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adapto: Monikagal Waiting for them

Tue, 09 Apr 2013 17:46:14 -0400

adapto:

Monikagal

Waiting for them

Mirjan, 2012

Sun, 03 Mar 2013 20:50:42 -0500

Mirjan, 2012

Forgotten

Sun, 03 Mar 2013 16:30:55 -0500

In the middle of a forgotten field, in a forgotten world, stands a deteriorating cabin held up by rusting hinges. Many may overlook its appearance and move on about their day, while few stop and take a quick glance. Even less so will, with absolute curious minds, wander inside in search of something even unknown to them.

The pathway leading to the house is neither promising or welcoming, though every now and then a rebellious teenager or a lost soul will find its enclosed entrance as an obstacle to overcome in order to progress in their own personal endeavors. And so, if you wait a few years you might find yourself watching a young boy, girl, man, or woman whack at overgrown weeds in the dead of night, exposing the wooden exteriors’ haunting, splintered, and molding walls. Though unpleasant and ugly it sounds, the view is quite exact for the mood of those the cabin entrances.

I’ve watched them come and go. Some stay longer than others and others leave sooner than those who stay longer. No one knows what’s inside the two story interior but those who have toured the damaged halls themselves.

Maybe that is why I have decided to linger in the cabin’s mysterious depths. Its essence is both intriguing and honest. It isn’t yet reformed and modernized, but trapped in the time it was first built as the current circles its very being, taunting it as if a child playing with matches—so close to lighting a treacherous flame.

Who am I? A figment of your imagination.
I reside in between insulation and the pressure of wood on wood.

I do not intrude or disturb but rather observe among deep roots that entangle the cabin’s core. I do not sleep, but rather energize the lost hearts of those who enter, either willingly or not.

I believe this forgotten field was forgotten to be found, for me to be found, and for my lost promise to be retrieved in a continuous cycle of neglecting and remembering again.

Honestly could not sit on my bed reading my AP US History book any longer… My head hurts from...

Sat, 02 Mar 2013 16:12:48 -0500

Honestly could not sit on my bed reading my AP US History book any longer… My head hurts from thinking so hard, trying to comprehend all that… history.

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Fri, 01 Mar 2013 19:26:48 -0500

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Fri, 01 Mar 2013 19:08:09 -0500

Being Alone

Fri, 01 Mar 2013 15:40:00 -0500

He actually enjoyed being alone, and when he wasn’t alone he imagined he was alone, and so in the nonphysical of senses he was alone; the whole world was tuned out, even when it was laid out in front of him asking to be recognized and reconciled with.

He spent his days independently wandering the streets of Manhattan, hiding in safe alleyways where dirt and grime festered; where being alone was made possible. Skulking among garbage cans and small shops, which were like self-professed museums, he could walk in and out of this town he created for himself when he pleased. Imagine Will Smith in I Am Legend, and that’s what his world looked like—subtracting, of course, the horrifying, once-human, zombie-like creatures that want to feed on your existence.

He seemed to find more of himself than he ever could in the deteriorating, haunting areas of the adored city.

One shop in particular stood out to him. It was a small one, not known nationally but very much popular to the minority. The shop was clearly sold multiple times, and at points in the past it must have had different names. It looked once to be a small bookstore, as the built in shelving of the stone walls once attracted abstract minds of literature-loving philosophers. It might have later sold hand-made jewelry. But now, it was a small gift shop of Native culture.

Dream catchers and chimes hung in the dusting window of the entryway. A woven welcome sign, embroidered with geometric shapes of tinted earth tones, hung from the cricketing door. The wooden floor promised deathly splinters.

Getting lost in the shop didn’t feel much like getting lost to him, but a new adventure. Many of the hand sewn moccasins and lucky animal feet spoke eloquently to his belligerent mind. They soothed his anxieties and left him alone; just as he wished for. These now inanimate objects didn’t ask him about his future; they didn’t tell him what to do; they didn’t tell him to get a job; they only exalted composure and promise of enduring silence.

That’s what he craved; that’s what he wanted, and that’s what he found among the busiest of cities, a place of solace.

A parody of F. Scott Fitzgerald

Fri, 01 Mar 2013 15:37:00 -0500

There was dancing now on the balcony overlooking the ocean spread into rooms from within the crowded house among separated clutters of various couples and their friends; dancing where the sun shown in hidden corners of infinite darkness just before it began to set. … I was not dancing but rather examining the newly wedded. I was sitting at a table between two people, a couple, who felt compelled to clamorously laugh and ask questions about my relation to the newly married. As my youth began to relax within proximity of the two strangers, they began to express their infatuation for my future and my career interests. I was fully amused by their jokes that came with ease and their fun-loving minds that for a minute I forgot about my cousin and her new husband but laughed infinitely, whole heartedly at my present company. … Across the table was a boy, younger than me, with an empty plate, who was nervously looking around the room. He looked uncomfortable in his suit and tie, but his quiet smile, which had formed after he had thoroughly examined every desire of the dancers and drinkers, proved otherwise—promising a feeling of content. … With the moon now in full opacity, only a few remained—no longer dancing, but with one last, half-empty glass or specially designed beer bottle in their wise hands. The noise dimmed, yet small laughs of love continued to haunt the echoes which bounced off now empty corners awaiting the company who follows; illustrating the crème walls with colorful memories of future promise for all that once belonged.

there were flowers in her hand (by Teresa Q)

Fri, 01 Mar 2013 15:36:56 -0500

there were flowers in her hand (by Teresa Q)

Everything’s falling, and I am included in thatOh, how I try to...

Fri, 08 Feb 2013 19:59:28 -0500

Everything’s falling, and I am included in that
Oh, how I try to be just okay
Yeah, but all I ever really wanted
Was a little piece of you

Anna Nalick—Wreck of the Day

Fri, 08 Feb 2013 19:57:00 -0500

Anna Nalick—Wreck of the Day

2 AM and I’m still awake, writing a song If I get it all down...

Fri, 08 Feb 2013 19:56:00 -0500

2 AM and I’m still awake, writing a song
If I get it all down on paper, it’s no longer inside of me
Threatening the life it belongs to
And I feel like I’m naked in front of the crowd
Cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud
And I know that you’ll use them, however you want to.

Don’t leave.

Fri, 08 Feb 2013 19:54:56 -0500

Don’t leave.

Prompt from my English teacher: Write a monosyllabic, at least 350 word, creative writing...

Thu, 07 Feb 2013 21:27:00 -0500

Prompt from my English teacher: Write a monosyllabic, at least 350 word, creative writing piece.

Mad at what she wrote, she once more threw her work out to start fresh. She had been at the desk for quite some time now, yet the right words would not come. Her pen soon ran out of ink, and so she took out a new one in hopes a new pen might clear her brain. She glanced out her room’s door. She still was not sure what to write. She looked at her feet, at the clock, and at the wall. She found not one bit of hope in the specks on the taupe tiles of the floor. She hit the switch of her lamp, its base where her now full trash bin sat, on and off, with the will to find what she could not. She still did not know what to write.

Still mad, the young girl crawled out of her chair and took a deep breath. She thought she might need a break or a stretch. She went down the stairs and out the front door of her house. The wind was warm and the sun shone. A few were out in their lawns hard at work. Weeds were dug out by their roots, grass was in the midst of a trim, and kids were quick at play. They ran, played tag, and jump roped.

She took one square of the walk at a time. Each paved sect of stone and sand led her to the next square. She made sure to cross over all the cracks. At last she made her way to the park, and there she sat for the rest of the day. She watched. She paid close mind to the sum of kids and their moms and dads who took the time to talk to her.

Mad no more, she stayed as the light of day turned dark, past the time to eat her last meal of the day and past the time for sleep, for in the dead of night with the moon in view, on an old bench, is when and where she found what she, in the light, could not see.

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Thu, 07 Feb 2013 19:32:14 -0500

I joined a creative writing class, which means I think I will return to this writing project/blog of...

Wed, 06 Feb 2013 18:55:10 -0500

I joined a creative writing class, which means I think I will return to this writing project/blog of mine and try and add some thoughts a little more often.

Part of me wills to write, and the other more apathetic side of me wishes my thoughts will type themselves out so I can just watch as my words are posted without the movement of my fingers.

"So, this is my life. And I want you to know that I am both happy and sad and I’m still trying..."

Wed, 06 Feb 2013 18:47:09 -0500

“So, this is my life. And I want you to know that I am both happy and sad and I’m still trying to figure out how that could be.”

- Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower

"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken...."

Wed, 06 Feb 2013 18:44:40 -0500

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”

- C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

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Tue, 05 Feb 2013 17:43:12 -0500

I’m sick of waiting. I spend all my life waiting, and I don’t even know for what.

Mon, 14 Jan 2013 17:26:56 -0500

I’m sick of waiting. I spend all my life waiting, and I don’t even know for what.