I would give anything to hold you right now.

It's hardest in the mornings.
Right after I wake up up, and the room is dark, and the dreams are still fresh. It always takes a minute to realize they were just dreams. That's when it hurts the most. Knowing that the whole day is ahead of me and you won't be in it.
It's hardest in the mornings.

It's hardest at 10 o clock.
When I'm sitting at my desk trying to stay focused. But I can't. My thoughts of you simply won't go away. It's hardest when someone asks how we're doing and what are Christmas plans are. That's when it hurts the most. When I think of the future and all the things we'll never get to do.
It's hardest at 10 o clock.

It's hardest at noon.
When I start to get the most lonely at work, so I start looking through my pictures. Thinking of all the memories we made. The time we spent together. That's when it hurts the most. When I remember all of whatused to be.
It's hardest at noon.

It's hardest at 3 o clock.
When I wonder if you're off of work yet. I wonder if you're day was okay. I hope that your boss was nice to you, especially now. Did you get home safe? I sure hope so. That's when it hurts the most. When I never get that text letting me know you're safe, and that you can't wait to see me.
It's hardest at 3 o clock.

It's hardest at 5:30.
When I pull up at home from work. I go to tell you that I'm home safe. But I have to stop myself. I can't do that anymore. I can't tell you I'm excited to see you, cause I won't get to. That's when it hurts the most. When I can't run in and change and tell you I'm on my way up.
It's hardest at 5:30.

It's hardest at 7:30.
When it's getting late enough that we should start our movie soon or we won't have time. When I think about what movie we might have watched. Or what we could have had for dinner. That's when it hurts the most. When I should be with you, holding your hand or tickling your back.
It's hardest at 7:30.

It's hardest at bedtime.
The moment of right before I fall asleep. When sadness overcomes me and I'm terrified to fall asleep. But I can't stop myself. The medicine kicked in already. That's when it hurts the most. Because I know I'll dream of you. I know I'll see your face again, and hear your voice. But I'll have to wake up. Please don't make me wake up. Because when I do, it will start all over.
It's hardest at bedtime.


I miss you.

"You can close your eyes to things you don't want to see, but you can't close your heart to things you don't want to feel"

Most humans have a terrible fear of falling. Falling from large heights, falling in a nightmare, possibly even falling in love. Not me. My fear of falling comes from a much smaller place. I fear falling from myself. 

I never want to know how it feels to lose myself completely, but each day I seem to get closer to finding out exactly what it's like. Remember the first time your gym teacher made you run a mile? Remember how it felt like it would never end? This is worse. What if I never can grasp on to who I am? What if I can't ever find my own peace of mind? What if falling is all I'll ever do?

They say that everything happens for a reason. You have to feel sad so that you can feel happy. You need to know pain so that you can know joy. I need to know you so that I can know me. I don't know if that makes any sense. I don't know if any of this makes sense. But you make sense to me. You seem real, you seem right. 

I need to find myself. I need to figure out who I am. I want to. I want to feel joy and be happy and love and laugh and cry and be okay. But I don't. Why don't I? I have it all, I just need to do it. I just need to live. To participate. To be alive.

Sometimes I feel like I'm talking underwater. i know what I want to say but I can't be who I'm meant to be. And slowly the water fills my lungs and I'm left without a single breath inside of me. But yet I'm still here. I'm still breathing. And soon the sun breaks through and touches my skin and all of the sudden there's nothing left. My lungs are empty, my tears are running, and the sun is gone. Here I am. Don't choose me.

I don't know what I'm saying at this point. I'm writing to avoid going to sleep. It doesn't make any sense I'm sure, but know that I mean it. Each day the sun comes up and so do I. I try to rise up and be better, every morning I try to discover a little more of who I am. I'll keep trying. Until every ounce of energy has left my fingertips and there's simply no more notes to play. I don't know anymore. I just know this. The sun does rise some days. One day I might too.

"In the middle of the war, you have to remember what you're fighting for."

I remember. I know who I am.

I've spent the morning wandering around campus. I made it in time for my third class but couldn't do it anymore after that. I went through parts of the school I had never been in, found classrooms I had never seen. I watched people. I saw what they were thinking and feeling or seeing. I imagined I was in their shoes and them in mine. I met a lot of souls today I think.

After a minute i continued wandering, but I also began searching the hallways of my thoughts. I explored empty rooms and narrow passageways that I hadn't seen in years. With each cobweb I brushed away I felt like I lost myself a little bit more. Each step I took I found something else that reminded me of who I'm supposed to be. And reminded me of who I'm not.

As I was walking I reached out and touched one of the walls. It's felt as it should, but I discovered I didn't feel like I should. By the end of my walk I found myself lying in the parking lot staring up at the sky. I knew in that moment that I was broken. Every part of me found a way to crack, even if it was a small one. And between the large wholes and the small splinters I found it. I knew what was happening.

I'm not alive anymore. The weight of life and all it's elements beat me. Those cobwebs never should have been brushed away. Those empty rooms were meant to be left alone. This hollow feeling that I have should have stayed unchallenged. How can I live if I can't even get out of bed?

This is who I am. This is who I am not.

Nothing else matters because I feel like I'll never get out of this moment.

Some evenings as I watch the sun set, I think I feel some of the Sun's golden rays seeping through the cracks of my skin. It comes like an injection, shooting me up with the warmth found only in the departing sun. Each stream of light coursing through my veins.

This may sound like a good thing. Maybe even something you long for. But it's not. And you shouldn't. You see at the end of every sunset comes the darkness. And with that paralyzing darkness comes the emptiness of each vein. Every once of light drained from the depths of what I was moments before.

So each day I sit and I wait. Waiting for the sunset that will bring me that hope once again. Like my own necessary drug pulling me away from what I'm most scared of. Each day, praying that today will be the day that the sun is enough to make me feel okay. And maybe one day it will be.

This morning I woke up to you. You gently cradled my face in your hand, and reached for my outstretched fingers with your other. You spoke gently and told me it was time to get up, that I was going to be late. You were right. If I had slept any longer I wouldn't have made it on time. Thank you for that.

But in that moment. I would have given anything in the world for you to be there. I would have climbed any mountain or completed any task, just to feel you there with me.

A part of me hopes, that maybe you really were there. That maybe you felt it too.

“Be present. Make love. Make tea. Avoid small talk. Embrace conversation. Buy a plant, water it. Make your bed. Make someone else’s bed. Have a smart mouth, and quick wit. Run. Make art. Create. Swim in the ocean. Swim in the rain. Take chances. Ask questions. Make mistakes. Learn. Know your worth. Love fiercely. Forgive quickly. Let go of what doesn’t make you happy. Grow.”

We are not who you think we are.

The boy who came to class today with messy hair and a ratty shirt on. He has a story.
The girl who walks through the halls with her head down, not talking to anyone. She's been through more than you can imagine.
The man bringing his crying child to class each day has more of a story than you've ever been told.

We are not who you think we are.

We're the kids who didn't win the big games or star in the school play. We didn't serve on the student council or cheer in the front row at sporting events. But that doesn't mean that we weren't there. That doesn't mean we didn't have our own opinions and thoughts. That doesn't mean we didn't have our own inside jokes and memories we made.

We are not who you think we are.

We're still here. We too have a 9-5 that consumes most of our time. We worry about the future, finances, and success. We have our friends that we make plans with and our families that we spend time with. We're still here.

We are not who you think we are.

Do not mistake us for quiet or insecure. Do not think that we are weak or full of fear. Do not think of us as any less.

We are alive. We are strong. Look into our hearts and see the passion by which we love. Listen to our song as we sing the melody found only in self-influenced peace. We are alive. We are powerful. We are different. We don't see things the same way that you do. We don't have to think outside the box because there is no box. We are the fine print often missed or the details that aren't recognized. We are everywhere. We are alive.

No matter how hard you try you won't understand us. You can't. But that's okay, because no matter what,
We are not who you think we are.

Looking in the mirror, I don't even know who I see anymore; I don't know what I've become.

With each stroke of the ivory, every string tied to my heart is strung. Searching for something to guide the melody back to life. 

With each breathe you take my soul finds hope, but without you, darkness seeps in like the setting sun on a winter night. Gnawing at the corners of my being until I'm reduced to nothing but empty bones.

Where does one look to find themselves?

Can a broken personality be mended by a first aid kit? Or are the cuts of a broken heart far too deep to be held together by a bandaid?

A home is a place to feel safe; a place where a heart feels the warmth of another's touch, like the fireplace after a cold night. A home is you.

One day I hope to wake up and decide, like a bird flying south to stay warm, deciding to become myself again. Waking up and not wondering what happened to me, but knowing, THIS IS ME.

One day.

A sliver of hope reminding me of who I once was. A picture. A smile. A person.

One day.