The Pen and Book Files

 September 12, 2020 I’m tired of seeing things be lost to this year. Days, experiences, entire months lost to something that I would do anything to be able to erase. I’m going to lose more. The senior prom, three months of my experience, my graduation. After each one, I wanted to think that things couldn’t get any worse. This started in March. Now, it’s September, and my birthday is in only a few weeks. I’m not sure what I can even lose now. Everything that I wanted to experience over these past months has been already taken from me. 

 September 3, 2020 Saying something and then following up with it are two very different things. I didn’t fully know that until today. Promises are just words; saying them doesn’t mean a thing. It’s following up that promise with an action that means something to people. Saying that you stand for something just to save face isn’t going to work. Your lie is cheap, flimsy plastic wrap trying to protect the fruit inside. It won’t work. Making a promise to value someone is disgusting. Saying you’re going to take care of them and then only using them for your own purposes? That’s worse.  Circus animals and human beings aren’t the same species, but they have more things in common than one might think.  Especially knowing how it feels to be simultaneously imprisoned and free. 

August 3, 2005 My biggest regret is that I took it all for granted. Every hour, every minute. If things had turned out different, then I might have been able to salvage some part of my soul. But I didn’t, and so I ended up here. Thinking back, I wish that I could do it over. That day was a hot August afternoon, humid enough to make the very air stick to your skin. I had been desperate for an excuse to escape the house, filled with hot air despite the windows being thrown wide open. The reason didn’t matter, because I just needed a relief from the air cocooning me. That’s how I ended up with a $250 lamp braces against my leg, my mother rocketing down Highway 26 like there was a stampede behind us. “Can’t you go a little slower?” I complained, feeling the lampshade digging into my left leg. “Sera, don’t talk to me right now. I’m driving,” my mother said sternly. I scoffed, not understanding the reason for such a ridiculous comment. My mother had never said that before; our convers...

July 8, 2020 Hello, hell. It’s nice to meet you, and I know that we will become better acquainted, whether I like it or not. If you really are Hell, then my fears are easily accessible to you. You will know the things that scare me, be able to describe them, and be able to visualize them in a way that I simply cannot. I suppose that I could try asking for mercy from you, but I doubt that would work. My prayers are far more likely to simply bounce off your ears than anything, because mythology is rather consistent in that hell isn’t supposed to be enjoyable. It’s supposed to be hard. In that way, hell shares a similarity to life because it isn’t supposed to be easy. Surviving both you and life takes a certain combination of something. Grit and preparation, hope and optimism. The balance is tricky. The exact formula you require, Hell, I don’t know.

May 24, 1987 It’s so warm. I can feel the beads of sweat trailing down my face, not bringing any relief with them. The heat is just as intense, wrapped around me with the sensation of a second skin. I can’t seem to escape from it. Opening the window doesn’t do anything; all that happens is that the smell of smoke is drifting into the house. Groaning, I slam the window closed. The sound reverberates through the house. From downstairs, I hear a crashing noise. The resulting swears only cement my certainty of the culprit. It’s my brother, John, like always. He’s always the same. John works downstairs with his projects all the time, claiming they’re delicate operations and nothing is more important. I hold my breath as my brother appears at the top of the basement stairs, holding something rectangular and gray in his hand. The unpleasant smell of paint is permanently engraved in my memory within seconds. “What was that?” John asked, his eyes landing on me. “You ruined my project, an...

June 13, 2020 Each day is the same. The hours, the moments, are blurring together into one infinite line. Some mornings, I wake up and I don’t know what day it is anymore. Trying to make one day stand out from the others is impossible; curing cancer is a thousand times more likely. Summer is going to be around the corner soon, but it doesn’t really feel like that. The grandeur of June, of endings and beginnings, is muffled. The wall is an invisible one, but it’s still existing. I was supposed to feel a kind of electric excitement, but I just feel empty. The treadmill that I’m stuck on, I can’t get off. Each day, each moment, is no different. I reach into the deck of cards and shuffle them; I’ve never been good at cards, so the rectangles of color just land all over the floor. Even amongst so much color, everything is the same. My eyes slide through the differences between them. Everything is identical. There are no new experiences. Graduation was supposed to be this kind of grand...

May 31, 2020 They don’t flutter in my stomach. Instead, these butterflies are landing all over my body. Up and down my arms and legs, I can feel the hairs on my neck standing straight up. I don’t know how to describe the feeling. My heartbeat is speeding up, and I can’t seem to calm down at all. Every single step forward is pushed against, fought against with vigor. My breath is shaking. Each molecule of oxygen pumping into my lungs is providing little relief. What exactly is causing these butterflies, I wonder? Is it my brain, letting the fears I have run wild? Is it my genetics, my DNA, which I have no control over? I don’t know. The butterflies are feather-light, sending a lightning-fast shiver down my arms. Trying to warn myself up seems counterproductive, because the butterflies have made my hands cold. My father used to say that I was like Killer Frost because of how cold my hands were sometimes. I used to laugh at him because I didn’t think my hands were that cold. Now, I ca...

May 15, 2020 The sunlight is shining down on my face. I am still locked away, but the walls are no longer one-sided. I can now remember the feeling of hope that we’re all but forgotten about before. A feeling of infinite possibility has rolled in with the new walls, Crystal-clear. Unfortunately, those new walls don’t just allow the sunshine in. Now, the storm clouds are visible. The tension in the air makes the hair on my arms stand up every time I get a look at it. It’s thicker than I could have ever guessed, with the clouds rolling in and then past in a cycle. Clocks could not describe it so precisely. Each time that sunshine comes, sending a thousand glimmering sparkles dancing around, the clouds roll in. Instantly, the sunshine becomes nothing more than a fleeting feeling. Blocking out the clouds is impossible, because the walls allow the bad to be glimpsed, in addition to the good. It’s impossible to block out the clouds completely. They will return, and it’s impossible to thi...

May 07, 2020 All that glitters and all that shines. Tell me, what could I possibly find? I can’t find anything that glitters and shines. Just look around, and then you might just find something that glimmers. Each metallic wink is a precious memory, something positive about the world that manages to make the news and lift hearts. It certainly lifted mine. I’m desperate for human interaction in a way that I wasn’t before. I wouldn’t be able to properly explain it, even if I tried. I just want to sprinkle some glitter over the world, and help those stories of kindness and cuteness spring to light. Did you know that a homeless pit bull had her puppies in the middle of a rainstorm, but the entire family was rescued safe and sound? No, I doubt you did. Because these stories, of glimmers of hope, are being buried under the dirt. It’s getting harder and harder to see anything that glitters, because it’s impossible to know when the dirt will stop being dumped on top of the precious memori...

May 06, 2020 Who does a life belong to? Who has the right to make decisions about the future of that person’s life and their future experiences? I know that my life belongs to me. Anyone who you asked would say that, and probably recommend you to a psychiatrist on top of that. But you aren’t the only centering point for the compass. Everyone in your life is one, too. Even the smallest decision may anger someone whose opinions you rely on. There are decisions to make, every single day. The pressure is intense, crushing me. I don’t want to disappoint anyone, but I also want my life to belong to me. Without guidance, I fall apart, but I am also desperate for it. I don’t know what to do about this. What I want, what is expected. Those expectations keep me from falling apart, but I also want to know what would happen if I had control of my life. Would I be better? Would I be worse? I don’t know the answer. I want to find out why my life is going to be this. I want to find out how I ...

5/02/2020 There is a spotlight on me, but it isn’t even real. I see it as a part of my own life and my own experience, but it is nothing more than a film. When my mouth opens, nothing comes out. Sounds are trapped in my throat, blocked from freedom by a net of my own devising. I don’t know how it works, but I know that I cannot get free. When I struggle to get through, the spotlight shines brighter than before. It blinds me until I can no longer remember how it feels to think clearly. Each thought is filtered through what I can only describe as fear. I am becoming numb, and now I can’t remember which way is the right one. What if I mess up? What do I say? Words come so naturally to everyone else. Everyone is worried that this will be a problem for me, this spotlight that only falls on me. I am the only one who freezes when the spotlight comes down. I am the only one who can see it, can feel my body freezing into a statue of stone. Every molecule within my body is screaming. It want...

5/01/2020 Each of us sees the world through a lense. Call it glasses, call it a curtain over our eyes. Some people cannot process things, and thus block them out. I am one of them. I’m not going to school today, or Monday, or any other day. I will be barred from school for the rest of the year. I want those glasses more than I thought was possible. With those rose-colored glasses, perhaps my perspective would no longer be shifting so much. I don’t know what to say or do anymore. I don’t know what to think, either. My perspective keeps on sliding off the screen, so far down that I can’t see the pinprick of light that was comfort. Before, my perspective was that things couldn’t get worse. N But now? I’m no longer so sure.

4/14/2020 What is an effect? It’s something we hope for, it’s a result, it’s a consequence. Our actions seem to have no effect in the world, but the truth is not so. As humans, we can be remarkably shortsighted. Sometimes, I just can’t imagine a simple action reverberating on anyone. Perhaps actions mean little when it’s just one person. But when one person multiplies into several hundred times that, we can see the effect of it. The effect is clear for everyone to see, and it can be devastating. Have you been to a supermarket recently? Perhaps not, because of the risk. So let me tell you what the effect of humanity has been, at least there. Emptiness. Oh, there are still some things. The shelves aren’t completely empty, but there is never quite enough now. The days that we are living in aren’t quite an apocalypse, but humans are fearful. Fear isn’t rational, and the effects are everywhere. How much toilet paper do we really use in a week? How much water, how many paper towels? T...

4/09/2020 Everywhere, there is darkness. No one says anything about light, because they cannot see it. The darkness is a film over our eyes, blocking out everything beside it. We blink, seeing the grid pattern of the film, but we cannot see through it. Why? Maybe because it's thrown in our faces. One after another, never letting up. We learn to deal with the darkness, simply because we can no longer remember the feeling of the light that exists beyond. The light that used to shine in our faces is nothing but a distant feeling. That's the funny thing about humans, though. Hope can never truly be buried. It can only be hidden. Even among the darkest places we've ever seen, where the smoke blocks out the sun, there is persistence. Perhaps we just merely need to learn how to rediscover it. Hope is the one treasure hidden among a thousand rocks in a pile of sand. Hopelessness will strike; I know that feeling well. 

April 07, 2020 Not all prisons are literal. Some are made by circumstance, and others are made by someone else rolling the dice. Still other prisons are made by the passing of countless hours, an infinite amount of sand grains piling up on top of one another. Apart, they mean nothing. Together, they can turn the world over. This particular prison is none of those. It's like a hurricane or tornado shelter; a space designed to keep us safe that has turned into a way to keep us locked away. Oh, this prison didn't start out like that; they never do. It's started as a way to keep its inhabitants safe, and isn't as bad as fear makes us believe. I didn't realize that before. There was a film over my eyes, preventing me from seeing too closely. Taking a closer look, I can find the simple joys in being locked away. Moments with family are all the more distinctive against a background of sadness and fear. It's cheesy, but still true. A pleasant spring walk is just wha...

April 6, 2020 What is a hiding space? Is it a space where we can be free? Is it a space under the stairs, barely large enough to accommodate our bodies and our thoughts? Everyone has a different idea of a hiding space. But, to me, a hiding space is a place to pretend. A place where I can block out everything and just be alone with myself in all of its fragmentary passages.

April 6, 2020      This problem started far away. Over seven thousand miles away, to be exact. The news fell on deaf ears, because our ears had to be deaf. China has never trusted us, so why would we trust news coming out of there? The problem was only theirs, until it wasn't.      After the problem was no longer just theirs, it still seemed far away. Sure, Italy had rising cases now, and so did France and Britain. But the numbers almost seemed to reflect off an invisible barrier, because they were still so far away from where we are. Most of the students in my classes were all over the news by this time, fanning the flames of worry and fear.  How long will this last, they asked. Will it affect us? Will the district close? The answer was no, at least at the time. Europe was a whole different world from here.      Soon enough, though, it wasn't. Cancellations of concerts and conventions began to run rampant, but I couldn't let the fea...