My left eye twitches constantly – according to superstition good luck is coming my way.
Oftentimes I find myself in a precarious situation; walking home in the dark with few lights to guide me. I’ve read the story of the bong cheon dong ghost (warning, not for the faint hearted) and walking at night scares me.
I wear a rosary bracelet on my left arm – a nun gave it to me as a debutante gift, I start saying prayers as I find my way back home. I’m not a fully believer of ghosts existing; but I don’t entirely doubt it, I won’t be surprised or angry if I see one unless it attacks me or something. I find comfort in my prayers and continue the dark trek home.
Walking and getting lost in the darkness is really something that I dislike – but I don’t necessarily condone. It brings me to a higher awareness and even though I’m continually assailed with comments such as “God doesn’t exist.” And my mind conforms to human “righteousness” taking this walk reminds me that although the human mind is flawed, as God made it, there is something there, always.
I remember to thank my guardian angel and God for getting me home safe, my eyes large and reflective at the church across the street being the only street light in my immediate area. I finish my rosary and walk back into my house where I’m questioned about my calmness in the darkness from the light of an increasing more violent society.
This post was written in response to the shooting and murders in Connecticut and China respectively. Reading the tragic stories in the news gives me a perspective of how lucky I am and how much I need for remember that I was given a second chance at life.
Next year I will be wearing the uniform I have admired all my life and it baffles me. When did I grow up? I thanked many people today for serving my country and am going to make cookies for them, and just deliver them to passerbys because I want to show my gratitude before I become one of them.
Regardless of who the president is, what the wartime situation is, a soldier must always serve by oath, country first.
I am looking through some friends Facebook pages. Some of them it’s been over eight years and I’m staring at the screen.
I want to say something
But ten years is forever, they’re on my friends list but we’ve never talked, I’ve always wanted to know, I’ve always wanted to be there with them
My heart breaks when I get to two friends who I was inseparable from in sixth grade. Two boys, back then I was like Arya Stark, I was a young girl, a better fighter than most boys and often questioned as one. We even had a cat episode together. I was one of the boys, and when girls would ask me out they’d protect me.
I was the first to move the next one followed a few months later.
we never got back together
There was a Skype call here and there and we tried, well, I tried. I moved to a new country and was supremely unhappy, whereas the one who stayed wanted to try, as well. The one who moved as well wanted to move on. He wanted to grow up without us. We kept somewhat a tab on each other for years. I was very close to the one who stayed growing up. He listened to me, he tried to help and when I got suspended from the school he listened and didn’t judge. He saw it as my way out of hell.
We continued correspondence and high school came along. I had never heard from the boy who moved ever again except on his birthday when Facebook would tell me where I’d grin and write him something nice and he responded to everybody but me. The other one drifted too and suddenly I became popular at my new school, in my new home home and I forgot them as well.
Soon people remembered me as the girl who hung with the boys, the straight edge who cursed like a sailor but made cookies for everyone hoping they’d feel better. The kind girl with the sharp tongue who came from everywhere and nowhere. They found me and added me on Facebook, scarcely trying to keep a friendship but discussing their private lives publicly online and realize how much they – and I – have changed.
There is no common ground anymore. The years have killed so many of my friendships and made me into a harder person, but a more realistic person. My fingers hover over the keyboard, my brain tries to think of something to write because “happy birthday” will not suffice.
I’ve tried all my life.
I close the window
And tell myself they have the means to reach me, I’m tired of trying only to be pushed away and I won’t treat them like they’ve treated me over the years.
I went to a restaurant with my parents and a friend today and pulled out a book. I noticed I got a lot of strange stares and when we got up to leave the manager stopped me and handed me “The Diary Anne Frank”, the 60th anniversary edition, unabridged, in full context AND the version that she intended to publish after the war. (Apparently there were two diaries, the long version, and the edited version).
After doing a bit of sleuthing, apparently today is the anniversary of when she found out she was going to Bergen-Belsen, where she would spend the last few months of her life. It is a gift from God and already I feel kind of attached to it; I’ve never been much of a diary person. In fact, to post on tis blog I have a timer that reminds me everyday to post.
I’ll keep reading, maybe there is something that I need to understand.