I wanted to be a writer

I should be asleep. I have to be at the funeral home in less than ten hours. This isn’t good writing, I’m just sad. I think it’s time to face the inevitable end of my phrase as a writer. I have nothing left to say, my words would just be a waste.

This really isn’t poetry or even good writing of any sort. It’s just when I have feelings the words come out in strange stanzas and demand unnecessary enter hits. Like I said, I’m no writer.

I saw a poet with my name.
She was good.
I was upset.
My name is the one thing I have.
That, and my writing.
She took both.
She was a better poet,
A better Nikita.

Second guessing colleges,
Again and again.
Maybe I should go for pre-med
My dad says I can’t,
I’m going to be a writer
I have to be a writer.
My eyes start to cry as
I tell him I can’t.

A story inside of me
Spins within my skull
Hits the ears, creates
Pounds and thuds.
Crashes around
But it’s nothing more than
A restless ruckus.
Nothing’s tangible anymore.

Characters wave as they
Take their bags and leave
The apartments they called
Home within me
In their suitcases they
Throw their plots and scenes
There’s nothing left to
Fill my stories

With blank pages
empty stanzas
unused notebooks
and the disregarded choice
of major/minor: English – Writing
I have eliminated “writer”
from the title I have
given myself
Now I am just Nikita, Human

I have to give up this part of me
There’s nothing left to write
Nothing I have to say
I can’t believe
I ever thought
I’d make
a living
of this
someday.

I’m not going to be posting anymore. It’s not like I’m posting regularly now, but this is my goodbye my pathetic blog note.

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Sorry About That

As you can see from my last post, sometimes I’ll write weirdly to see if anything could can come from it. And as you can see from my last post, sometimes this exercise will produced poor results.

It is September! But just barely. In a few days it will be October. October is a month that I want to be my favorite, but I can’t seem to like it the best. Or at all. Halloween is probably my favorite holiday but I hate fall. I feel like I may be the only one. Sure, fall has some good qualities like apple cider, skeletons, and cold cloudy nights that beg for blankets, but it’s also terribly depressing. The trees are dying and shaking off their skins to reveal their skinny bones that will clang against our windows. The deer are being hunted and the devil bugs are swarming. The bumblebees move sluggishly and the squirrels are stuffing themselves to sleep. Fall reminds me that I’m counting, until breaks from school, until spring days. I don’t like fall. Everything dies in fall, and the leaves tell us we should find beauty in death. But I don’t want to do that.

On a different note, my AP Lang teacher (All hail Brock) assigned us a book on Friday, The Lone Ranger And Tonto Fistfight In Heaven by Sherman Alexie and can I just say GODDAMN.
This book is good.
I’m a little over halfway done with it and maybe I’ll post a more intellectual response once I finish. I plan to read it at least twice before I have to hand back my copy. I think I’m going to buy my own copy.

Also my ex-psych teacher recommended a book called Neither Wolf Nor Dog by Kent Nerburn. I must read it so I’ll write it down here as a sort of promise to myself to read it.

So yeah. Sorry about my posts.

Don’t Read This As A Poem

I don’t want to be a productive member of society
I just want to write things nobody reads
Sit among the trees
Read books and talk to plants
Watch the stars til 2 am
But still wake up before 10
I don’t want to engage
I just want to experience
You can’t have one without the other
I want no one as much as
I’m terrified to be alone
I hung out in a graveyard yesterday
Does that make me creepy
The sun was shining
The leaves were turning
The flowers still full
The grass is growing well
Over his grave
Still no marker has grown
To bear his name
I don’t like how I write
But I need to do it
It’s an obligation of sorts
This meter is terrible
Nothing here rhymes
I’m sorry to disappoint
But this is not a poem
This is my thoughts
Separated by a pretentious space
bar

Tattoos

(Sheepishly covers up the fact that I’m too lazy to write a meaningful post with a post on my silly self mutilating fantasies)

I started my senior year this past week. After a meeting with my counselor, the dropping of three classes and the seizure of two, I had a lunch with my friends. During lunch this week, my friends and I launched into a discussion on tattoos. My friends had all sorts of ideas in mind, and one was even planning on getting a tattoo when she turns 18 this year. At the time, I couldn’t think of a single idea for a tattoo, but I have many. I’m technically not allowed to get a tattoo. My great aunt has told the girls of my family several times, “You don’t put a bumper stick on a Ferrari.” As much as I love that woman, I disagree. First of all, if I had a Ferrari I’d totally put a bumper stick on it. Even if it that’s tacky as hell. Second of all, tattoos have the possibility to be the most beautiful accessory you’ll ever own. But it might be a good thing that I’m not allowed to get one, because all the ideas that I’ve had have been either ridiculous, cliche, or something I will regret.

My Tattoo Wishlist:

An Anatomical Correct Heart on My Ass. This is one of the ridiculous ideas but hey it’s no more idiotic than a normal, cartoonish heart on my butt. Why not teach people a little bit about cardiology?

Eyes on My Knees. Have you ever seen Mamma Mia? Need I say more?

Some Sort of Plant Growing up my Ankle. I love trees more than people. I don’t know how to make this tattoo look good, in my mind it looks amazing but whenever I share the idea aloud it sounds cliche and boring.

A Teeny Tiny Turtle on my Wrist. Possibly an elephant, or whatever my favorite animal is when I get it. I love animals as much as trees so I want to express my love of them by permanently engraving them in my skin, like any other animal lover would.

Pen/Harpoon Hybrid on my Arm, Either my Inner Forearm or my Bicep. This is a reference to one of the most stunning Twenty One Pilots lyrics, “I’ll tell the moon, Take this weapon forged in darkness, Some see a pen, I see a harpoon.” These lines might mean something very different, but my interpretation was that words are powerful and when I write I have the opportunity to strike down problems and speak out on issues. I consider myself a writer – as hard as that is to believe – and I want to be able to see my pen as a harpoon.

Every Twenty One Pilot Lyric Ever to Exist. Ummm. This could end up very weird looking. They’re my favorite band at the moment so I obviously consider every word of their songs to be magic. If I can somehow narrow down my favorite lines maybe I’ll tattoo one or two of them, or find an image that represents them.

“Write Or Die.” My friend, Amanda, told me about this app called “Write or Die.” I probably won’t end up using it but the phrase made me think of biker gangs. So of course, I want it written on my skin until I actually die. I hope that I will be writing until I die. Maybe I’ll get this one in a cutesy heart.

Various Tiny Stars, Constellations, and Planets All Over my Body. I love space. I love space a lot.

Well, that’s my list of silly tattoos. What do you think? Should I get them?

Writing. If you’re not scared, you’re doing it wrong.

This is incredibly true and incredibly reassuring!

Live to Write - Write to Live

etsy print by Andrekart etsy print by Andrekart

I keep a magic wand on my desk. It’s a simple, unassuming implement made of basswood. I picked it up at a Renaissance Faire a couple of years ago because I liked the feel of the smooth wood and the look of the ash-gray striations that run along its slender length. Also, I didn’t have a magic wand.

I use my wand all the time. I have yet to see it display any overt magical properties, but it is a comforting talisman when I find myself confronted with a writing task that feels beyond my ability. This happens almost every single time I sit down at the keyboard.

I had an honest conversation with some writer friends about this recurring and paralyzing lack of confidence. It was immediately clear that this condition is common among writers. Each of us could relate. Each of us…

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INFP (Warning! This post contains a lot of whining about lame feelings.)

I find it rather funny that personality tests can be so accurate. You answer a few general questions, and bam! There’s a summary of who you are. It’s really strange. Psychology is crazy. It was my favorite class this year. (And in my academic career, so far!) I think what makes it so wonderful is it’s scientific proof that you are not alone in your mixed up feelings. It’s a science dedicated to everything you suspect, but were too afraid to ask about.

Anyways, a while back I took a personality test, recommended by my good friend Olivia. (She runs a perfect blog check her out!!!!) My personality type was INFP. I got the results and I was like cool okay what do those letters even mean???? So I started to read the description of the personality type, gasped a little too loudly, read it to my dad, then called my mom at work, read it to her, and sat in a start of gleeful shock for about an hour. I guess you could say I liked what I read. Even though it wasn’t the best personality type one could have, i just felt so much joy because it seemed accurate. One of my biggest insecurities is my personality. (You’re probably wondering, what the heck is wrong with you, Kita? Well think about it. It’s the one thing we’ve been told over and over again matters the most. So of course I’ll mess it up! It has also been pointed out to me many times by more than one ex-friend that personality is something I lack.) But there were many positive traits described. It was quite reassuring, you know?

It was really fun to read something that described me pretty well. Of course there were one or two things that were a little off, and there was a lot missing. At least that’s what I’m assuming. There’s got to be more to me than a page on the internet. But then there were the bad things. Well, not necessarily bad, but things I know I do that I try to pretend I don’t do. For example, “take many things personally.” I don’t do well with criticism. At all. The second someone doesn’t have something nice to say about me, I get frustrated with myself, not them but me, for letting them see my failure/weakness/flaw. It’s pretty bad. The next weakness of my personality type is that we’re difficult to get to know. That’s incredibly true, and incredibly frustrating for me to realize. It takes me years, literal years, (I think the average is 2) before I can fully open up to someone or even initiate conversation with them. Unless of course they’re an incredibly bubbly and talkative person who’s actually interested in me. (Have you caught on that I’m insecure?) But the last weakness of the INFP is the one that I have tried my darndest to pretend I didn’t have. Drumroll please………………………………..

“INFP personalities are prone to being too dreamy and idealistic, especially when it comes to romantic relationships. They may idealize—or even idolize—their partner, forgetting that no one is perfect.”

Sighhhh. Yes, I do this unfortunately. It’s seems like a problem that only middle schoolers loopy with hormones should have. Since I haven’t actually had a romantic partner, (#16nearly17yearsandcounting) this is a really, really bad thing. Why? Well, when you have no one to put on this metaphorical pedestal, you start to create a sort of standards for when that guy actually shows up. It’s like the longer I go without a boyfriend, the higher the standards rise, thus making it harder for me to date the guys I know, making myself go longer with out a boyfriend. Do you follow? Curse my overly idealistic imagination!!!! *Shakes fists at books and romantic comedies for ruining my expectations.* Oh well, maybe someday I’ll get over this weakness. 

That’s enough of my dumb feelings for one day! I think I’m going to write a short story about a dragon now! Or work on my other writing project… Not sure which… I guess it depends on how much sleep I want tonight. I’m so glad it’s summer. Now here’s a somewhat unrelated quote about passion from J.R.R. Tolkien, a fellow INFP.

“No half-heartedness and no worldly fear must turn us aside from following the light unflinchingly.”

Writing Is Scary

It’s permanent. It’s intimate. It’s abundant and common. It’s all the things I’m scared of, which is probably why I love it. I’m getting worse at it. Maybe I’m not getting worse, maybe I’ve started proofreading. Maybe now I’m looking around me and seeing that other people own pens, thoughts, and dictionaries. I know people all around me who are good at writing, very good at it. It scares me to think that people other than those published can be good at such a dangerous thing.

What does it even mean to be good at writing? Oh good for you! You make scenery sound realistic! You make obvious statements sound pretty and insightful! You move people with your diction! You share with the world your perfectly detailed descriptions!

 Bah! Humbug.

Why did I have to start writing? I despite it. Every. Word. I. Choose. I. Can. Never. Change.

As ignorant and pretentious as this post sounds, I refuse to take it down. Because words are writing and writing is permanent.

Words used to be my favorite things. They still are, even though they’re escaping me. They laugh at me as they find their place in others’ mouths and minds. They dance their way out of my head, leaving it blank. I used to get lost in my words, the words that make up my thoughts. But now, my mind has nothing to say, and especially nothing to write.

I find myself clinging to people who can’t stop talking, their words will fly in through my ears and tune out the dull buzzing that’s been left in my head. I don’t think about things anymore, and can’t remember a time when I did. I need obnoxious clamor to drown out the silence.

I can’t even call myself lonely, there must be a reason for that but I can’t articulate why. I am alone most of the time.

People talk to me and then uncomfortably shift in the silence that hangs in the air. With the silence their unanswered question runs dry. I apologize with my eyes because my mouth has forgotten the words, I’m sorry. I’ll slowly stutter a reply, “I’m fine, how are you?” They’ll share a short sentence or two. At that moment I’ll want to cry. Say MORE! Please say more. I know it’s hard to talk to me, but I need you to try. I know it seems like I put forth little effort, but in actuality I’m doing the best I can. 

With little words, little can be done. And now my words have left me,

Confessions With No Explanations

  • I don’t think I’m a real person
  • My friends compliment me too much
  • I can’t fall asleep during the school week anymore
  • I’m scared of phone calls
  • I’m starting to forget how to hold conversations
  • I’m starting to lose the ability to speak
  • I’m going to fail my finals because I’ve gotten too cocky
  • There are moments where I watch those around me as if they were characters on a screen. They ask me questions but I’m unable to answer because you can’t reply to a movie.
  • The scale says I’m losing weight, the mirror says the scale is wrong.
  • I feel at peace outside in the sun
  • I can’t pick flowers anymore, or even weeds
  • All I’m able to do these days is observe, although I want to interact I’m unable

There’s Always Light At The End of The Tunnel

Spring fever is upon us, as are tests, finals, projects, hormones, and bad decisions. How many commas can I use in sentence?

Anywhere but here, I plea. In every class, I stare out the windows at the buds on the trees. The view from table closest to the windows in the library is especially pretty during first hour. If you look past the parking lots you’ll see a weeping willow that’s yellow instead of green. It will be green soon enough, as will every tree. I feel lonely in this school. When I’m outside I feel lively again but I rarely get time out there.

Being sad won’t fix anything. This is what I tell myself as I sit in class with my head on the desk. Being sad won’t make you smarter. Being sad won’t make you a better person. Being sad won’t make people like you. These words just make things worse. I don’t want to be sad anymore, a while ago I thought that maybe I was all better. But now, all I want is to talk to my friends and actually laugh. I don’t find things funny anymore. I want to have energy and experience excitement again. Hopefully these are just the side effects of an overworked mind. So I must trudge through the next few weeks. The thing that sucks about the end of the school year is that I’m always so drained, I can never end it on a good note. I withdraw from friends, so once summer comes we don’t stay in contact. Last summer I hung out with about 4 people, and only about one or twice a month.

This year I will change that. I want to force myself to continue friendships. I’m actually going to make the most out of my summer! I’m going to still be busy, but a better kind of busy. After school gets out, I’ll finally take my driver’s test. (Hopefully past it as well!!!) Then I’m taking the ACT again. I got a 32 the first time I took it in February and now I really want a 34. After that I’m taking a writer’s workshop up at Hamline University. I’m absolutely terrified for that. Not only will I be sharing my writings but also meeting new people. I don’t do very well with first impressions or making friends. Usually it’s super awkward until about a month or two into your friendship with me. Honestly, I’ve been friends with people for years before I can even initiate a conversation with them. Anyways hopefully all will go well. I’m looking forward to summer so much! But that just makes everyday at school so much harder.

I feel like this post needs a bunch of quotes at the end of it. So here are some relevant and not so relevant ones:

“But listen to me. For one moment quit being sad. Hear blessings dropping their blossoms around you.” – Rumi

 

“Will I be something?

Am I something?

And the answer comes:

You already are.

You always were.

And you still have time to be.” – Anis Mojgani

 

“The fact that someone else loves you doesn’t rescue you from the project of loving yourself.” – Sahaj Kohli

 

“We are all books because we have spines and stories to tell.” – Unknown

 

“We waste so many days waiting for weekend. So many nights wanting morning. Our lust for future comfort is the biggest thief of life.” – Unknown

 

“The primary cause of unhappiness is never the situation but thought about it. Be aware of the thoughts you are thinking. Separate them from the situation, which is always neutral. It is as it is.” – Eckhart Tolle

 

“I’m still writing about you and you haven’t read a word.” – Travis Grandt

The credit of these quotes may be wrong, I was too lazy to check. And I might use them again for another post because I really liked some of them. I’ll talk to you guys again soon! Also remind me to do a post about prom!

Inner Monologue Of Going For A Run

Thought Catalog

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[tc-related post=”314721″]

Has it been an hour since I had lunch yet?

I have three big slices of pizza to digest though, so maybe I should wait an extra hour today.

Will it start raining before I’m done running?

I don’t want to get stuck in a thunderstorm, catch a cold and not be able to run for the next month.

There’s not a cloud in the sky for now, but let me check the weather app just in case.

Mostly sunny with zero chance of rain for the next three days.

All clear, damnit.

Looks like the perfect day for running.

Yay? It looks a little chilly outside though.

Do I need a jacket, or is a long sleeve shirt enough?

I don’t want to overheat though, so maybe a long sleeve shirt with shorts? Or a tank top with running tights? So many combinations to choose from!

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