Finding Yourself Is the Messiest Thing In The World

by Jess
May 29, 2014

We're so close to what we wanted, but never farther from what we needed.

"Go to Paris to be in Paris, not to cross it off a list."

And that was it. The most useful thing I had heard all year in English 11 Honors.

It almost made the class worth it.

Don't get me wrong, I love English.(Shout out to Mr. Lassen for forever ruining my life, and possibly

saving it at the same time.)

But maybe the subject became more of an agenda then a passion this year.

(Oh and I hate "Beowulf". So damn much.)

Just add it to the pile of things to burn, forever walking the halls for inspiration.

Hands on sweater, they shake less.

I can't put them in my pockets, they're too full of reminders that people call trash.

I'll unload them tonight after prayers I'm not longer sure I'm worthy of because I'm a sinner who doesn't

exactly want to stop, even though I'm still praying in bathroom stalls.

So be it.

Gripping goodbye letters I never sent because I was never very sentimental, unless it comes to Hallmark

movies. (And yes, I am aware they are terrible.)

Shaky fingers and flickering lights as I sort through memories and lint.

Deep breaths.

1 for the time I found poetry.

2 for the times it found me.

3 for the time I realized it's a verb, not a noun. And I started acting.

4 for four letter words. I used a lot more of those this year. No regrets.

5 for five fingers, two hands. He managed to kiss every one of them, and leave my soul untouched. Gold stars.

for the both of us.

6 for my first I love you.

7 for the half a million after. (Don't you wish you would have said it out loud?)

8 for the first time I crashed my car.

9 for microwave popcorn. (Just because.)

10 for the songs that saved us, and for lyrics and melodies that put anything I've ever penned to shame. I

don't mind it.

11 for the times all I wanted in the world was for him to be okay.

12, 13, 14, 15, and 16 for the times I knew he wasn't.

And 17 for everything broken.

Nothing fits into 13's and 3's like it used to.

And 17's become something spiritual.

This year, all anyone can see I've gained is pockets full of lint.

I've picked up so many colors this year, but to the naked eye they all just mix together and the only thing

people see of me is black.

And I refuse to ask if they don't mind the color on me.

But maybe I'm better off for that, because whenever people are asked what they would do with their lives if

money wasn't an issue, almost all of them say "Write."

Someone ask Hemingway if he was happy, because none of this is inspiration, it's just honesty.

And I think I've found something worth bleeding for.

Or at least collecting lint over.

Leave me here, go off with your coins clogging up your pens.

Forever laughing at my lint.

And in the end, if all I'm left with is memories, pencils, paper, and only lint to fill my pockets,

So be it.