april.twentythird.twothousandfour.

my mom's version of birthday candles.

My littlest of the littles turned nine today. He's growing up, and losing teeth, and playing on two baseball teams. He's one of my best friends, really. (I want to wish him a happy one on here, even though he probably won't read this until I am married and we look back to laugh.)

There are days when I want to go back to being nine. When the stressors are which dress to wear, and who to play with after school. Where getting frozen yogurt was enough. (okay, that statement still stands still at seventeen.) Being nine isn't completely care free because you do have friends, and chores, and scratches, and homework and trying to color inside the lines. Nine is where coloring inside the lines begins.

Coloring inside the lines. This isn't the easiest of tasks. Sure, literally, it's not that hard. Metaphorically it is. Coloring inside the lines metaphorically is living a near perfect life. 

I started coloring inside the lines, but then came jealousy. Slip. Jealousy isn't something I like to discuss, or feel, or participate in. While "make 'em jealous" is a repeated phrase at high school I just don't like it. But, it happens. My best friend is extremely successful and beautiful. My brother will be an olympic athlete. Julie always saves the day. On occasion it's hard not to be jealous. 

I started coloring inside the lines, but then came college. Slip. Here, I'm mostly too excited to stay inside the lines. First was getting in. Second was not getting in. Third was deciding. I'm decided, and housed, and waiting for a roommate to come and give me more color outside my lines. 114 days 1 hour 49 minutes.

I started coloring inside the lines, but then came anxiety. I get anxious.

I started coloring inside the lines, but then came graduation. In a task to make senior year the best one yet I bit off a little bit more than I could chew for the time being. If I were a sophomore doing all the things I am, well, I'd be dumber, but I think I'd have the energy and motivation to keep going. I'm just ready to be done. All that being said, looking back, I wouldn't change a thing (other than maybe a grade or two.) I'm almost done. 36 days left. I'm scared, people. I'm scared of not finishing. I'm scared of missing J, and Hayden, and Madeline. I'm more ready than scared. I'm ready to enjoy the last 36 days.

I started coloring inside the lines, but then came God. He took me a different direction than what my head had pictured. He gave me weaknesses. Big weaknesses. He handed me a plate of a dozen cookies and told me to eat them all at once, and then bake them again. I'm learning so much about how to cope and what's important in my life. He's teaching me to make certain things priority over others, and coloring inside the lines isn't priority. Wrecking a car, and planning for surgery, and being jealous, and failing, and making people mad, and getting complaints, and hurting people were all part of what He wanted to show me. Making a best friend, and teaching, and crying happy tears, and finding a teacher, and writing, and photographing, and not caring was also there. Learning was what He wanted. It's still coming, but it's happening.

The thing is. No matter how crazy my writing is when I'm sick, and no matter how many mistakes I've made lately, there is a gorgeous picture outside of those lines. There's places that mean a lot. There's a painting, a crayon drawing, and a sketch of who I'm becoming outside those lines. There's a little drawing of a broken heart, and a little bit bigger heart that's full of hope. There's laughter outside those lines, and there are tears, too.


"What's your purpose in life?" -Addyson

enduringl.y
morgan

No One Gets Me Like You

It's the way you curse that doesn't offend me like it should, and that perfect hair that makes me love you. You are true, and your voice has that hint of rasp that forces me to look when I hear. You take disappointment well, or at least that's what you show on the outside. You are free; you are talented.

You are intricate and beautiful. You are soft, but utterly strong. You love, really love.

I read your written words, the words that can't ever be out-written, and that wit? If I held even a corner of the wit you do, it would be placed right HERE on display.

People don't know you. No, they know you, but they don't know you. I don't know you, but I've noticed that you hide behind that blonde hair.

You are smart, but you don't try. I've been told you're too honest, and that you always tell the truth, but hey, I like that about you.

I like you, and I liked you before I knew you.

You try too hard. You feel like you have to erase the bad reputation that you've built upon yourself, but part of you wants to live up to it. I don't get you.

You told me that you write poetry that you don't let anyone read. You radiate confidence, but I know that part of you is afraid, and it bothers me more than it should that you are afraid of feeling. You are weak, not in a negative way, but in a way that is covered by your strength; it shows that you're real.

Everyone warns of your potential madness. It hasn't surfaced and crushed me yet. You are considerate when someone new is around.

You are stunning, so stunning. You know all the pieces of who I am becoming and that's okay with you. You are becoming someone incredible, too. If you aren't at my hip I feel lost, and you know what? I love that. You've wrapped me up and tied me like a knot in your life. You're loud, and you're cute, and you know so much more than most. You feel things beneath the line that most people feel things; deeper. You know what you want, and you will get it. Thank you, love, thank you.

I miss you, and I hope that you miss me, too, but if I don't see you again, I'll know what to look for. You're pure, and you work like most people don't. You hold tightly, and comfortably, and I know that you pray.

That silence that I hear? That's you.

And you don't care that I'm not perfectly pretty, or that I never say the right amount of words.



But, I love you.