eyes.

Home is Where the Heart Is

Going home for me is like stepping back in time. It is as if everything I left behind waits for the opportunity to spring at me as soon as I dare venture back. The house even smells the same, a sort of musk that never goes away. My family even looks the same, and it seems their mannerisms will never fade. My brother still makes the same jokes, my father still tells the same stories, and my mother still makes the same faces. I feel as if I even pick up the same conversation I started six months ago, not missing a beat. At times I feel the need to shake an eight inch layer of dust from everything.
The consistency may seem to be comforting, but it keeps all of my fears, insecurities, and bad memories captive, trapped in this replica of another era. All I want in life is to move forward, but every time I come home I feel a pull to the past, as if to remind me that I will never escape what happended then. As I drive the same roads I once traveled, stop at the same restaurants, I can't breathe. I am fifteen here, and will never allude the grips of awkwardness or acne. I wonder if other people can see it on my face, this "betweeness" that consumes me. I wonder if everyone feels this way when they go back, or if I have some kind of complex.
They say that home is where the heart is. This makes a lot of sense to me. Maybe it is not home that hasn't changed, but me. Maybe every time I come here I stifle myself into believing that I can't move on. Part of me isn't ready to grow up, so I get caught up in what used to be. Home is where my heart is, and I didn't want to leave home so I left my heart instead.
This time will be different. It has to be. When I pack at the last possible minute, I have to make sure to toss my heart in with my phone charger. That way I can unpack, organize, and have a pulse again.

That Classic Fear of Failure

As I opened my eyes this morning I realized that I had fallen asleep at 6 pm (nearly sixteen hours earlier). The fan was still whirring in the window, blowing cold morning air on my oh so well rested skin. The one sliver of light that shone through the blinds happened to land directly on my eyelids, as it happens to do no matter what time I wake up. I am not sure why I let myself stay in bed so long, or fall asleep so early for that matter, but I think it had something to do with my unwillingness to face the girls on the other side of my door. Sometimes dorm life is certainly not for me. Sometimes I simply cannot venture from my side of that solid wood plank to theirs. They giggle. A lot. They move. A lot. They do all the things that some days I cannot do because of, hell I have no idea why. I have those days where I cannot face them because they are both the judge and jury, both supportive and secretive. We were thrown in the mix and told to live together. In many ways it is like prison, I suppose.
I made the leap of faith today: I scheduled my classes for next year. Looking at that long list of long names followed by even longer winded professors almost sent me spinning into meltdown mode. I will never ever graduate. Ever. And I will live in this half prison for the rest of my life (or at least it feels like it).
The only thing that kept me going today (other than the fact that I will not need to sleep for the next two days) was the weather. It is perfect. I should have spent the day outside rather than in stuffy classrooms panicking about the future. Why can't I just stop for a minute and smell the literal roses? Maybe its because every time I stop my future becomes less and less structured to the point that I am caught off guard by something. I hate being caught off guard by anything. That would mean I didn't know something. My psychotherapy class would call this "anxiety brought on by a fear of failure". Well ya, that's what it is, but how do I stop it?
I think I might start with baby steps. All I have to do is find a freakin' rosebush.

The New Leaf Has Turned

So this would be my first blog to the world, which is more pressure than I originally thought. All I can tell you is where I am now, and eventually where I was will present itself. I am about to finish my second semester of college, and have not yet been struck by that booming-voice-ray- of-light epiphany that should tell me all the details of my life for the next three years. All I know is I would like to help people. Not in that way that brokers or Burger King employees help people, but in a way that gives relief in the present and hope for the future.
I am at an intersection in just about everything at the moment. I am between the benefits of adulthood and the nostalgia of immaturity, between the drive to succeed and the need to sleep, between anxiety and joy and tears and wonder. It is amazing how juvenile adults make me feel until I realize I am one of them.
At the moment I should be writing a paper due in just a few hours, and am instead sitting on my floor in boy shorts with my hair up in chop sticks watching Fresh Prince re-runs. Sadly, this is not a rare occurrence. On this note, I will get up, turn off the television, and write my paper. Or I will just finish this episode.