Its Rainin' Bricks

I'm a brick
You're a brick
They're a brick
She's a brick
He's a brick
My mom's a brick
We're all bricks


brick
noun 

1.     a small rectangular block typically made of fired or sun-dried clay; used in building. 



I didn't always have to be this way. Our fate wasn't molded right from the start. 

We're born rocks. We're born disfigured and different and we have all these aspirations to go somewhere and be buried at the bottom of a volcano or in the ocean or lining up the edging in a backyard in the suburbs, surrounded with all of the other rocks who want to be there too. We want to be picked up on the road by a 5 year old who thinks we are pretty or thrown at a window by some rowdy teenage boys. We want to discover. We want to change. We want purpose. 

Years pass and we get these lists and we're told to behave a certain way and conform to the world. We have to be polite and be quiet when we are supposed to be and be popular and get friends and be accepted. We have to write in a certain format. Get an A. Be invited to Mckenzie Hansen's birthday party (i still hate you Mckenzie i bet your party sucked). 

We listen to what we're told, and then it's too late. 

Soon enough we're all the same 4 by 8 brick fresh out of the mold, and it doesn't matter what we're made of. We hide it inside and claim we want to be individuals but secretly we thrive in the comfort of looking the same as everyone else. There's protection in that. Safety.

Because if you aren't someone that can't be stacked in uniform, we'll throw you to the side and not think twice.

Everything that makes us different is disguised. Everything that makes us beautiful is hidden. We give it up, because we'd rather be safe than sorry.

All because of the stupid brick.

brick

noun

1.     a safety net; ensures acceptance and conformity, conceals all traces of individuality. 

I'm a brick

You're a brick
They're a brick
She's a brick
He's a brick
My mom's a brick
We're all bricks

-S.C.

Pain Killers

I think I've got a writer's block. 

You know, the thing when you want to write your feelings but every time you start you hate it and you delete stuff and cross it out and start over. I keep crumpling up the papers in my head and throwing them away in the trash (also my head).

They say dumpster diving is for poor kids but I'd say it's reserved for the rich.

The late afternoon thoughts swarm around the air and I get sleepy or weepy and I can smell them too. Or maybe that's the food. Mom's making dinner.

I can only shut my door so many times before it starts to creak. The walls aren't thick enough to block out the sounds of the footsteps from upstairs or the basketball bouncing outside my window. My feet get too hot when I sleep with socks on. The sound of the fan puts me to sleep even when I forget to plug it in.

Sometimes I wonder what God thinks when I waste time.

I think I've got a feeling's block. 

You know, the thing when you realize any normal person would react but every time you get the chance you'd rather push away and bury it instead of facing it head on. I keep tearing down old walls and building up bigger ones in the same place (my head).

They tell you to listen to your heart but I'd say don't let it fool you.

The late night thoughts drift through the air and I'm wide awake and numb so I can't feel them either. Or maybe I can. Maybe that's what my heartbeat is.

I can only shut my eyes so many times before it loses it's purpose. My eyelids aren't thick enough to protect me from things I wish I didn't have to see or the things people tell me I should feel. My ears work but I'm not really listening. The empty promises and long texts seem to blur together even when I know it wouldn't matter anyway.

Sometimes I wonder if God ever feels alone.






-S.C.

The Love Diaries

Its easy to love when you're young. There's no complications, no risks. Everybody loves each other so willingly.

I wanted to avoid the typical post about love because I know when you read a lot of those they end up blending together.

For your entertainment, I've compiled a series of photographs that summarize my elementary school and junior high love life all in HD. They are either old journal entries that I've written, or notes that I received at some point and decided to keep.

Please refrain from telling me how retarded I was. Trust me, I already know. 

haha geez i was such a jerk 

This kid kinda creeped me out he threw this note at me from across the room and told me to open it and once I saw what it said I panicked and told him I would read it when I got home cause i "wasn't allowed to open notes in class" and i wanted to avoid awkward confrontation

 i don't even have any excuses for this one but i swear he's hot even now 

my beach fantasy with my childhood love 

marriage plans before i had my permit 

this kid had some serious swag we went out for like a day 

now i'd rather bathe in toxic acid before dating a sophomore 

-S.C.

#NoFilter

Someone, quick. Take a picture of my life.

Take a picture and edit it and post it on Instagram and make sure it gets at least a million likes. 

Hopefully then, someone will see it. Hopefully that person will be me, and hopefully I won't forget. 

I need to remember.

I need to remember.

I need to remember.

I sat in my desk in sixth grade and stared at the clock hoping it would speed up just so I could go home then I blink and I'm 18 and now all I want is to go back to my desk. 

The sad truth is, I've changed. Everyone has changed. We sit here staring at the mirror and try our hardest not to blink but then a hurricane comes and knocks us on our feet before we even see the storm coming. The weatherman doesn't warn us either, he's the one that broke the mirror. 

The shards are left on the ground and all I can see are the broken up bits of my reflection. At least some of it is still there. Even if it isn't whole.

I can't go back though, it's not the same. 

-S.C.