cthinks

[cthinks]

day eight

Dream-catcher: Write something inspired by a recent dream you had.

It’s warm, where we are. He tells me the heat feels nice. I agree. The sun is blinding and my skin is hot to the touch, an almost welcomed contrast from the past few dreary months. The sand shines like stars, and it whips around us when the breeze picks up. I dig my toes into it, close my eyes. It’s beautiful and serene and quiet, until it’s not.

I feel frantic, lost in this foreign place, lost in my own head. I can’t communicate. I gesture wildly at the people around me, desperate for them to hear me and understand. Static silence. No one can help, and we are trapped in this unfamiliar place. My mind is stuck.

My eyes ache, my chest hurts as I realize he’s gone. He was right beside me one moment, and the next, he’s become the invisible man. I call out his name, quietly under my breath, and darkness answers me. I try again, and now I hear his voice, faint but steady, a mirror of what it is when we’re not in this place, afraid and shaking and stuck.

That’s a far as I get. Can hear, but can’t see, can’t touch. I am petrified. I’m covered in a layer of sweat when my hands stretch out into a void of nothing, hoping his will reach back.

I don’t want to die. Keep me safe. I want to live. Where are you.

I wake up. I am still feeling the same sense of urgency, even upon realizing I’m under his sheets. And then I feel his hands between my thighs, wedged in, warm. He’s asleep. He reached back, anyway.

It’s been 13 hours. I am still rattled.

#365 Days Of Writing #day eight

[cthinks]

day seven

The Rocket-ship: Write about a rocket-ship on its way to the moon or a distant galaxy far, far, away.

I’m 18 and I dream of a place that’s better than here. The agony is all consuming. I wonder when it will get better. Everyone tells me it takes time, but each passing day only proves to be more excruciating than the last.

It’s January, and so cold, the air bites and takes my breath away. I’m warned not to stay outside for too long. “You’ll get sick,” my mother advises each morning on my way to school. “Put on a hat.” I wait, this particular evening, until no one is around before I sneak outside, the stars punching into the ink black sky like diamonds. It’s late, but I don’t know the time. Everything hurts, no matter what time of day, so I’ve stopped paying attention to clocks. I know it’s late enough for me to feel bone tired, for most of my family to be in bed, asleep, for the world around me to have taken a momentary pause. I can’t hear anything other than the sound of the snow falling, hitting the ground, the ice already forming. I focus on it until my body is shaking and I’m positive I’ll never be warm again.

I stare at the moon. It’s bright, nearly full, and illuminates my entire yard. I can see the depth of the woods, the bare trees. I want to touch the glow. I want to drink it.

I continue to tremble, face and fingers numb, as I imagine I’m in a rocket. It’s taking me higher, higher than I dreamt I could go. I press my face up against the glass of the window and watch as everything gets smaller, whizzing by. I smirk and wave goodbye to all of the things that torture me back on the surface of the planet. The moon, white and blinding, is my home now.

The wind picks up, and I’m suddenly aware that I can’t feel my nose. My head hurts. How long have I been standing out here? Did I really think I could make myself numb enough to get rid of the eternal stinging in my chest?

It’s lonely on the moon, I think as I shake off my jacket once inside, but it can’t be much lonelier than here on Earth.

#day seven #365 Days Of Writing

[cthinks]

day six

Eye Contact: Write about two people seeing each other for the first time.

Arthur rises with the sun, a habit he’s had for as long as he can remember. As his eyes fight to focus, he watches the dust particles dance around the room, settling in by the window. He makes a mental note to dust later on. Maybe after his second cup of tea.

He shuffles slowly to the kitchen, clearing his throat as he goes, and stumbles over a pair of shoes beside the fridge.

“Who on Earth left these there,” he mumbles out loud to himself. He doesn’t recognize them, but he likes them. He slips his left foot into one, and it fits perfectly. “Stranger things have happened, I suppose.” He shrugs, and pulls down his favorite mug from the cabinet. The tea, though, is nowhere to be found. He settles for coffee, already waiting for him on the counter top.

It’s a beautiful fall morning; his joints creak and his muscles ache as he sits down on his back porch to observe the glow emerge amongst the reds and oranges of the trees. Autumn seemed to sneak up on him this year. The wicker chair beneath him groans when he shifts. It’s almost as old as he is.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting out there, observing, relaxing, when a car pulls into the driveway. He listens as the driver cuts the engine, then calls out to him, “Hello?”

Arthur strains to peer around the side of the house, brows furrowed. He wasn’t expecting company, and he doesn’t recognize the voice. “Yes?” he calls back. He tries to stand, but his feet won’t cooperate. He stays put, mug now empty in his hands.

The voice emerges into the backyard, smiling and waving; he blinks two, three times before realizing it’s his daughter. “Oh, Catherine!” he exclaims, attempting to get up on his feet. “What a wonderful surprise. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“That’s okay,” she says, smiling. “Don’t stand up, I’ll come to you. Have you had tea yet? I can make you some.”

“I couldn’t find it anywhere,” Arthur grumps, making a face.

“It’s in the cabinet beside the microwave. It’s been there my entire life.”

“Oh.” He scratches his chin, laughing, embarrassed. “I must’ve forgotten to check.”

She gives him a forced smile, gesturing behind her. “Joey came with today.”

“Wonderful!” he repeats. “Where is he?”

Before Catherine can answer, Arthur’s grandson runs at full speed toward the porch, arms wide open for a hug, wildly yelling, “Grandpa! Look! I brought Nanny!”

Arthur embraces Joey, and looks at the woman approaching several feet behind. After she makes her way up the steps, he notices she’s quite pretty, her eyes a deep shade of blue. They remind him of ocean waves, or the late evening sky. He can’t stop staring, and he realizes she, too, is unblinking, gaze matched. Her right eye has a small freckle just beside the iris. He’s positive he’s never met her before. He never would have forgotten these eyes and how they made him feel. This, he is sure of.

He extends his hand, reaching for hers, now standing, still staring. Past the wrinkles, he notices the bridge of her nose is dotted with freckles. Maybe she spent a lot of time outside when she was younger; perhaps she worked in a garden. Her smile is kind, hopeful. She smells lovely, like cinnamon. It feels familiar for a fleeting moment. “It’s great to meet you. How long have you been Joseph’s nanny?”

Her eyes cast down to the ground, her hand going weak in his grip. She clears her throat, her voice wobbly. When she looks back up, her eyes don’t look the same. They’re clouded, almost, and look tired. "Since the day he was born, I reckon. I’m Margaret.”

“Margaret,” Arthur echoes. “I don’t recall Catherine hiring help so early on,” he admits. “Regardless, it’s fantastic to meet you. Can I offer you a drink? I don’t believe I have much food in the pantry, but I can look.”

She shakes her head, releasing his hand from hers. “I’m alright. Thank you. You’re very kind.”

Arthur spends the rest of the afternoon with his company, asking Catherine questions about her writing, how David is doing since he transferred companies, how Joey is doing in kindergarten. He laughs when Joey shares stories about his friends in school, overjoyed that his grandson is so witty, so seemingly brilliant. His nanny is quiet throughout the rest of the day, though, only chiming in on occasion. Joey seems taken with her; she is clearly beloved. Arthur tells Margaret as much, and she smiles, sighing. “He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Likewise.”

Before Arthur’s family leaves, the sun low in the sky, Catherine crosses her arms across her chest. “Do you think you’re ready to sell yet?”

“My home? Absolutely not.”

“Dad, it’s--”

“It’s nothing, Catherine. I’m happy here. I can still take care of myself, and my house.”

“I don’t want you to be lonely. Or if something happens and you’re all alone...”

Arthur nods. “I’m okay. I have a few more good years left.”

The look on Catherine’s face makes it clear she doesn’t agree, or that maybe, at some point, she’s argued with him about this before. It doesn’t ring a bell. Perhaps she knows about the mystery shoes left in the kitchen.

He says goodbye to his daughter, his grandson, and Margaret. Joey squeezes him tightly around the neck. Arthur’s hands are freezing. His face, the rest of his body, is warm. He hugs just as tightly back.

Before he crawls into bed for the night, he pays attention to the sound of the wind rustling through the trees. A branch taps against the side of the house. He can’t see it, but he imagines it’s the same tree Catherine used to climb when she was small, her and her sister Elizabeth racing to see who could reach the top first. He closes his eyes, remembering skinned knees, missing front teeth, slumber parties, home grown tomatoes in the yard, Christmas Eve and wrapping last minute gifts. He remembers feeling loved, deeply and irrevocably. Blue irises, shockingly beautiful. They remind him of shadows.

Arthur rises with the sun, a habit he’s had for as long as he can remember. As his eyes fight to focus, he watches the dust particles dance around the room, settling in by the window. He makes a mental note to dust later on. Maybe after his second cup of tea.

#day six #365 days of writing

[cthinks]

day five

Food: What’s for breakfast? Dinner? Lunch? Or maybe you could write a poem about that time you met a friend at a cafe.

Your car’s tires crunch in the driveway’s gravel, heard with the radio’s volume turned way down. I’m not the first girl you’ve brought to this home, but I let you give me the tour as if it’s all brand new, because to me, it is. You point out old family photos, the spot where your hammock used to be, the next door neighbor you can’t stand. I follow your lead.

When you ask me if I like the property, your voice makes it clear you’re offended that I haven’t offered any complimentary thoughts yet, or any thoughts, for that matter. I’m embarrassed that I’m silent; I’m overwhelmed and can’t make my mouth work. Thank you for bringing me here. This is important to you, so now it’s important to me. The sentences sit on my tongue. It never comes out.

The thing about Cape Cod is no matter how long it’s been since my last time visiting, it still feels like meeting up with an old friend. Everything remains familiar, unchanged. The beaches are harsh, packed with tourists, and the waves drown out the sound of the scattered conversation amongst families, the seagulls above, the music playing from a stranger’s radio a few yards away. We walk up and down the shore, you collecting rocks, me watching and listening to your explanation of each stone. I’ve never been to this particular beach, I’m pretty sure, and definitely not with you, but as I watch the waves grab at your ankles and your eyes squint in the sunshine when you turn back to look at me, there’s a faint voice in the back of my brain murmuring home.

You show me the restaurants with the good oysters, antique stores filled with haunted treasures, dead end streets that you once paraded down as a little kid. We wind up and down these roads together, the weathered houses whizzing by. “This was my mattress from childhood,” you explain once we’re in the spare bedroom. The springs squeak when you sit down on the edge, and the idea of two of us squeezing in together on this double sized bed seems laughable. “Your back is going to hurt in the morning.”

It does, you weren’t wrong. I ignore the uncomfortable sting in my shoulders and hunch over the coffee table, sort through hundreds of puzzle pieces. The final product is supposed to sport four puppies laying together. I curse when I realize their coats are all very similar shades of tan. You play music, make us drinks, and then: “I’m gonna heat up the nuts.”

In the months prior, I’d never heard of boiled peanuts, a snack you learned to love years ago when you lived 1,400 miles south of where we are today. I’m a New England girl at heart, but your Floridian roots kick in from time to time, and I’m happy to indulge.

The brine is salty and the aftertaste is spicy; we crack the shells open one by one. The juice tickles when it runs down my hand, down my arm. It’s not an easy to devour dish. We take our time. I snort at the way all the tiny bits seem to get caught in your beard.

We say goodbye to the Cape house later that evening. The sun has already begun its descent, casting a golden glow over the town. You walk several steps ahead of me to the car. You’re a silhouette against the orange hue.

People from all over the world vacation on Massachusetts’s hook. They come for the endless stretch of beaches, the world famous lobster rolls, whale watching, small-town charm. I come for a tiny bed, a collection of stones washed up on your favorite shore, and boiled peanuts.

That, and you.

#day five #365 days of writing

[cthinks]

day four

Dancing: Who’s dancing and why are they tapping those toes?

Her studio apartment is empty, just herself and her two cats. They prowl around lazily, eventually settling in on a spot on the carpet together where a sliver of sunshine lays. She, too, feels tired, and would love to give in to a nap. It’s a warm evening, especially for September in southern California, and her bed has never looked more enticing. The heat makes her feel drowsy. The anxiety makes her eyelids feel like lead.

She ignores the urge to lay down, and paces, instead; she counts the steps as she moves, watching the way her feet dance across the floor. Her ADHD - something her doctors swore she’d grow out of - makes her constant twisting and turning a part of the norm, but today, it’s out of anticipation. Fear. She jumps around so her body can keep up with the spinning of her mind.

Time is up, but she continues to skip, tap, bounce. A few moments pass, and she realizes her feet are moving on their own accord, performing the Irish step dance she knows by heart. It’s been years since her last competition, but her body remembers what to do. She closes her hands into a fist, thumb tucked, by habit. Every move is memorized.

Jittery.

When she finally works up the courage to look, she immediately feels like she’s melting. Her apartment retains heat, yes, but she shouldn’t be sweating this much. Her bones are liquid, oozing out. She sits down on the bathroom floor and holds the strip in her hands, lifts it up into the florescent light. She can’t make herself blink. Everything feels dry.

Years and years of taking these tests, and never once did she know what it would feel like to see a plus sign. Tears spring to her eyes; her fingertips are fuzzy. She’s not dancing, now, but her body is sore, stiff, tense and eager. Her brain is on overdrive. She realizes she’s smiling.

It’s way too soon, she knows, but she places her hand over her belly, anyway. She imagines she can feel dancing on the inside, too.

Soon.

#day four #365 days of writing

[cthinks]

day three

The Vessel: Write about a ship or other vehicle that can take you somewhere different from where you are now.

Give the girl a time machine.

Let her go back to seventh grade when her anxiety ate her alive, but she didn’t know that’s what it was. Not a single clue. No one had ever talked about mental health; she assumed everyone felt the same way, and she was the only one who couldn’t manage to get her life under control. Tell her to stop skipping school. It’s not “cool” to fall behind in classes. Intelligence is power, and power is admired. Tell her it’s okay to be fearful, it’s okay to approach teachers, to be kind to unknown peers, to tell her bossy friends, No, today I can’t hang out. I really just don’t fucking want to. Tell her to eat her lunch, because truly, no one is looking. Tell her to stop wearing oversized sweatshirts. She’s covering up flaws that don’t exist. It’s too hot to pretend she just really, really likes her blue hoodie, even with the sleeves rolled up in the middle of June.

Give the girl a time machine.

Let her go back to her 19th year when she had to find out from a stranger that she’d been cheated on, yet again. Tell her to hang up the phone, to go back inside to class. Missing more college course work over a manipulative, abusive boy isn’t an option. She needs someone to tell her that; scream it at her. Tell her to stop staring up at the black sky, numb, watching the snow fall down. It’s cold now, but it’ll get warmer. Tell her. She needs confirmation that she won’t stand there shaking forever.

Give the girl a time machine.

Let her go back to the first night she ever met Chicago. It was the end of August, nearing midnight by the time they’d unpacked their bags in a ritzy hotel room and ventured out onto the streets. Not many tourists crowded the popular spots so late at night, so together, she and her best friend danced through the street lights, pointing out the idiosyncratic buildings, fascinated by their unique architectural designs. They stopped to have conversations with homeless veterans, they laughed when the wind by the riverwalk whipped their hair across their faces, they made sure to write down restaurant names they strolled by, noting the ones that looked special. Tell her to take more photos. Tell her to say out loud how lucky she felt to experience this evening. Be vocal. Tell her to take it all in, because that night is a night she’ll never be able to get back. The smell of the city, the taste of “brand new,” the feeling of invincibility; savor it. Tell her to capture it, and hold it close to her heart. All of it. She can revisit it whenever she’s feeling lonely.

Give the girl a time machine.

Let her go back to June 13, 2015. Tell her not to get that tattoo.

Give the girl a time machine.

Let her go back to the start of 2018. Tell her to stop panicking and overanalyzing. There are things she doesn’t know yet, but that’s okay. He’ll tell her when he’s ready. Tell her to quit worrying about what he’s thinking about her. Tell her that he cares about her, even when she has to remind herself several times over. He cares about you. Tell her to let go and trust. Being burned in the past doesn’t mean everyone in the present is holding a match. He wants to see you try, to succeed, to smile. Tell her to be vulnerable. If she doesn’t, he’s going to leave. Vulnerability is a beautiful thing, and for fuck’s sake, he isn’t judging. Remind her that he’s not scary, he’s not hateful, he’s not rooting for failure. Tell her that she can calm down, because for all of the days she’s riddled with uncertain thoughts, he’s there to listen. And what a wonderful thing it is, being heard. Tell her that.

Give the girl a time machine.

#day three #365 days of writing #I'm the girl #obviously

[cthinks]

day two

The Unrequited love poem: How do you feel when you love someone who does not love you back?

You enter the venue, approach the stage. Your seat is in the fourth row. You chose that seat specifically. You wanted to be up close, to be seen. It’s not your first time seeing your favorite artist live, nor is it the second or third. You continue to come back for more, their energy addictive. You refuse to put a price on moving lyrics, catchy melodies. On being noticed.

The room buzzes with anticipation, your own mind ready to pop with excitement, with adoration. When the lights dim, you hear a shrill scream. You realize it’s coming from yourself.

Your palms are damp, eyes blurry with tears. There they stand, guitar in place, smile overwhelming. You’ve paid to be here but it still feels like you earned it, somehow.

They whiz through the setlist, one you’ve memorized. The choruses are warm, but demanding. You’re stuck on the way they pluck the strings, the way they sway their hips in between lyrics, the way they look out at the sea of people and praise into the microphone, “Thank you so much for being here with me tonight. I appreciate you so much.” You clutch your chest and cheerily yell back, You’re welcome! They don’t hear you, though, over the sound of the bass, over the incessant cheering. The artist continues on with their speech of gratitude. It’s heartfelt, you can tell. Their eyes gleam. You know this isn’t one-sided. They care about you as much as you care about them.

Your eyes nearly burn from unblinking. Your gaze doesn’t leave theirs the entire time they’re present on stage. You’re captivated. Look at me. Pay attention to me. Please, please notice me. Your chest aches. I love you.

They never make eye contact with you. You blame yourself for not purchasing the front row ticket. It’s your fault you aren’t loved back. They did nothing wrong, and you’re doing everything wrong. It stings, burrows down in your stomach impossibly deep.

You’re the only audience member at the next show. It’s as if 5,000 people forgot to show. You look around at the vacant space, and you know you must be dreaming. This isn’t a thing that happens. But then the lights dim, they take the stage, and suddenly, it’s just you and them. It is happening. This time, you’re noticed. They gesture towards you, they wink when they get to the dirty lyrics, they stop to ask how you’re doing and if you’re enjoying yourself. You feel like you’ve finally won, have finally made your way into their thoughts, their heart. And then they murmur into the microphone, “Thank you so much for being here with me tonight. I appreciate you so much.” They continue on with their speech, the one you know so well, and you can feel the blood draining from your face.

You’re not any different. You’re filling the void. You’re just another fan, no better, no worse.

That’s when you realize they aren’t singing to you. They’re singing through you. They’re focused on audience members past, ones that stand as ghosts. They can’t rid them, and now that you’re involved, you can’t escape them, either.

New music is released a year later. You’ve tried to forget about their demons and the way you feel like you’re both being haunted by it. You purchase the new album. There aren’t any songs about you on it, but why would there be? There never has been, and truly, you haven’t made a difference. That much is clear.

You play the album over and over again, anyway, taking the time to memorize the way it feels during the melancholy songs, the gut-wrenching songs, the ones that make you feel restless. Because you support them. You care about them. You love them. Painfully.

Months after, you attend their show. They can see you. They don’t acknowledge you.

Untouchable.

You cheer for them until your throat is hoarse and your chest is tight from trying not to cry. And even then, you continue to applaud.

You leave after the encore. You love them, still.

#day two #365 days of writing #we love analogies

[cthinks]

day one

Outside the Window: What’s the weather outside your window doing right now? If that’s not inspiring, what’s the weather like somewhere you wish you could be?

Wet, green, a few hints of what’s to come over the next several weeks. The end of August and majority of September feels like a race with no finish line. I’m desperate for something new, tired of feeling the static heat weighing me down. There’s no motivation when everyday feels the same. October, though, provides. As the evenings grow shorter and the yard starts its day covered in a layer of frost, I’m gently reminded that change, indeed, is coming. The Earth remembers how to and pushes me - us - to follow suit. I feel encouraged, craving the cyclical differentiations. This time of year, I often find myself feeling refreshed and inspired to change up my own world, following the lead of Autumn. I clean things in a frenzy; I engage in hour long phone calls to comfort myself with the voices of those I love most; I push myself to take longer, harsher walks; I photograph the unusual; I watch movies I’m not normally compelled to see; I stay up late reading, getting lost in the words of others; I express gratitude more, and apologize over and over and over again. I smile. I cry. Everything feels severe; I crumble. The yellowing leaves outside aren’t afraid, so I can’t be, either.

#day one #365 days of writing