Tag Archives: Life


Today, I was honestly going to talk about abandonment. My fear of it, how I respond to it, how I deal with it in my everyday life, etc. However, that’s not going to be today’s memoir subject. This morning, I woke up and said no. I will say I’m stuck in an emotional rut right now, but I’m tired of the negativity. I’m tired of feeling sorry for myself. Tired of taking everything personally. Because, guess what? It’s not all about me. It’s not all about one person. And I’m glad. I don’t want that pressure. I’m not sure of anyone who would.

I feel like if you survey 100 people, most will give you different ways for how they define “hope.” I’m not going to pull the dictionary out for this one. (Yes, I use physical dictionaries instead of Google. Thesauruses, too. I’d rather personally smack someone upside the head with knowledge if it came down to it. Burglars, beware!) Instead, I want to talk about how I define hope. Also, I’m just lazy. I’m not even going to lie.

When I hear the word, I firstly think of one of my best friends who goes by the same name. I’ve always been a person of few enemies and even fewer friends. However, my pretty much sister-from-another-mister and I have been friends for several years. Sometimes, I honestly wonder how we’ve made it this far. It’s no secret I’m an emotional person. I’ve put her through things she nowhere near deserved, so we’ve had our ups and downs like any relationship. But, we’ve made it work, and that’s how I know she’s a real friend.

What do I think of secondly? Well, when I try to think of how I would define hope, my brain flat lines for a few moments. Then it’s all over the place. So I never get a clear answer. People like to say things like, “Oh, I hope the weather stays nice,” or “Man, I really hope my team wins this year.” The only sport I repeatedly watch is NASCAR, so I’ve been known to say, “I hope my favorite driver wins at the end of a good race.” I’ll delve into NASCAR some other time.

All that is fine and dandy. I’m not saying it isn’t. I feel like there’s something more to those four letters than just wishful thinking. I’m a Christian; I was raised Southern Baptist. (Shocking since I tend to write dark and supernatural stuff, eh?) So hope can be capitalized when using it as one of God’s many, many epithets. Even still, I think the meaning of hope can dive deeper because I don’t believe it only pertains to religion. Although one could argue hope can be aligned with faith. Or dreams, for that matter.

My hopes and dreams? Of course, I hope to become a published author. I’ve been diligently working on my first novel. I hope people will read it, and it will touch them in some way. I hope they’ll connect to my characters. I hope readers will walk away with a new perspective on life. I have the typical aspirations of every author. Becoming published is my goal in life.

Yet, there’s still an itch that needs to be scratched. And it’s rather personal. I’m constantly hoping I will change. I mean, down on my knees, begging and hoping I will change. Not in a physical sense. Nor the idea I need to change to fit the world’s mold sense. An emotional sense. Most of the time, the only way I make through each day is hoping I’ll eventually be better. I don’t handle stress well. I tend to lash out at those I care about most. I have no self-confidence. I question my own judgement. I’m always lost in the vast oceans of my inner demons and turmoils. Wrestling with myself day in and day out. As a result, I’m perpetually exhausted. Both mentally and physically.

Hope keeps me alive. I know I’ll be better one day. I have to be better some day. I could go on a whole “religious rant,” but I’m not going to. Here’s why. I’m learning that I am not in control. No matter what religion you are, whether you’re religious or not, one thing stays the same. Life was not created to be controlled. Our best attempts fail. Such is the way of humanity and its hubris.

Long story short, my hope is my reason for life. My passions, my dreams are all funneled through this tiny little of strand of hope I desperately hold on to. That is how I would define the word. Outside of my friend, of course. The will of life is what hope means to me. The motivation to move on, push forward. And, yes, there are actual steps I can take to better myself. I’ve been taking them, slowly but surely. To me, though, it all means nothing if I don’t have hope.



Aurora Borealis

I dared not look up, instead keeping my gaze down. Snow crunched under my boots as my headlamp revealed my short puffs of breath. If I accomplished one thing in my mundane life, it would be climbing this mountain. The wind whipped against me. Making me pause until it died down. I hated this stopping and starting. My muscles burned and were frozen at the same time. This was by far my most painful experience. But it would be worth it. Once I reached the summit.

A sigh of contentment escaped me as I ascended. It took me three days, but I made it. In time to see the Northern Lights. I dropped my pack. Turned off my headlamp. Ripping off my goggles, I exposed my eyes to the frigid night air. I breathed deep. This was why I sat in the same cubicle for ten years. It was this spectacle that had given me hope, given me life.

Greens, blues, even purples danced above me in silent song. Flickered in lazy waves. I held my breath as tears formed and froze. It was more magnificent than I imagined. More breathtaking than all the pictures combined. It sent me into meditative peace. My heartrate calmed. My aching muscles forgot about the trek I had made. Everything centered on the marvel I witnessed.

The colors suddenly shifted. Convulsed and swirled in an organic pattern. A tendril broke away from the rest. Floated towards me. I remained motionless until I couldn’t resist any longer. Hesitating, I reached out a gloved hand. My finger grazed the tendril. Pleasant warmth flooded me, driving away the cold. I jumped back. Not expecting to make contact.

As the tendril snaked away, the form of a woman took shape. She was made of the Northern Lights itself; her hair never left the Lights, and her feet never touched the ground. Her eyes snapped open. Revealing themselves to be twin stars. She turned her gaze upon me. Partially transparent form lambent.

I stumbled back into the snow, landing solidly on my butt. I blinked several times. Couldn’t fill my lungs with enough air. Which had been difficult to begin with in the thin atmosphere.

“Peace, warrior.” Her mellifluous voice kept time with the Lights. “I have waited 1,210 years for you.”

My gaze darted around. Me? I was no warrior. I wasn’t even a weekend warrior. Surely not me. I resided to pointing at myself.

She seemed to nod. “Yes, you. My name is Aurora Borealis.”

Knees shaking, I pushed myself to my feet. Found my voice in my dry mouth. “That’s what we call this. I mean, you, I suppose.”

“Yes. Because that is my name. I have known yours, for you are worthy. You see, I am from the past. I live in the future. Yet, I am aware of the present. I have experienced and waited for this moment for centuries.”

I rubbed my eyes. The Northern Lights had taken the form of a woman, spoke to me, and told me I was worthy? I must’ve passed out after I reached the summit. I checked over my shoulder. I wasn’t lying in the snow, so this wasn’t an out-of-body experience. My gaze returned to the ethereal woman before me. Yes, she was still there.

Her form wavered. “I am real. You will come to belief in time. You always have. However, you must understand. They have killed my brother, Aurora Australis. They seek to destroy me next. You must unravel the mystery that will rewrite history and save us, as well as humanity.”

“What,” I finally blurted. “You want me to be some sort of savior? I barely made it up this mountain. Who’s ‘they?’ How am I worthy of anything? I never even made Employee of the Month. Are you even going to answer any of my questions?”

“Everything will come to fruition. You shall see. Take one of my children as a guide.” She lowered an arm. A star descended, decreasing in size until she captured it in a lantern made of the Lights. She handed her precious child over. “I must go. My faith resides in you. You have always been brave. Do not forget my words.”

With a final pause of affirmation, she retreated back into the sky. The Northern Lights receded. Faded into nothingness. All that remained was darkness. Only for a few moments. The morning sun crept up from the east. Setting the mountains on fire with the reflecting snow.

I stood in dumbstruck silence. Too many questions for my brain to comprehend. I had only wanted to see the Northern Lights. That was the one exciting thing I wanted to do in my life. I didn’t want to be recognized for doing something great. I just wanted to see the phenomenon that had filled my dreams ever since I was a child.

Was that it, then? Had I really been chosen? I finally looked at the flickering lantern. The star twinkled with unknown secrets. My gaze returned to the scenery in front of me. What was I supposed to do?

Before I could think another thought, I was, indeed, transported to the past.

*Author’s Note: Short Story Saturday brings a somewhat short story. I tried sending this to a few online short story publications, and it got denied. I like it the way it is, so instead of changing it, I decided to publish it on my own blog. I just won’t get paid for it. Which is perfectly fine. I don’t write for payment; I write for my own enjoyment. Hopefully, others will enjoy it as well. 

Turn Back Time

If I could turn back time
Would I find a way
To say
Everything I meant to say
If I could rewind the clocks
Would I actually argue
To do
Everything I meant to do
If I could travel into the past
Would I make a decree
To see
Everything I meant to see

But then…
Would I make the choice
To turn back the time
And live the rest of my life
In a state of constant rewind

Song of the Dead


I love singing my boyfriend to sleep every night; he’s been so lonely since my funeral. He tosses and turns, mumbling incoherently. I try letting him sleep on his own, but my heart cannot stand seeing him so distraught. So I sing our favorite song. It soothes him into slumber. Then I can watch him in peace.

Unfortunately, I do not think he sees me. I wonder if he senses me. I’m not even sure he hears me, but I know he’s comforted. He cried the most at my funeral, save for my parents. I visited them. Though they did not respond to me as he does. I seemed to only cause them fear and aggravation. So I moved on to my second love.

For days, I wandered his home. Looking at pictures. Reminiscing. We had built ourselves the foundations of a good life. I knew I had picked a good man when I stumbled upon the ring in his room.

He still keeps it by his bedside. Often cries as he gazes upon it. He blames himself for my death, and there’s nothing I can do to change it. I can only sing him to sleep every night. My death is my my fault. My foolishness rendered me lifeless. It had been my finger that found the trigger. They debate if it was accidental or intentional.

Regardless, I serve my penance. My immortal heart shatters every day as I watch him. He trudges through each rotation of the earth as if it were a curse. And he is mine. Thus, I sing to him. After he sheds the grueling duties of the day and crawls into bed. I caress his hair, though he does not know it. I watch him struggle to get comfortable. Listen to his barely audible cries. And then I sing our favorite song as he drifts into a horrible dreamland. Night after endless, isolating night.

Memoir? Memoir.

According to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, the first definition for “memoir” reads as such: “A written account in which someone (such as a famous performer or politician) describes past experiences.” At first, this worried me because I thought only famous people could have memoirs. I am by no means famous. Not even famous among my few friends. I have no intentions of becoming famous. If I finally get my books published and they sell enough that I do reach “famous” level, I suppose I would take it in stride. But the reason I write books has nothing to do with popularity.

Thankfully, the dictionary continued. The second definition for “memoir” states: “A written account of someone or something that is usually based on personal knowledge of the subject.” This was what I was looking for. So, in a sense, I have written memoirs before as parts of school projects, and I hadn’t realized the exact definition of what I had written.

Now that I’ve established a memoir is what I thought it was, there comes the decision of what do I start with? Given that I stick to this weekly plan, there are fifty two weeks in the year. That means fifty two memoirs in one year. I know I haven’t had the most exciting life, but I have more than enough topics to fill fifty two slots. At least, I think I do.

Today can be a memoir about, well, memoirs. Redundancies, I know.

One of the main reasons I want to write these memoirs lies in the fact of I want to remember. It is proven that our brains tend to push out memories and facts it deems unimportant to make ways for new information. I’ve already noticed my short term memory has become highly forgetful, and I’m afraid it will start transferring to the long term memories as well. I may not have the most interesting tales, but they’re what make me, me.

And let’s use our imaginations and say my books do sell, they do make enough money I that I reach what most consider the coveted “famous” level. I still plan on keeping this blog. I have yet to reason why I would get rid of it. There are times when I like to go back and read what I’ve already written. See how I grow and how my subject matter revolves. So, if I do become famous, I want to be able to remind myself where I came from and how I got to be. I want to remain humble. There is no need for pride in an already arrogant, self-absorbed world.

In closing for today’s Memoir Monday, I hope these upcoming personal stories will provide some entertainment. Perhaps some insight on why my brain instinctively chooses some of the themes that I do. Give a glimpse into a simple life to reassure you you’re not the only one who has or is struggling with a particular matter. At any rate, I hope you enjoy.

The Profile of Love

Are you smitten
Completely fittin’
The profile of love
Cheeks are blushed
With blood rushed
The profile of love
Mind is racing
Body shaking
The profile of love
With knuckles white
And stomach tight
The profile of love
Grasping the knife
Desiring life
The profile of love
Stabbing until dead
Licking the blood
The profile of love
Sucking in breath
Tasting death
The profile of love
Hiding the carcass
Acting suspicious
The profile of a murderer

Unconditional Love

I love you while you’re
Sitting in the back aisle
Feigning perfect smiles

I love you while you’re
Meeting your stranded wit’s end
Working hard to pretend

I love you while you’re
Rejecting everyone’s help
Providing their hearts melt

I love you while you’re
Sitting in the lonely dark
Breaking your fragile heart

I love you while you’re
Lying in a broken bed
Chasing screams in your head

I love you while you’re
Driving down neglected roads
Fighting suicide mode

I love you while you’re
Taking your imperfect life
Destroying all the strife

I love you while you’re
Even in your dying breath
Leaving me with nothing left

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