Fifty Seven degrees in the Sunny state of Oklahoma

Today is my first day of Fall, legitimately. It is dreary and gray, with a twist of drizzle. I feel uncomfortable, undefined. I feel out of place in my own clothes, in my own home. Again, I don't feel real, and I don't feel like me. Who this is, this girl with salmon nail polish. This girl that can't save money and can't love. I can not love, so should I feel like me? I pick, I click, I kick: nervously. I can not stop moving, so should I feel like me?

• I determine reality isn't what we make it to be, that maybe warmth only exists between waves?

I've created an escape, but from what (and to what) am I escaping? It seems nothing. I am escaping from myself, but I've escaped to myself; by myself.
It's days like these where I just want to eat tacos and bake bread. It's days like these where I wish I was strong enough to be on drugs. I wish that I was strong enough to use a crutch, but I can not pull myself up far enough to get it underneath my arm, nor far enough to even lift myself up an inch to the middle rung.

This time next week, the sun will be shining.
Will it be literal, or can I make it figurative?

Like these thunderstorms, I feel isolated. If I move, if I expand, what will become of me?
Can I grow taller than those crutches? Tower over the ghost of myself and see past this horizon?

"Inside" jokes

Inside jokes, I have redefined
I can not share you, you're only mine.

Mein Kampf

After a month (or two) hiatus from the writing scene, I have decided to re-immerse myself into my once-passionate activity. I've gotten very tired of the lack of grammatical structure and exquisite spelling that I could at one point produce without any fore or after thought. This used to just come to me. I used to be able to create something beautiful without my struggle. I've gotten very tired of all of my "used to"s and excuses for why I don't feel as intrinsically fluid with my words. I am still a writer. I am still a person with a story to tell. My story shouldn't be hidden by my struggle.

meine Geschichte/ mein Kampf

I've recently decided that I am a German princess. This wasn't fabricated out of my own will to be royal or majestic, but from a friend, N.S., calling me this as an insult. I was bratting around like I normally do, and he dubbed me "German Princess". I hate girls. I hate girls and frills. I hate girls and frills and their gaudy, whiny shit. From this title, I have not obtained a feeling of righteousness, but a loathing for myself. A loathing for my frills. A loathing for my frills and my gaudy, whiny shit. Regardless of my feelings, I am a German princess. I sit in my castle crying for attention; for a friend to care and a life to love. I wear my tiara as I gallop on my high horse, hating and envying these lowly people around me, hating myself and my existence more with every stride.

mein Hass/ mein Leben

Once upon a time, I dreamt of Polynesia. In transition from Florida to Oklahoma, I told my friends that I wasn't coming back; that I was heading west and west and west until I hit Easter Island and met the descendents of the Long Ears, if there were any left after the Short Ears. I planned to become one with them, to allow them to mark me with a free-form tattoo that I would wear proudly as a badge of my travels. I would speak their language, wear their clothing, know their culture. Yet here I am, in Oklahoma, drained of my drive and my fighting force that once so boldly shoved me out of my home and west and west and west. I have gone nowhere, though I know there is time for change, meine ändern. I know that if I can feel myself, as factitious and remote as that feels, if I can just stop glancing up and re-reading.

Mir. Meine. Mich Selbst.

This is my step one, I don't know two. I haven't got a third or fourth, but with time I will expand.