randomwords

I am unprepared to face myself the way I am
I see myself in the mirror
Sometimes I turn away surprised
Sometimes I turn away impressed
And oftentimes I turn away and wonder why
And who I really am
Who am I really?
When I see my reflection advancing in a glass door
I see myself as others see me
Confident, poised, focused on action
I see myself as they see me, with a real intent to my life
I see myself through their eyes
Unattached and strong, funny and bold
I have personality and I have talent
But do I have what it takes
To do that which will make me happy?

I had been ready in the fall to just leave all the loose and questionable emotions behind and eek out a new existence in the new place I had chosen for myself. What I did not know then and what I am all to painfully certain of now is that such emotions tag along like lost children. They refuse to be left alone. They cry and spit until you pick them up and tend to them. They dirty and confuse your life until you face the ultimate decision concerning them. The decision either to dispose of them entirely, in one swift motion of the arm, or to tend to them, to feed them, make them feel better and allow them to grow.
I made the latter at first, but I knew, as I mentioned at first, as soon as my trip to Florida, that I was being not allowed to follow up on that decision. So I stopped making decisions for a while. I learned a lot as I let my instincts drive me into pain and bitterness. And then when I left my high school home for the last time, although the last time had been many many months before, I faced the decision again and chose the former. And I made it good.

Random words of Rachel

Here, in these randomly placed paragraphs are words that belong solely to me! Maybe you can find them on my profile, or in an e-mail, or in the deep recesses of my computer and ultimately my mind, but there is no way that all of you can access all of these, it's impossible, so here i am to help you to ease your boredom a little and perhaps brighten your day and maybe help you understand where i am coming from a little more! But that would only work if this stuff made sense, never mind... =)

The deep crease from the guitar is still visible on my leg. It�s my right, always my right, and I wish that I could switch it up sometimes, to give the left leg a chance to go numb for once, for the sake of music. But that wasn�t in the plan I guess. It�s no worry to me, the crease just happens to be ephemeral, always, like the wings of butterflies. Are the wings of butterflies even ephemeral? I hope so, because whenever I envision the cover of my first novel (The Ephemeral Time) I have visions of a cover with butterfly wings. Maybe it�s only me. Perhaps I�m they only one who sees butterfly wings that way. Well, the crease has softened to a pink line. Maybe sometime I�ll play hard enough to bruise.
I wonder if I should sometime actually learn to play the guitar, as opposed to just feeling the music. It�s a toss up really, because I find with increased classical training one loses the loss of self in music. You end up concentrating so hard that you forget to enjoy yourself. It�s suddenly all about tone and rhythm, technique and theory, and the real reason for the music, although still prevalent enough to teach whole chapters on, in fact, to give degrees in, that stuff gets pushed to the side. Sometimes I wish I was a great jazz pianist, no need for any other human�s notes on a page, just to know and feel the chords so that whatever came out of my fingers would be not entirely my doing. I love leaving things up to the Holy Spirit, and chance. And I�m sure that�s what drove my jazz band director crazy.
My eyes drift lazily about the room, like summer time flies just waiting for something hungry to catch them. I see half the Bible, well not that much, posted on sheets as quotes, meant for memory, and put up randomly on the wall the desk, the printer the window frame, mirror, and other assorted places. I glance over the rhyming dictionary, the calendar, numerous pieces of origami, pictures of all kinds of friends, the racquetballs, and come to rest on a snap shot of a flag. It�s an American flag, framed against a bright blue sky with a rocky outcropping at its base. Seems to me like I captured the beauty of our country on a mere slice of 35mm. Where else do you find our flag in such grandeur as the flawless blue of the heavens offer? Nowhere I can think of.
I must give a second�s thought to the origin of this picture. I must have taken it myself, because I�m not in it, and all the people I know, when you hand them a camera they just bubble over with excitement to take your picture. I seriously have so many pictures of myself, due to my camera at the hands of others, that I could fill a wall. And what a wall it would be. But that's no matter. The origin of the picture is the question of the minute, and within as much time it comes to me. The rocky outcropping at the base of the flag clues me in. This picture was indeed taken by me at the site of the Hoover Dam. What a beautiful day that was. Clear blue skies, not too hot, full of sunshine, not a hint of smog or ozone, yeah that day was memorable. But as I further search my memory for the story behind the image it hits me that I most likely didn't even enjoy the day I had. My five minutes in Arizona, my half hour on the observation deck were not focused on the day, or the glory presented there, but on the much less glorious countenance of one. One so insignificant, like me, when it comes to the grand sceme of things, but at this time, this one was everything to me.

Somewhere there is a world where everything is numbered. The flowers are numbered, the cows are numbered, the birds,
the bees, and even the people. Numbers are everything in this
place and to be without one at any time is very strange. When a person is born they are immediately given their number. They have this number for life and cannot change it. When
Those in Charge of All Numbers decide that one is useless to society that person is stripped of their number and sent to the land of the Unnumbered. It is not that people grow old and senile, for in this land, one does not age, it is if they do not work and go along with normal life. In this horrible place, of which there is no escape, the Unnumbered are made to file used numbers endlessly. The things that were beautiful in life are now the things that torture them in their afterlife. It is said that after filing number without end, the condemned souls will eventually become numbers and once again be at peace. It is also said that Those in Charge of All Numbers were once numbers themselves. Thus they understand numbers and have the right and ability to distribute them and take them away. The only way to avoid this endless cycle is to start without a number.

Sonnet 100 � for whom
Are you to look on me without a care
And give your true desire to other eyes
The very thought of this I cannot bear
Nor can I bear the thought of our goodbyes
I cannot leave you, dear and honest heart
But leave I did, now see what with I�m faced
Before I truly did my fulltime part
My dear you knew that you were quickly chased
But due to all that chasing and the like
I�m forced this time to take a diff�rent path
I am no mother nor am I a tyke
My purpose here on earth? To make you laugh
And so, dropt chasing for a change of life
Pray, hope, and wish this change causes no strife!

Sonnet 3 � for whom
A flash of passion and a clash of wills
Were put in action to uphold you, friend
To you my vain yet true soul often spills
The flow of thoughts and feelings never end
You hear it all and silent judgment give
The look, the pain, the fear I cannot bear
I need to be the one that wins, to live
Your colors ev�ry day I�d gladly wear
I did not eas�ly give my love to you
And it cannot be taken back again
Do you agree? Yes, do you know it�s true?
And yet deep down I know it is a sin
The pain, the fear, the look I still must bear
I am the creep, and I the fool, not fair

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