Creative Writing

From Purple to you

I used to have a purple room. It was closet-like and immature but I asked for it because the purple and white color scheme intrigued me. It reminded me of confidence. Girls who had rooms like that never needed anybody to tell them where they fit into the world, because they never had to worry about figuring it out. It was either already planned for them, or they just simply didn’t care.

My bed was a twin-sized with a purple silk bedspread and zebra-printed sheets. It stayed that way, tidy and reassuring, for eight years. I almost returned home to it after college until my mom decided to turn it into a guest room. She took out my twin bed, she painted blue over my purple walls, she turned my purple silk bedspread into a green quilt, and her excuse: “I thought you were never coming back.” I wasn’t supposed to, mom.

I got used to the queen-sized bed. I went from sleeping in the middle of it, to sprawling out diagonally, to eventually just sleeping on it perpendicularly all together. The space started to soothe me and I had completely broken the habit of huddling into myself on the small, cloud-like mattress pad that was my old bed. But then, on a night after spilling tears and embarrassingly showing the world that I could never be the confident girl in the purple room, you came into my bed.

You took the right side and I huddled into myself on the left when you fell asleep during our argument. I was being more honest with you than I had ever been and it slipped you into unconsciousness. Arms crossed. Drunk. No desire to touch me. Ever since then, I have found myself creeping into the left side of the bed, holding my legs, and trying not to disturb you.

Don’t be alarmed. I know you’re not there. But I keep waiting for you to tell me you’ll stay.

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Where to Begin – For Someone With Minimal Talent

Where to Being – For Someone With Minimal Talent

Lately, I’ve been especially struggling with several different aspects of my life. I say especially because although I have struggled before, it was never with things as important than this, or at a time more imperative than this one. Career, relationships, discovering what makes me happy in general, you know, typical worries for a 22 year old to have and that every adult swears will “sort itself out if you are patient.” Here’s the thing, though: I am not.

If I told you how many times I’ve tried to start a blog, a journal, a short story, really anything to do with writing for that matter, you would laugh in my face and probably tell me I am just not passionate enough. If I was, maybe I would’ve finished something by now. Maybe I would have kept up with that journal or finished that story or just flat out did anything I said I was going to do. However, not only am I impatient: I am a wanderer. Not in a dreamlike, romanticized, kind of way. I’m usually very present. But my passions wander constantly, taking a pit stop and different destinations until it becomes too comfortable or scared and has to flee.

I want to be a writer. I want to publish books. I want to take pictures. So I do these things on a whim and then I stop. The destination didn’t get old for me, I just didn’t feel good enough for it. So here’s me expressing that I am going to get better. Everything still terrifies me, I still don’t think I am creative enough to over come it, but I am going to try.