2015 (In Short).

2015 is only four months in so is it even okay to write that title already. Because 2015 is only four months and I already feel like so much has happened and there is so much left that is bound to happen. And idk, 2015 so far feels like a cocoon of a year. Everything is either too fast or two slow and there's no in between and there is a whipping back and forth in a blink of the eye. 2015, insofar, is an incredible year. And somewhere it's really strange and weird to say, because I feel happy with it content--maybe a little bored? It's a strange thing, because I know I'm happy and I do feel happy, but I always feel a lull. I feel like maybe I've exhausted my share of happiness and maybe now I don't recognize it, so I'm getting bored with it. Or maybe I'm settling, because happiness is different from contentment, and I'm good with contentment for now, we're driving along that long plateau.

I've been writing memories. And it's cheesy and horrible and how very typical "no one understands me" white girl of me. But this is what 2015 is for me. Writing those memories. Of course I write in my journal, of course, I'm always writing. But these memories are different, in a box set back, all separate from everything else. I want to be able to have these, to reach into when my happiness has been exhausted. To look at the moments I'm having now, the good ones worth writing about, to remind me in the future. Because something else has happened in 2015, a little longer than that even. I haven't cut myself, I haven't self harmed in six months. And that is such a big, big thing for me because since I've been 13 there hasn't been a real gap like that to happen. Yeah, my junior year of high school happened, but I had other ways of hurting myself then rather than just drawing blood. This is such a big thing for me. What people who don't self-harm don't realize, I think, is that it is an addiction. It's something you want to do all the time, it is something you want to happen. And the things I'm putting in that memory box, they will help with this. Because some of the memories are small and some of them are big but they will all help. They are things that keep me. things that keep me real. Things that keep me from wanting to feel the sting of the knife against my thighs. They keep me from the Keshia of last year, the one who wanted to commit suicide. I need these memories, and there is so much hoping in these memories. I don't know if they will keep me from self-harming but I hope they do. I only know that when I was thirteen I picked up a knife and starting carving letters into my legs. And the letters aren't significant anymore but the cut, the cut will always be. Because sometimes I still feel like I'm that little dumb girl and I'm still carving into myself. The significance is in that cute, it's like a rhythm or a habit. It's as easy as cracking my knuckles, something I don't even think about doing. But I know when I don't, I am so much better, and I want to keep that.

And so if writing about 2015 in short will help with that, then yes, I will do it.

Fin.
-Keshia

Well of Memories.

I'm seriously one of those people who is sentimental to an annoying point. I'll shove cameras in your face and remember all your words, quoting them later one in my writing. The other day I was cleaning out some bins and refused to through out old calenders because I can imagine looking back at the little notes I wrote on them years later. I have a ridiculous amount of things I keep for no real reason; nearly half my possessions in my life are things I keep for sentimental value. Sometimes it all seems dumb and stupid and horrible.

Even this blog is something sentimental, for some years I write a lot and some years I write less, but there is always the existence. I can go back and look at older entries whenever I want. In fact, right now, I think it's been about four years since I started this account. And I even have older blogs, things kept on older websites, full or typos and shouting about anime (I'm still not done shouting about anime btw). Sometimes I forget, sometimes I look back at all this shit I have and think I'm pathetic. No one will remember me, so why am I trying so desperately to remember myself? Isn't it really this self-centered epidemic?

But the thing is, it helps. It helps to see where I've been, it helps to remind myself that I made it through things, and that I can continue to make it through things. And I don't know, I've hardly posted in here this year, the amount of Youtube videos I make has greatly dwindled, but it still doesn't mean I'm not striving to remember. And I think somehow to compensate, I've taken a lot more pictures this year, they seem easier, not so personal. But I'm kind of just craving that personal and trying to figure out when I got too damned scared to post anything anymore. I just had to remember how it helps.

12.26.10
"I hate myself for being selfish."

10.16.11
"You're stupid, a failure, not smart enough to get anywhere in this world. A selfish bitch."

12.21.12
"I don't know. I can feel it, but I don't know the feeling. It's there, pushing on me like a heavy stone, harder and harder and harder."

10.07.13
"I think about how I get uglier and uglier everyday. About how I take all these damn photos for no real reason."

And now, how about one for today. I'm happy. I'm okay with writing, I'm okay with taking videos and pictures. I made it through a lot, everything I was writing about in those blog entries quoted above, and more. And I'm glad to know it happened, glad to know that I can go back and assure myself, yes this was real and you're still breathing Keshia. Keep breathing. 

Fin. 
-Keshia

All these things.

In the past two weeks things have happened. I quit my job in food service, replacing it with a job working on campus at the writing center and another as an Aspire tutor. I was selected to be Secretary of Sigma Tau Delta. I attended the Auburn Writer's Conference. I was accepted into the McNair Scholars Program. And there are other things too, general things which have been occupying my time since school has started. I've been working as an officer in both Korean Culture Club and Whovian Society. I've written several spreads for The Montage; and I've been working on revision for a piece I'm submitting to The Tower, our school's literary magazine. And with all these things I feel like I'm allowed to finally be proud of myself again.

A few weeks ago, on the first day of fall, I decided it was time to change. Other than existing, than going through the motions of school and work everyday, I wasn't really accomplishing anything. And that's just not the feeling that I'm used to. I remember being the girl who always had something to do. There was a book to read, a story to write, a flag routine to practice, a show to design makeup for, classes to study for. And somehow I lost that, I lost myself along the way. Or at least the me I could be proud of. Sometimes, most of the time, really, I am too personal on this blog for sharing with the whole internet. But that's okay, I'm an over-sharer. I'm dying to tell people my life story, just say hey and I'll let you know everything. I mean, why else would I be writing a blog about subjects mostly pertaining to my personal life? So here it is again, me over sharing—I have felt lost. I'm not sure how I got lost, there's not a location to pinpoint. And some of it has been extraneous things, outside forces I could not control. But a lot of it, really, has been me. The saddest part too, is that I probably didn't realize I was lost, and I'm just now starting to see now that I'm finding myself again. God, isn't that cheesy? On this blog of blog, with bad grammar and writing, I say the cheesiest things. But I can't find any way to describe it other than bruised cliches and lost phrases. I feel more myself now than I have in a long time, and damn, that is such a good feeling to have.

And I'm not stopping just here. I'm going to be working on submitting to more literary magazines, attending a few more conferences, doing undergraduate research. It's easier to keep my fingers on the pause button but I'm little bit tired of it now. I wake up everyday and feel a little bit better than I used to. I find something different to look forward to everyday. It' scary, though, because I'm not how sure this will last. But I'm not intending on wasting anytime while it still does.

For now I am okay. And what a great thing that is to say.

I am okay.

Fin.

-Keshia

The Edge of Fall.

Today was the first day of fall and the weather seemed to act accordingly. Fall has always been my favorite season, because their is always so much to immerse myself into. And every year I find more and more reasons to love fall.

Today was the first day of fall and things happened.

It seemed simple, really. I overslept a little bit and dance around to Heathers the Musical while putting on makeup and clothes. I went to school, writing two pieces for The Montage, and sat down with two sorta friends and pretended to like sushi for a moment. And then to my first class, where I questioned my morals on ecotourism and thought about how even if my 419 class didn't turn out the way I expected it to, I'm still happy because I'm learning to be passionate about issues I didn't think I should care for before. I pulled my friend Garreth along with me after class, so we could both print out applications for the McNair Scholar's Program, and help our creative writing teacher set up for the BACHE visiting writer. Garreth and I then tried to hurriedly read an excerpt from Chantel Avecedo's piece aloud, the writer who would be visiting. We piled into our creative writing teacher's car to meet the writer at Eclipse with the rest of our creative writing class. She was a petite little woman with a big sense of humor and a lot to say about writing. It only helped that the Eclipse porch is one of my favorite places to be. Then there was a brief thirty minute stint with Corey after class where we were mushy and I rushed to get chilli cheese fries and a burger into me (because two pieces of sushi was all that had sustained me throughout the day) before going back to school for Chantel Avecedo's official reading which was brilliant and beautifully done. An afterwards I was talking to her, and she asked me, have you heard of the Auburn Writer's Conference, you should come? And then I went home, bringing Lily along, where we ate mac and cheese, watched the first thirty minutes of Prince of Egypt, and died bit by bit as we tried to attempt French homework. And even after I brought her back to her dorm room, I finished up my French homework and pretended like my brain hadn't spent the last two hours roasting under foreign language. And then I fooled around on the internet (Heathers the Musical blasting again), researched the Auburn Writer's Conference a little, filled out my McNair application and then turned on Nymphomaniac V. 1 on Netflix. And I pulled out my journal while watching and I wrote and I wrote and decided maybe it was time for a change and what better day to do it then the first day of Fall.

Now my eyes are too heavy to stay open, and I don't know if it will manage to happen, but who knows, just maybe?

Fin.
-Keshia

When I get to be a Writer.

 "When I get to be a writer, I'll never read anything that is published less I'll still think it's unfinished. When I get to be a writer I'll keep the stories imperfect and frazzled, like the people who read them--a collection of memories within a biological body and a soul attached. I'll let the stories take their place and fill the cracks breathing and expanding, waiting to be filled with more.When I get to be a writer, I'll plant a garden in people's minds. I'll bury the seeds and sprinkle them with water and I'll let their imagine make them grow, stretching out to the sky with a freshly woken yawn.When I get to be a writer I'll look fondly at the ones I know, the ones who guided me and who have been telling me when I say when I get to be a writer no, you don't get it, you already are. "

I am taking this class entitled 'The Writing Process' and we had to write a flash fiction based around the idea of Langston's Hughe's poem "Daybreak in Alabama", which follows the pattern of 'when I get to be a composer.' We were through the poem, given the prompt with the word 'writer' replacing 'composer' and given five minutes to write. The above is what I came up with, a scattering of thoughts out on the page (though of course I removed quite a few portions.) It's weird to look at it, though, because I don't think I can really list off what being a writer would be to me, how I would really act or think. It's even stranger still when you figure out how one would define a writer, because it all comes down to one question, "Do you consider yourself a writer even if you're not published?" My answer is this, sometimes yes and sometimes no. There are times when writing feels so physical to me, not just the act of it, but all of it, it's like it's this badge that I can grab and put on myself. I am a writer and I know, I know I can write and I know I do, and it doesn't matter if it's published or touching to someone else, because it matters to me. And to me, as a writer, it's the only thing that matters. Then there is the other part of me, the one who doesn't want to call herself a writer, because it just doesn't seem valid to me. I could write the most beautiful phrases and metaphors that leave people stunned, but unless someone validates it, unless someone with the power says this is so moving I need to make it official for other people to read, it feels useless. And there's also the fact that it sounds a little pretentious to me, calling myself a writer, already? I am twenty-one years old and have so much left to go and so much left to learn and yet I have enough nerve to go ahead and call myself a writer? The thing is, I think I'm always going to think like this. I know so much that I am a writer. But how many thousands
(maybe millions) of people have called themselves writers and never really been a writer? I think it's all logistics, really. I think maybe part of it is up to the person and part of it is up to everyone else. We talked about this is my class, and we talked about more, and it just seems like it is going to be really good. It seems like it is going to be worth it.

And in general it's class starting that is bringing me up. Because summers are always hard and broken and summers always fuck things up. School, above all, is my healer, and I'm surely going to cherish it.

Fin. 

I don't.

I don't particulary want to exist right now. And I think about my suicide (future or now or non existance), about how I'll probably fuck it up how I've done before. I just don't think it woul work, because it's my life and that's how things fuck up and everything would be wrong and everyone would hate me and no one would understand. Because no one ever will. And they'll resent me; attention whore, selfish, cowardly.

All I am is a bossy voice and a rough attitude. All I am are pieces for you to take, here have some, here take that. And never give me a piece of my own, because, stop it keshia you're being crazy, stop it keshia, stop apologzing, stop it keshia, stop being selfish.

And oh I'm loved, I'm so well loved. Only it's not about being loved, though, it's about me, because I'm the selfish one, aren't I?

I don't want to live right now because what's the use of living if everything is going to be so hard. You wouldn't anything else that was hurting you so hard, would you?

The answer is, you wouldn't.

Fin.
-Keshia.

Mine but not Mine.

I've always thought, since I was young, that no one loved books as much as me. No one had the passion for reading that I had. When I was a kid my mom used the library as sort of a free babysitter, she dropped me off and the morning and I ran around, reading books of all kind until she would pick me up in the afternoon.

Before Hurricane Ivan destroyed the library in our town, it was a thing of wonder. It was built in an old log cabin with dark walls and dark corners, there was a back room with beams everywhere and soft plush chairs settled in every corner for reading. In the front lobby there was the spinning round desk for computer with about twenty of them on there. And all the shelves, they were taller than me. When you needed it a librarian would give you a little stool to stand up on, because nothing is better than reaching up and grasping a book you wanted for the first time. It was beautiful. And one thing I noticed, no one was ever in there with me. There was the librarian, sitting at her desk and filing stuff away, sticking her head in the room where I sat to check on me every now and then. There was the occassional person, maybe turning something in, or checking one or two things out, or researching on the computer a little bit (this was still during an age where internet in every home just wasn't that common). But no one, I noticed, dwelled in there like me. No one found the right corners to hide in, no one found the oldest books in the library. No one ran their fingers over the books feeling the age, the texture, the pages, and told them they loved them before they had to leave. And so that's when I decided, no one loves books as much as I do.

Today I am so particular about libraries. Some I love and some I hate and not one could ever feel like the library of my child hood. To me a good library is like a long, warm hug. It's the type of hug after you've come home from a tiring trip, and everythign and terrible and sore and most of you just wants to curl up in a ball to cry. And someone is there to hug you, someone is there to take you in their soft arms and hold you ad stoke you hair and all the bad is gone and resting is in order. That's what a good library is like, and you can keep that hug going for as long as you want.

A good book is like a human. New books are wonderful, nothing beats that magic. But there is so much more special to a book that has lived, to a book that has become human. I like dog eared pages and stains, maybe some highlights and maybe some notes. I like books that you could tell have lived, you could tell have traveled, the edges are worn and the pages are so soft, just like a hand to touch. The beauty to an old book is that you get to feel it, to get feelt he weight of it and all the life it had before you, all the people whose hands it went through. And maybe its a library book, you'll return it, and someone else will sense the life you put in it. Maybe it's yours, you bought it, new or old. Its either your job to give it life or explore the life it once had, and both are just as rewarding. There is so much more to books than just the words written in them. Books are ageless and hold lifetimes against us.

The thing is, I say things like the above, I think them so casually without anything grand or trifling. It just happens. I love libraries and books so much, that how else could I expres other than just by saying why I love them all the time. And here's the thing, I know there are people out there who love books just as much as me or books more than me, but I know I'll never stop believing I love books and reading more than anyone else.

Because I feel it. Really feel it more than anything and anyone else in the world.

I'd never live my life without them.

Fin.
-Keshia