from what I remember

I remember thinking I was going to love you. I knew it as soon as the spark hit.
“I’m going to love this kid.”
I remember hoping and praying, literally praying that you would love me back. Even if it wasn’t at that moment in time. I knew in my heart that we should have loved each other. I knew it. I keep trying to tell myself that I made that up, that I actually had no idea what I was talking about back then because of how it is now. But I don’t care. I knew it.
I remember knowing you loved me, and I remember thinking you were so embarrassed to. Like loving me was something you didn’t want to do, or planned to do or wanted anyone to know. I tried to tell myself that you needed time to get used to the idea, because you were going to know one day that we should love each other, non-stop. That’s the love I had for you… non-stop. It’s like I couldn’t stop. Even when I wanted to. I prayed that it would stop. Every night. I prayed and cried that I could stop. But I never did. You always told me you couldn’t stop loving me either. And I would think to myself, “See. I knew we should love each other. I knew it.”
I remember thinking we were going to see the World, and once we saw it, we could change it. In so many ways. I thought that’s what God was really telling me. You said you felt that, too. I remember thinking I could be with you anywhere, ANYWHERE as long as we were changing the World. I never had that before. I never had someone make me think that I had a partner in crime to really get to the heart of people and change it. I remember when we used to talk about the Bible and what we thought God was going to do in our lives. I just had to be a part of whatever it was God wanted you to do, because I knew it would be big. I wanted to be right there, thick as thieves. I remember feeling like we were really best friends, and that at one point in time, it wouldn’t matter if we weren’t going to end up together, because the love we had as friends was so much stronger. You were my best friend, which is probably why trying not to love you was so damn near impossible.
I am trying to remember more, but every time I try to, I start to cry, and it becomes too hard to stop. I always wipe my tears and think to myself,
“How could I have been so wrong?”

glory to the newborn king (revision)

(I decided to rewrite a previous story I wrote earlier this month. I was not too crazy about the first one. This one I can live with. Hope you like it.)

I was lifeless. With my face buried in my cold hands, I continued to kneel on small steps, covered by a carpet of artless blue and purple patterns. The carpet was saturated in, “I am so sorry. Please forgive me” tears, just like my face. Being here night after night was becoming nonsensical. There was no more resolution. I was indignant, frozen, and hollow. As I raised my head surveyed my surroundings, I saw so many others kneeling with their faces buried in their hands. Everyone appeared to be so … desperate. A sea of people wanting to feel, something. Whether or not anyone does is not for me to say. But I knew I did not, and it reduced me to tears. As I walked to the pew to grab my belongings, I could not stop thinking about him. His name was Stephen. We had met at a bar, and while exchanging carnal glances and feral touches, his words penetrated deep into my mind. About a week ago, I brought him with me to the bland altar carpet. When I raised my head to see if he was finding comfort, he was no longer next to me. Stephen, who I was sure was filled with iniquities, was sitting quietly in a pew. He had no tears – he had no outstretched arms. Yet he was staring at me, with somber eyes. I rose to my feet and sat next to him. “Stephen, why weren’t you at the altar? I thought you would have stayed there” I said, slightly perplexed.
From the first night at the bar, I got the sense that Stephen was absolved of all his sins. He had a sense of liberation about him, an unmoored spirit that I assumed came from salvation (with a capital S.) But I could see it in his eyes that being here, seeing all of the others and myself, left him befuddled, far more than any amount of alcohol ever had.
“Erica, have you heard of Friedrich Nietzsche?
“Yeah. Of course.”
“Well I read something we wrote. He said God is dead, and I agree. We killed him. So why are we here?”
I knew exactly what he was referring to. I wanted to tell him I thought he may have missed the point of that statement, but something inside of me compelled me to let him continue.
“Remember when you told me you felt like a portrait that god forgot to finish?”
“Yes” I said. I slowly lowered my gaze from his eyes to my hands that were resting in my lap. I told him that the night we met at the bar, I was hoping he would have forgotten it.
“Well you said you really wanted to start finishing it, your way. You said you were sick of waiting for God to give you answer. That you had different beliefs, different convictions, and how amazing it felt that you thought of new ways to live your life. You were saying you stopped thinking like all of the others and you thought for yourself.” His voice was stern now. I just wanted to stop him and yell, “Of all the things I said to you that night, this is what you remembered?!” But I was speechless, and he kept going.
“Look, that night at the bar, you were real. Regardless if you were drunk or not. A real portrait. Whatever you were painting that night, it was beguiling. I bet you add to it every night, every time you expand your mind. But right now, seeing you like this, it’s like watching you trying to destroy that portrait. This, none of this is real to you anymore… I know it. I suggest you stop trying to destroy what you created here, because God is dead, and you should stop trying to change it. It’s not the time or place. I don’t know if that what Nietzsche was saying, but that’s what I’m saying to you. Besides… you look so beautiful every time you dip the paintbrush and add another weird and fucked up color to yourself. Better than any altar carpet I know. This place is a graveyard. Go live.”
The more I thought about what he said to me, the faster I began walking out of the church. I soon found myself sprinting towards my car. I sped off down the street, over the train tracks and to the same bar I met Stephen. That was where I wanted to be. I ordered a Grateful Dead, it seemed fitting. As I began to sip on my drink, I suddenly I heard a voice whisper in my ear.
“Shouldn’t you be at church or something?” It was Stephen, as he cracked the same smirk he gave me the first time we mad eye contact.
“Church?” I chuckled. “Why would I be there? God is dead. Duh.”
As he grazed my leg, I stared into his mossy green eyes and said, “I feel… animated.”
As the night passed, a series of hues and dimethyltryptamine exploded from my brain. I could feel the colors fuse together my heart and mind.

glory to the newborn king

face down on small steps, which are covered by a carpet of artless blue and purple patterns.

the carpet is saturated in, “I am so sorry. Please forgive me” tears, just like my face.
I look up around and see Stephen. Stephen, who I am sure is filled with iniquities, is sitting quietly in the pew. He has no tears and is mindlessly playing on his cell phone. I rise to my feet and sit next to him and I say, “Stephen, why weren’t you at the altar? I was expecting you.”
Stephen, seemingly absolved of all his sins, laughs and puts in phone in his pocket.
“Erica, have you heard of Friedrich Nietzsche?
“Yeah. Of course.”
“Well I read what he said, you know, that God is dead. And I agree. We killed him and you can’t ask the dead to love you or forgive you. God is dead. So stop crying.”

I wipe my face. “My tears are real, Stephen. That means something. Loving God is real.”
“Yeah, I guess.” He pauses for a moment, looks up at me and says, “Remember when you told me you felt like a portrait that god forgot to finish?”
“Yes” I said, as tears began to fill up in my eyes again.
“Well you said you really wanted to start finishing it, your way. I think that’s when you killed God. You thought you and God would be happier if he were dead and that you could save yourself. That you thought that’s what he ultimately wanted. But it’s like you forgot you killed him, so you keep coming back to this altar and asking where he is. You keep trying to right your wrongs, but who decided any of it was wrong?”
“God and his church. That’s why I am here.”
“But Erica, you stopped thinking like them and you thought for yourself when you killed God. But it looks like when you stepped into the unknown you got scared. I don’t blame you. You thought you needed him to save you from the unknown, because that’s what you’ve always been told. Whatever you were painting, it was beguiling. I suggest you start setting your own rules again. I suggest you start living and painting again because God is dead, and you should stop trying to fix it. It’s not the time or place. I don’t know if that what Nietzsche was saying, but that’s what I’m saying to you. Besides… you look so beautiful every time you dip the paintbrush and add another weird and fucked up color to yourself. Better than any altar carpet I know.”

I hold back my tears and follow him outside to smoke a cigarette.
“Come home with me” he says. “I want to show you something.”
So I did. And now I am outside on his balcony, smoking another cigarette.
I laid with him; our bodies intertwined and a series of hues and dimethyltryptamine exploded from my brain. I’m not sure of what will come of us, and I do not care. But I fell animated again.
It was exactly what I wanted.

I’m sorry, in advance…

I have been thinking a lot about guilt. Guilt could mean a lot of differnt things to a lot of people. So I googled it (duh). On the Merriam- Webster Dictionary website, the medical term for guilt is:

“feelings of culpability especially for imagined offenses or from a sense of inadequacy : morbid self-reproach often manifest in marked preoccupation with the moral correctness of one’s behavior .”

I struggle with guilt. To be honest, I am consumed by guilt. I feel guilty for the things I think of doing, but never actually do. All of which which prevents me from living, exploring and adding life altering qualities to my essence; from doing the things that my heart desires. But I cam across this video on the Huffington Post, and Iyanla Vanzant talks about the 3 Sources of Guilt
3 Reasons For Guilt

Incase you’re not going to watch the video, these are the 3 reasons:
1. You knew better, but you did something anyway.
2.You caused hurt, harm or injury to someone else.
3. You disappoint/upset someone

First let me say, “OMG, SO TRUE!(in my valley girl voice)”According to Iyanla, in order for me to move on from feeling guilty, I need to replace that emotion with a more active one.
Iyanla explains, “It could be self-forgiveness, it could be asking for forgiveness [of someone else], it could be making amends and it could just be slapping yourself upside the head because you’ve just been wasting time and energy!”
Well first, I slapped myself upside the head. I want to be able to life my life. I want to be able to follow my passions and pursue the thoughts and ideas in my head. I want to go out into the world and create something that contributes to it. I want my urges unlocked and I want to feel that self grattification everyone else feels when they do whatever the hell they want. So I am writing this letter, to my loved ones, the people who look up to me, the people who have invested their time and effort into creating something they feel good about. I’m sorry, but I don’t feel good about myself. And isn’t that the point? Should I not be in control of how my life manifests itself? It is after all, MY life.

To Whomever This May Concern,

I am going to make this short, sweet and to the point. No fancy words and no puns (hopefully.) I am going to be approixmatley 23 years old in 4 days. Notice how I said years old? That’s how I feel. Old and depleated. It’s like I am 22 going on 56. Even my body feels old. Day after day I work and work. Day after day, I slave over my school work. And for what? Do be percived as a “mature young adult?” So that everyone can look at me and think about how responsible and well mannered I am? That’s great and all, but that’s not what I am here for. I wasn’t made to be so boring. Did me feeling guilty do anyone any good? Nope. I know for a fact it did the exact opposite for me. So now, I am going to do the things I want. I’m “dropping my balls” or “growing my balls,” whatever people say when someone steps out of their shell. And if I cause you any pain, I am sorry in advance. I mean it. I really am sorry. If I dissapoint you, and there are many of you out there that will be SO disappointed in me, I am sorry. I’ll try to make it up to everyone as best as I can. I promise to stay in school and stay off drugs. I promise to be at work on time and I promise to never drink and drive. I promise to do my best and think of others, RIGHT AFTER I think about what I want. But from now on, I am really going to try to rid myself of guilt and worrying so much about how my choices affect those around me. When a fun opportunity comes, I am going to take it. When the chance to do something daring and out of character comes, I’m going to leap at the occasion. To be honest, you shouldn’t let my actions control you that much, anyway. I am trying to gain a new lease on life, especially now that I am away from my family and closest friends. I think we all know I must have been a gypsy in another life or some sort of free spirit, and I would to let that side of me be unleashed. Once again, I do apologize for any future harm I cause anyone. However, I can not bare to feel guilty about creating my own happiness. Just be aware of the changes that will take place, and know that it will never be my intention to cause anyone any harm in anyway.

Love Always,
Erica xoxo