The sunrise is great, beautiful really, but I can’t focus on it. I can’t see it. Not really. I’m too lost, too distracted. I just can’t do it right now, really I can’t. I have been, but I can’t. I laugh, I joke, I talk, but it’s still there. Deep down it hurts. I can’t say anything, I can’t feel anything, I can’t scream loud enough to break the silence. I forget about it sometimes. Sometimes it’s like it was never even there, but the smallest things send it shooting back up. An invisible barrier between me and everyone. It’s a deep, throbbing pain that resides in my chest. It pulses through my lungs, strangling the air until it hurts to breathe. It’s the feeling that I’m shaking and trembling when I’m sitting perfectly still. It’s the cold shiver that holds itself between me and the warmth around me. It’s what I stare after when my friends and family have to pull me back to Earth. Why do they see it?

I hide it. Why? I want them to know. I want them to help. I can’t find the words. The words I do find send me into a panic and I can’t. I get so tired of it, I go to sleep early. I lay down and then… I’m wide awake. Thinking… Regretting. I fabricate and change and write words, but this is the truth. The undeniable, terrifying, towering, truth. It hurts. Tears break through in the same annoying way and I’m glad no one is there to ask, but I want them to know. I want them to feel it, to know, to help, but I’ve never been a brave person. I’ve been fearless in carelessness, but never with words. Words that have to be chosen carefully, precisely. I bury it deeper, try and forget it even more, but the pain pushed down just seems to echo louder. I feel like I’m shaking just writing this. I wonder if someone will see these words or if I’ll delete them later. I don’t want to. I want people to know what it’s really about, but I feel so stupid, so embarrassed about how I feel, because it’s irrelevant to everything. I try to tell them.

I open doors, slowly, cautiously, and they don’t hear me. So I let the doors slam in my face. I’ll try again later, but I know it’ll have the same result. They can’t hear screaming if you keep it in your head. They can’t hear the pain in the silence. They can’t see how you feel. They can’t feel your thoughts. They can’t know without help. I don’t think they’d know even if I told them. It’s something you have to feel. Something they won’t feel. I want to talk to them, but there is never time. What happened to time? Where is time? I want to find it. I want it to be here, in the darkness, in the silence, like an alarm blaring in the dark morning. I want time to be here. I want it to wake me up, out of this nightmare.

I try to cry out, but something stops me. Like drowning. Like every time you open your mouth to scream the water traps the sound and pushes it back down your throat. No. Not water. Not drowning. Quicksand. Sinking. You do nothing and you sink. You struggle and fight and every ounce of strength buries you more. If only there were one person who was standing by you. Someone who could lift you out, after all I’ve done my fair share of lifting. Of saving. I do it, even though I’m still stuck. Even though I help them out and they leave. It’s my fault they leave, I shouldn’t have hid the fact that I was sinking too. That’s how I knew to pull them out. Their fear, sadness, anger, pain, I saw it reflecting in their eyes. I saw deep down. I saw them screaming. I knew the words that would free them.

I made progress. Backwards progress. I chose the wrong words. I chose backwards, fake words and someone saw through them. She knew. She saw my eyes. She saw me drowning… She pulled me out. For a while I was free… But there was an issue. I never made it out of the quicksand. She saw me drowning… She didn’t hear me scream. She’s gone now, I can’t yell loud enough to bring her back. She can’t hear me. They STILL DON’T HEAR ME!!! I scream finally loud enough to make a noise… But it’s too late. I’m sitting at the bottom, underneath miles of sand. Too far away to be heard. I look around. It’s not quicksand. I wish it was. I wish I suffocated. I wish I had drowned, but I was still here, still drawing in seconds, still waiting for time.

I’ve taken a lot of things for granted, but this was by far the worst. For two years I believed it would be forever. I always counted the somedays, one days, tomorrow, and now, as an infinity, but in less than a day it switched to nothing more than yesterdays. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t stop shaking. I still can’t stop trembling. I can’t stop the cold. I can’t stop hoping I’ll get another day, but everyday that chance fades and it hurts more. It hurts. It still hurts. Everyday hurts more. Each feeling feels less. Anger twists around me like a thorny vine. Hurting me and hurting everything that comes towards me equally. It protects me from my sadness, but it just makes it hurt even more. It tries to block my tears from the world, but it doesn’t help, they still slip though, choking me as I fall into an uneasy sleep.

I’m okay. It’s okay. I tell them as I shiver at the invisible cold. I’m happy, I laugh, I make them laugh. They turn away and the smile leaves with them, my eyes burying the pain inside. It’s stupid, I tell myself, there’s no reason to be sad. I smile at my reflection, convincing my eyes to see how happy I am. I see pictures of me and my friends. Smile! I remember them saying it. Telling me to. I remember doing what they said. An empty smile. I stumbled across a photo my mom had taken. She didn’t tell me to smile. It was who was standing next to me. She made me smile. It wasn’t a good picture. The sunset ignited the sides of the image in a way that revealed every little flaw. Her eyes were a pure white from the glare. My hair was a mess. I looked cringy. I hated the way I looked. But I took the photograph anyway. I couldn't stop staring in awe. There was a real genuine smile on my face. I mimicked that smile from there on out. It convinced them. It convinced me. I’m tense. Fake happy hard. Fake it until you make it, right? How long until I make it? I fell asleep, convinced I was making it.

My dream was horrifying. I couldn’t free my gaze from the woman across the room. I knew it was a dream. It was still terrifying. Her hair was drenched, hanging down past her waist like soggy seaweed. Her mouth stretched down impossibly far, her eyes bulged from her head. They called her the Screaming Lady. You could see the desperation in her face as she was locked in a permanent scream that made no sound. She followed me around. Her face. Her name. Trodded around my head all day. I thought about it. I thought about how they say parts of your dreams are trying to subconsciously tell you something. I realized why she was there. She was the part of me I was trying to forget. The part that was still screaming. With that the fake wall fell away. I felt the pain again. I began to drown again. I’m still screaming. Right now I’m screaming. These words seem random and weak and fake, but I. Am. Still. Screaming. I’m running out of breath.

It hurts to scream, but I keep doing it anyway. These words scare me. I know their truth. I feel the pain rise in my chest, throbbing like a second heartbeat. Right beside me. My shadow that I can’t let go of. My friend knows. He asks me why I’m sad. I have no reason to be sad, he says, unlike him. I want to tell him that pain is irrelative. It affects people for different reasons. The same reason hurts people at different levels. It doesn’t mean one is better and one is worse, they just are. I don’t say anything. Just shrug and walk away. Denying. Avoiding. He can talk to others, all of us he talks to understand his pain. They don’t get mine, I stay silent. I want to explain it to them, but I can’t find someone who’s felt the same way. I want to find them. I want to tell them. I want to cry. I want them to comfort me. But I don’t want pity. I don’t want the pretense of understanding. I want them to know! Why can’t anyone know? Why do I have to be so stupid? So childish. I hate it. I hate me. I scream. I don’t think I’ll ever stop.

But it's okay... I'm Okay.

Sitting on my deck this morning with keyboard and coffee at my fingertips, I reached a milestone, wholly arbitrary though it might be. I have (I think) written half of a novel.

I sketched out the first rough plan for The Ghosts on the Glass a little over a year ago, so that I could get something together for the Trident challenge. I outlined 24 chapters and estimated 50,000 words, which was too short, so I magically bumped the number to a still-short 70,000 words and crossed my fingers that I’d find them along the way.

I’ve got 45,000 words right now, and with my updated, more precise outline, I think I’ll land around a respectable 90K. It’s chapter 20 I just drafted. I hadn’t counted planned chapters in a while, but as I ticked through them, it looks like I’m presently slated for 40. All of which is to say, if my novel follows my plan precisely (it won’t), I’m precisely halfway. I’ve only attempted one novel before, years ago, and I didn’t make it nearly this far; this time, I’m really going to do it.

The unwritten pages no longer feel like a yawning void. I pick through my notes once and again and add to them, inserting fragments or tying future chapters to earlier threads. They’re slivers, but I have a feel for those chapters, and their emptiness no longer intimidates me.

That’s what I’ve learned the most about during this endeavor: working through the emptiness. Starting a fresh chapter, an empty Word doc feels vast, and copy/pasting my piecemeal notes helps only a little. I think through more interactions and narration and jot them down, come up with a line of dialogue or six, and I rearrange and remix it all until there’s a basic flow from start to end. Hopefully one of my drafted phrases can open or close the thing, but if not, I’ve learned not to worry about it. My first job is to fill the pages. I can perfect structure, phrasing, and transitions later. There’s no need to torture the newborn paragraphs to extort meaning: nuance emerges as I revise, organically. Michelangelo said the form already existed in the stone so that he only had to bring it out, but I’m no Michelangelo and I’m not whacking a chisel with a hammer. My writing requires shaping and smoothing and occasionally wholesale remolding just to find the form, and that’s alright.

Several of you in Proseland have mentioned an interest in reading the novel, and I appreciate your encouragement more than I can say. It’s not ready yet, but I’m working on it.

Her love was biting, made my lips bleed

It swelled and bloomed and burst

It was rocky, never smooth, but that’s the way we liked it to be

She was the kind of beautiful nobody believed existed

She was the kind of breathtaking people took for granted

Like she’d always be there

But she was never one to stay put or stay quiet

She was nobody’s consolation prize

Patiently waiting until they decided otherwise

She wasn’t the type to forget she was captivating

She didn’t want anyone to remind her either

Like she’d been praised her whole life for it and one more compliment would be too draining

Bitter coffee and broken edges

We wake up alone

Champagne and recklessness

She never stays that way for long

Quiet mornings and purple prose

Lemongrass and wild roses

She doesn’t think I know how it’s killing her to stay

She thinks she’s hiding the pain when it’s only amplified

It’s in the way she won’t look at me after a long night

And how her words can never piece themselves together after

“I love you,” I say

But the cotton invading my throat kills my hope

She doesn’t know that I don’t mind at all

When she’s slurring so much and I think she might fall

I don’t mind that all I’ll be is another forgotten love story

A t-shirt in her dresser that doesn’t ever see daylight

She was so passionate about everything

People fought for her and over her

People gambled their last dollar for a glimpse of her, sold their wedding rings, threw out their dignity

And she loved it when they begged

At the height of it all, we found each other when I was a young rose with no idea how to use my thorns

And she was a rebellious princess with no legitimate claim to the throne

I always thought when she fell from grace, she’d take me down with her

The light in her eyes blinked the same Morse code pattern

Like a ship pleading for help

I was no savior

But she liked to pretend I was

She sings prettily on white beaches

I’m in the corner eating overripe peaches

Her eyes are wide and glassy

Chapstick residue makes her lips waxy

Ticket stubs and dry eyes

And wild white lies

Like I love you

And I only live because you do

You have to stop before it kills you

But it’s so sweet to give in, you let it sweep you under anyway

And in the end, I’ll be a beautiful fool

Because I believed if I loved her enough for the both of us, that might be enough

She didn’t shrink herself down when the music got louder

She made herself bigger to match it

She could raise her left eyebrow to her hairline, and I couldn’t

So she would do it often to tease me

There were so many reasons to hate her

And when instinct told me to stay away

I didn’t listen

And all I knew how to do was love her

I realize somehow, probably alone in a bathroom staring at the mirror,

Trying to get my left eyebrow to quirk up

That she is only mine in the way the air in my lungs is mine

And the thoughts in my head are mine

Until they’re not

Once upon a time an author penned a plot,

a tragic sci-fi romance, with a hero who looks hot.

The hero and the heroine fought through some complications

and thinking they had won, began the celebrations.

So naturally some aliens showed up to spoil the fun,

they flew in packing lasers and super plasma guns.

The battle tread on every trope from swords to who’s your father,

and in the end a cliffhanger, why did they even bother?

And so the hero saved the day and kissed the heroine,

all the plotlines bundled up, in the very final scene.

In the end the heroes strolled,

'twas a sunset without equal.

While a lone surviving alien,

flew off to save the sequel.

We were best friends, we shared secrets, stood by each other, had a laugh together, had playfights, we were always really physical. I loved your hugs, being wrapped in your arms, so tight. But I ruined it didn’t I? Wanted something more. wanted You to kiss me, your lips warm and soft, I wanted you to hold my hand, to say I loved you and hear you say it back... instead all I got was a "thanks". And then it was awkwar, you kept acting like nothing happened, like everything was normal, I told you we couldn't be as close as we were: "at least not straight away, I just need time". But you couldn't even give me that, you kept texting and calling, you'd ask for advice about other girls, put kisses at the end of your messeges. You called me beautiful once, I'll never forget it, and I asked you to kiss me, so You could see how it felt, see if you really didn't feel anything. You sounded so grossed out when you said no, like I was the ugliest thing you ever saw. That hurt, and the fact that you liked 3 of my friends, but eventually I got over it, I stopped answering your calls and texts, stopped opening up to you and letting you open up to me, in fact you were the only person I ever deliberately pushed away. Now college is over and you're just a memory, I still think of you sometimes, wonder how life's been for you. We were best friends after all, maybe we'd still be best friends if I hadn't told you how I felt, sometimes I wish I'd settled for what I had instead of wanting more, but I guess it helped us both realise some things about ourselves and each other, I'll always be glad I was honest.

People have called me depressing

Because I speak the truth.

We all die.

Every day is the same.

We are insignificant.

If there’s a bright side,

Why is it always dark?

Why do I want to live in my head?

Because I am bored with life,

And we aren't worth anything anyway.

So why do we cling to life?

Maybe my heart is empty.

Maybe my mind is alone.

ice:

like breath in the middle of winter

freezing onto the ground

coating the world in

misty white.

ice:

like cream on wounds

fresh and old alike

pain fading

into the cold.

ice:

when you press

your fingers together

and wish for snow

to sink into.

ice:

when you stare at the snowflakes in wonder

and see yourself

in each of them.

ice:

like water splashed into

your face

in the morning

to make yourself look

a little more alive

because there's this one girl...

ice:

they are fire

beautiful in all of their power

but i'm afraid they'll

burn themselves out.

ice:

is it possible to cool down

something that's been boiling all it's life?

ice:

I WANT TO HELP THEM

CALM DOWN

BEFORE SOMEONE GETS

HURT.