music, Postaday

The Pain of Growth.

wireMy fingers feel broken today.

They were sore when I came home from mandolin practice but I woke up really sore this morning. My fingers hurt when I type. They gently throb when I lift them up, when I gently touch the cup.

I want it to end. I know they are not used to playing strings and when they get tough they’ll no longer hurt. Hurting means I’m getting there. Hurting means I pressed my fingers to the fret just right.

I’m just impatient and I don’t like pain. Does anyone truly like pain? Pain is gain and in this case it’s true.

Life, Postaday, Writing


I wouldn’t call myself inhibited, but I’m not the type of person who readily tells you about my life.

It can be said that authenticity is revered, but how much can I tell a person about a self that is strange even to me? My thoughts, emotions, experiences shift and change in a day and in a moment. How I live my life might not even be something that others would approve of. People aren’t as open to authenticity as they pretend to be. Unless you agree with them about how life should be lived then life isn’t worth living.

So how authentic are you to your friends, your family, your co-workers, the world?

I think it depends on you and your level of comfort. There’s no such thing as the right way to live.

Of course, you shouldn’t be closed off, you need to be able to discuss certain aspects of your life. And yet should a memoir shouldn’t be written and lectured in every situation. Some things should never be talked about.

Writing is especially hard for me to do sometimes. Authenticity is required. It needs to be real and comfortable and open so that I can connect to my readers. But how much is too much? I don’t want to give you an itinerary but neither should I spill out everything into the dark crevices of my mind. Even I need a safe space where I stand and say, “Not here.”

Have I been authentic enough for you?

Via Daily Prompt: Authentic

Life, Postaday, Writing

Difference of Being.

Sometimes I don’t like to write and I do it anyway.

I struggle to write and I try to fill the pages of my journal and I hate myself.

Why am I doing this when I don’t want to write? Every word I put down feels insincere, an extraction with nothing to numb the process. I scream in frustration. I scream at myself. I hate myself for forcing myself to continue writing when I don’t want to write.

Writing when you don’t want to only breeds resentment. I tell myself to take a break and then I’m thinking about it. I still hate it, but I feel guilty for not writing. You know?

I’m good at this thing I do. I’m good at writing. I keep writing because I know that I’m good at it. I keep writing because I know others know that I’m good at it. They think I enjoy it and I’m not really enjoying it. I want it to stop. I want to throw away the expectations.

I want to take a break.

Maybe not forever, but I want to step away from it all. I want to stop doing the things that people have put on me as sticky notes.

This is her. This is what she likes to do. And I’m too afraid to tell them differently. I don’t want to disappoint them. I don’t want to have them see me in that way. Because really, they don’t want to see me change. They don’t want to see me as something other than static.

And it hurts.

It hurts to know that no one wants me to change. No one wants me to spread my wings and fly. Is it so hard for someone to understand that they want to be somewhere different and change me? My preferences aren’t the preferences that I project. I’m a certain way because the expect me to be a certain way and its tiring to pretend.

It’s tiring to be someone I no longer am.

Life, Postaday


We take many things for granted here in the twenty-first century. This is a redundant statement and probably a thought that is common sense, but how often do you actually sit down and think about how much we take for granted? Cars can take us somewhere in thirty minutes when a hundred years ago it would’ve taken a day or more. We can reach anybody instantly when even several years ago we had to wait a few days for a letter or when we got home in order to use the landline.

There’s been an illness going around recently. During the first world war, people died of the common cold. I can’t imagine the fear of dying from something that in today’s world is just a simple annoyance that you can help assuage from over the counter medicine.

Everything is easy these days. Maybe not everything, but certain things are easier to take care of. We’ve gotten used to it and expect it to work the way it should. If it doesn’t, then we complain that we’re going back to the 19th century. But do we really know what it was like to go back to go back then? If we miss a day without internet, do we really know what it was like to not hear from someone for months or even years? Can we really expect that of ourselves?

I went two months without social media. It was rather isolating, because everyone else uses it to communicate and set up events. I felt like I didn’t know what was going on. But if I wanted to, I could connect. If I wanted to, I knew where to find certain people that I’m attached to. Even if I choose not to participate, I’m not truly isolated.

How can we truly expect to know how it is with all our conveniences?

Life, Postaday, Writing

The Barrier of Thoughts

I think the biggest barrier that stops people from full honesty in their private writing is the fear that others will read what they’ve said without knowledge or permission. To know that others could see their innermost thoughts without them knowledge is the scariest thing in the entire world.

We often lament on our limited knowledge of certain periods of time, our few resources of personal accounts of those who actually lived there. But when I think of all the people I know who don’t keep a diary because they’re afraid of what others might know, of their belief in not being able to keep up in a journal regular, of many other reasons…then it’s not so hard to see why we don’t have as many of these resources as we wish we had.

It’s a hard balance to strike, however. We want to respect the privacy of others and yet we want to know more about our history and our culture. I often think of Jane Austen, the famous author of whom we know so little but adore her works so much. We don’t know very much about her; she was so private in her life that even her sister destroyed several letters after Austen’s death so no one can know more about her. To the inquisitive mind, this is frustrating. I mean, who doesn’t want to know more about a famous classic writer? But she was also a real person with real emotions, feelings, and thoughts. Shouldn’t she, also, have a right to privacy?

I think that’s the crux of the issue: in order to allow full honesty in what we write, we need to have a sense of respect when it comes to others’ writing. If we have a family member who wants to keep a journal, then we need to let them have to space to let the words flow onto their paper. If we want more insight into the human psyche, then we need to let them write in their privacy without the pressure of thinking someone might be reading it.

Poetry, Postaday


I see the sun,
the rays beat down
on black pavement
like the middle of July
in September.
I don’t dream of bitter winds
that come after,
as the sun convinces us completely
that it’s not ready
to relinquish its hold to the soil.
I sit here, warm in its embrace,
not believing that icy fingers
wait for me.
Summer will be long forgotten
when winter’s here, as distant as
the winter’s embrace
It, too, will go eventually.

via The Daily Prompt: focused

Life, Postaday

Another Day

A woman was complaining about some people we know mutually. This is my response:

“I just focus on my attitude and the people that I work with.”
“Isn’t it hard sometimes?”
“Sometimes, but tomorrow’s another day.”
“Well, aren’t you a ball of sunshine?”

I can’t allow myself the worry of someone else’s actions. When I get stressed, my head hurts and sometimes I throw up if I let it fester. I don’t want to feel this way every day. I’m not stupid; sometimes I let it get to me. Probably more often than I let it. But each day is new, and it’s a new day to focus on improving myself to be a happier person. Yesterday is irrelevant, today has potential for new foundations. If someone thinks you’re ridiculous for wanting to pursue this, then it’s probably time to dump them off the list of people you think highly of.