I stand with a lit candle

in my hand.

I’m drenched in the pool of my faith.

Will you come

and pick the flowers that I laid?

I am imagining you again

with my weak heart and heavy brain.

I don’t know how to put a seal on my thought,

Even if you ruin me, I can’t afford to loathe.

Our path may criss cross.

but the point where we meet

will only take us to the land of our loss.

You ask why do I feel this way!

Now you know what I had to say.

My face smiles into that perfect one I’m forced to use,

—with slight down curve at the sides,

The ghungroo (bells) jingles wildly with each step I took,

—all the way grateful for friction on hard floor,

My trembling hasta mudras (hand gestures) sweeps the air with grace,

—a shaky grace veiled by the next partly perfect gesture.

Everyone stares,

maybe at the story I was trying hard to convey,

or perhaps just at me.

Everyone claps,

maybe at my performance,

or simply because it was over.

Nobody acknowledged me later,

Nobody asked if I was ok,

I had once again mastered in enshrouding my feelings,

The nervousness was cloaked,

which perhaps might have been noticed,

only by my bharatanatyam dance teacher. She always knows.

I giggled,

I had fooled all audience.

Little ones,

You grow so fast.

I blink,

And your moment's past.

Growing every day.

Leaving little bits of childhood behind.

Here a new word,

Here a new trait.

I wish I could tell you to stay the same,

Because it scares me,

That you grow so fast.

What happened to the little babies,

Spitting up in my lap?

You graduate from diapers,

To potty training,

And pullups.

From crawling,

And wordless squeals,

To walking,

And talking.

I love you,

Little ones,

More than I love anything else.

I can see why children,

Become the world of their mothers.

It doesn't mean,

I want to be one,

But I can understand,

Why some might want that.

One day,

You're crying over spilt milk.

The next,

You're helping me clean up messes,

That aren't even yours.

Spending time around you guys,

Has made me see the world,

In a more positive light.

Growing smarter,

Older,

Braver.

Every day.

I blink;

I miss something.

When did you learn to say camoflauge?

Why do you meow,

More than the cat?

Little things you learn,

While I'm not looking.

It's amazing,

The things you learn.

I don't know where you get,

Half the stuff you say.

Little ones,

You are the embodiment,

Of the wonder,

That this world,

Doesn't have enough of.

I am terrified.

What if one day,

I look at you,

To see you have grown up,

While my eyes were closed?

I am amazed,

At how much you progress,

And at what you learn,

When no one's watching.

I am nostalgic,

Because I think of all the things,

You used to do.

All the things about you,

That have grown.

And because I remember,

How small you once were.

Where does the time go?

I wish I knew.

You are the best things,

In this world.

I love you,

Little ones.

How does that make you feel?

I don't know.

You don't know what you're feeling?

No.

Why not?

I'm not feeling, but I'm not going to tell you that.

I don't know.

*Sigh* Therapy is a two-way street, I can't help you if you don't tell me anything

I'm sorry, I really don't know.

We'll try again next week.

I think I know why you don't know what you're feeling.

And why's that?

Some people automatically repress their emotions, don't allow themselves to feel things in the moment.

And why would I do that?

You tell me. Read this article this woman wrote before next week. Please. I want to know if you relate.

So?

Yeah, that, um, that sounds like me.

How so?

Well, I mean, I guess I don't really feel things in the moment and every six to eight months or so I'll just cry for hours for no reason.

Crying is not necessarily the result of excess sadness, it's the result of excess emotion. I'm guessing you automatically repress all emotions, without realizing you're doing it, and eventually you have so much pent up emotion it just bursts out.

I, uh, I suppose that makes sense.

You need to recognize your feelings as you experience them, not shove them down.

And just how am I supposed to do that.

To start, just take a pause in whatever you're doing and try to put a name to what you're feeling. It doesn't have to be complicated, just pause and think "Well now I'm... Happy, or now I'm... Disgusted," like that.

I can try.

I don't think you should come here anymore. It's obviously not helping.

I'm sorry, I-

Don't apologize, but you need to be willing to accept help before you seek it.

Bye.

Bye.

Well, now I'm frustrated.

My roommate is a wonderfully domestic sort, the kind to make scrambled eggs in the morning and chamomile tea at the evening hour. She might hate that I write this. I am not sure it is how she thinks of herself, but I love it. I love the calmness of it, the constancy. Oddly enough, she possesses the same qualities I respect in my father, the steadiness, the command of time and of life. Pain and happiness alike pass through her eyes; suffering transient, but a childlike joy remaining always. I seek it in her eyes, her joy contagious, her sadness uncomfortable. The world calls this “empathy”. I note that I feel if for very few, but I feel it for her.

The thought of her leaving is sour in my breast. I hate it when my mind goes there, though the passage of days and nights bring it ever nearer. I know the hours of my discontent to be fast at hand. I hesitate to call the thing “love”, neither of us, being the outwardly sentimental sort. Somehow that word is weakness to both of us, something in our respective pasts having tainted it. We are what we are, wedded with no marital bed, nor desiring one. The joke of it is palatable, leaves a taste in the mouth for its truth.

Dare I call the thing “friendship”? I am not sure, I am not sure there is a word for this kind of intimacy. After all, what can you call the eyes that peer into your face, the eyes that know every one of its creases and can read your whole demeanor in a fraction of a second? What can you call that knowing glance that prophesies your emotion before it ever rises to your cheeks? I cannot call it anything I suppose, too deep for “friendship”, too shy and inwardly for a label given so liberally. So then I will call it nothing, and I will keep these mediations to myself, they have no place in our usually light-hearted discourse. There is no pressing need to make a moment sad or awkward when it can be so easily avoided by keeping one’s mouth shut.

I will sit down at our rickety wooden table, eat a bite of scrambled eggs, and smile at the face that sits across from mine, alike in veiled emotion. I smile for the promise that passes unsaid between us, that should we hurt from what is to come, we hurt privately so as to not wound the other.

You ask me why I'm mad? I'll tell you why I'm mad! Come sit by your dear, old RibeyeMoshPit, and I'll tell you a story about the stupidest thing on Earth.

Did you know that iodized salt uses dextrose (corn sugar) to stabilize the iodine chemical added to it? Did you? Did you know this, my angel faced reader? Did you know that your salt contains sugar?

Far too late in life, I discovered my chronic depression, muscular deterioration, and hormonal imbalances were all heavily triggered by diet. Imagine! My comfort eating was actually stressing me out more. But it's okay! I've gotten over that reality check, and I've used it to lighten up, literally and figuratively.

So, my dearest reader, fast forward to present day. I'm feeling great, happier than ever, kicking ass, and taking names. BUT... there's a small problem. Every once in awhile, I'll get this small sensation in the left hand side of my brain. It feels like I've forgotten something. I'll sit back in my chair, search that part of my mind, and try to discover what is wrong.

Then BAM! BOOM! SPLAT! A torrent of negativity, self-critcism, and violent imagery comes pouring out of my skull, out of my eyes, down my nose, through my ears, and sending me hacking and coughing to the floor. Within seconds, my mind, body, and spirit are in a war for dominance, and the only thing I can do to keep my sanity is to scream for help... but it only comes to my throat in a choking whisper, "What's happening..."

And then, just as quickly, it will be gone. I'll curl up there on the ground, feeling like I had been assaulted and grabbed by some invisible enemy. Shame and guilt settle into the quiet places of my mind as I quietly cry in both relief and deep sadness.

For so long, I've lived in fear of when this sensation will assault me again.

For so long, it was all my fault, and this was who I truly was.

For so long, I thought my case was the one that could never be solved.

And then I happened to look at an ingredients label. I don't even remember why I did it. I just remember staring in disbelief. I remember frantically googling questions, forsaking my work and conversations with coworkers. I searched the shelves at the grocery store, feeling my disbelief grow into relief... and then fury.

Pure fury.

Fury at my ignorance.

Fury at big business.

Fury for all the days I spent in fear and sadness.

Fury that I hadn't discovered it sooner.

But deep with this fury where the inferno was the hottest, there was a cry of victory that pushes me forward...

It's not my fault.

Somebody, somewhere, decided it would be perfectly harmless to add a dash of sugar to something that was never meant to be sweet. Somebody thought they could get away with adding just a little extra and not think to mention it to anyone who could get hurt. Because of them, I've lived for years under the thumb of fear, but I got smarter, and now I can get better.

So, yeah, my esteemed reader, it does seem ridiculous to be so emotional about a purely miniscule amount of dextrose. But my perspective is from a lifetime of sadness and fear fueled by the one thing people crave like a drug. When God made me, He stopped at spice and everything nice.

Because I realized just how much I don't open up about my feelings how I feel like my problems are burdensome on top of others problems. Because I let my daughter see me cry this morning and I let her wipe my tears and she's only 1 she helped me when I couldn't help myself and I let her because I song give myself enough credit for just how tough I am. She said “Dont cry with a mouth full of chips” and continued to wipe until all the tears we're on that crumpled tissue and she fed me chips while I write this.

What I'm trying to say is I haven't fully been appreciative of all the blessings and people around me instead I've blamed and been childish towards them because I guess that's all I know. I never knew how go be out going and not pretend I didn't feel awkward in the room when ever strangers surrounded me. I never actually sat down to analyze how vulnerable I could never be because I was protecting myself for judgment and thinning I was weak because I finally opened up and had to explain why I felt this way and not feel like a baby or a whiner. I need to cry more to others though and open up and be vulnerable I need to stop using I so much.

My mind is a swamp of molasses and lost dreams

The clock laughs at me, its alarm jars and screams

The sun stalks me, light so unrelenting and bright

I crawl past it and fight it with all my might

Life drips by me, and I can only stand and stare  

I’m stalling for darkness and cool air, that lovely pair

Only then can I lose myself in the sheets and sigh

One more cup of coffee, gotta give work another try

Hello!!! It's been a while since I last wrote in Prose, so this challenge is perfect to explain!

I started a class called Beginning Creative Writing in the summer and during that time I realized my writing had a lot of flaws, especially with present/past tense verbs. I couldn't really tell the difference or even knew it was involved with time. And when I think I got it, it's still wrong. And poems were the same thing, except they have complicated rhythm rules and it makes my work look like trash.

So looking back at my stories and poems here on Prose I started seeing those mistakes and felt like I couldn't write and post here anymore. I wanted to post the ending for my Laughing Doll series, but then I became self-conscious of my flaws and don't post at all. I want to do the fun challenges here and just write for the fun of it; however, the thought of professional writers reading my work and cringing at my mistakes terrifies me.

And since I have posted so much here, I don't think I have the time to fix all of them. Not even the ending for my Laughing Doll series since that one is mostly done. So I felt a little ashamed of myself and, yeah, I'm no professional, but still, I can't help feeling like this.

Of course, I've learned, but nowhere near perfect and yet I WANT to write so badly here. It's fun to read everyone's work and it's great to be inspired by these fun challenges. I mean, October is the perfect time to write and read horror stories!

Speaking of which, one of my stories, a Halloween tale called The Pumpkin Lass, was accepted by the college's publisher and I've been excited for that. My story is going to be published in the school's books! And just in time for the Fall edition, too! I can't wait to hear what everyone says, but I'm also a little nervous since it's my first time publishing and my story is still far from perfect.

So that's how it is for me. Anyone get me?