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

Narcissistically Speaking

I'm finding myself again. Not finding myself, because I'm right down the unfinished staircase, but myself.

I guess I'm finding God again.

I do this thing sometimes where I like to know someone before I choose.

"You smell good." That's what you said to me, just like you've said a million times before, but this time it worked just enough. I get mad at myself sometimes, and I drive the car that I think will impress you. It worked. "'It's white.' That's all you have to say?" That sentence flew straight off your lips to make it seem like I didn't care that much, and that's just what I wanted. I did care though. I do, and I smiled about it on the way home.

The "notes" app on my iPod is filled with things that come out my ears and fall through my fingers and make clicking sounds. I never type in silence. I like award shows and laundry detergent and playing games on my bed while dissecting text messages

I write in my journal when it's most inconvenient because that's when I write best. I solve puzzles and I like the way Best Buy smells when you walk in. I can win a game of solitaire in four minutes and forty-seven seconds and I can finish Sudoku in seven minutes and three seconds.

Pretending that I'm busy is something that I'm good at. So is wearing leggings as pants when I'm home alone.

I am over protective of my youngest brother because the world scares me and it doesn't scare him enough. My mother and I get along until it comes down to shoes and scarves.

I wear colored shorts in the summer. Dark skin and country music feel like home. I notice when someone gets a new freckle because I notice that it's the sun giving his or her beautiful shoulders a kiss. I like shoulders.

You tell me I'm beautiful, and sometimes I whisper that into the glass before I leave for the morning. You tell me that you wish you could smell your mother as tears roll down your checks, and I tell you what my mother smells like; Clorox.

I hate the sound of the television when no one is watching, unless I'm falling asleep. The study of mental illnesses fascinates me. Did you know that?

I'm afraid of the future because I'm afraid of failure and decisions. Live music is the best kind of music.

I get goose bumps before I cry. I hold my breath when I get nervous and my fingers shake. If I like the way something feels, I'll run it across my lips, even if it's your hands.

I like when my father comes to church.

Fireworks are a part of me; I was born on the fourth day of the seventh month. You know that if you've ever brought up that day.

I like my hair, but I like hers just a little better. I'll probably touch your hair, if you have any. Also, your shoulders. I like shoulders.

A person’s eyes tell their story, just like their hands and lips do.

I'm here. I'm right down the unfinished staircase.

Enduringly,

M.organ