Queen of the Damned

     I wish I could write something meaningful, profound; something that no one has ever written before. But whenever I sit down with my pen and paper, I have nothing to say. My page remains blank and I am left frustrated and hopeless. What is this writers block that plagues me? It's not just my tongue that is dry but also my mind. There is nothing there worth documenting. My thoughts are mundane and superficial; I no longer dwell on the ineffable or the cerebral. My vocabulary is obsolete. I've already used all the words I know. Nothing I produce is new or fresh, just redundant. Redundant ideas, subjects, and language. Redundant, redundant, redundant.

In other words, at least I've been prolifically taking pictures. This is a more recent shoot, entitled "Queen of the Damned", model being Joy Risk, and makeup artist being Raleigh Hopper.

Silver Soul

     It's almost been a month since I started my senior year of high school and nothing seems to have changed. I'm still in the same place as I was last year. I still don't relate to the majority of my school. I'm still the same cynical young girl. The only thing separating this year from the other three is that the end is now in sight. The future is brewing on the horizon. I can see it from where I stand now, but it's hazy for I'm unsure of what awaits me. Soon I will be confronted with life-altering choices. And while I'm excited, I'm also terrified. I feel so torn.
     I am going to college. I don't know where or for what; all I know is that I'm going. 
     For the longest time, my dream school was FIDM. My greatest life ambition was to be a fashion designer but now I have doubts. It's not that I stopped loving fashion, I've just discovered I have other passions. Writing and photography have been so prominent in my life this past year that I'm convinced that I want to pursue either or. I just don't know which one to choose. I know I could incorporate both into my life/career but I want to pick one of them to really focus on. But which one? Eventually I will be able to answer this question. But right now, I wish someone would tell me what to do so I wouldn't have to make the decision myself. I wish someone could forecast the future and tell me which path would lead me to success. 
     While I weigh out the pros and cons of each pathway, I cannot help but think of that famous Robert Frost quote:

"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— 

I took the one less traveled by, 

And that has made all the difference."

     As cliche as it is, it's relevance to my dilemma is too significant to ignore. I have so many pathways and roads to explore and opportunities to seize! I'm so young. The big world is splayed before me, offering so many different things yet I'm paralyzed. I don't know what I want. I don't know who I am. I don't know what kind of impact I want to make. I don't know where I'm going. I don't have direction. I'm so scared. Yet so enthralled with it all. I could do anything! I can be anyone I please! I could go anywhere. I can fulfill my dreams. 

     When the time comes, I know I will take the road less traveled by and it will make all the difference. 

     

 These photos are taken by me.

Adieu

     It was so thrilling to think that we shared something unbeknownst to the masses; for when we saw each other in a public place, we were merely friends. Yet behind closed doors, a torrid affair was rapidly commencing. Our relationship was ours and no one else's; no one had the power to take it away from us. No one would question it because no one would know. The fact that it was hidden from suspicious and prowling eyes made it all the better. The clandestine nature of our relations made it all the more exciting. 
     I believe that I will always remember the night it first started. We were sitting in my room, just us, and your body was close to mine but not uncomfortably near. And then you scooted closer and brought your lips to mine and there was little distance between our faces, even when we stopped kissing to talk. And as I ran my fingers through your thick hair and rested my arms on your shoulders, you told me you weren't capable of having a serious relationship. I said I wasn't either. You said you were emotionally drained from a nine month relationship that had ended tragically. I said my horrid experience with a idiotic boy caused me to crave casual instead of serious. It's as if our thoughts were adjacent; we were going in the same direction from the beginning.
     There were many other moments like this too. Moments that were sexually satisfying but really meant nothing at all. I'm not saying I regret them; they were fun, exhilarating, and rebellious. We were the quintessential lust-driven teenagers.   We would stay out late, lie to our parents and friends, kiss in the dark, and smoke cigarettes. We had to rely on nature to provide us with privacy yet we didn't mind. We just accepted that this was the way it was. 
    Four months have passed since that one fateful night in my bedroom; yet things have remained the same. I know more about you now than I did before - your dreams, your past, your personality. And I'm sure you have a better idea of what I'm all about. But there is no progression, no growth. Yet why does this disappoint me? Our relationship was established based on the pretenses that there would be no emotional attachments. And I'm starting to realize that I desire this, just not with you.
     I'm sorry. I think this is going to have to end soon. 

These pictures are not by me. Please click on the photo to be linked back to it's original source.

Paris

     Bonjour! I have been back from Paris for over two months now and I miss it more with every day that passes me by. When people ask about my trip, it's difficult to find the words to recount all that I saw and the way I felt when surrounded by such beauty. It's not impossible; through my words and photographs, I am at least somewhat capable of recounting my trip on a superficial level. But how could I ever show the people interested in my experience the way I felt? How could someone understand the completeness I experienced when I was standing amongst a throng of Parisians on the cobblestone street with a delightful ice cream cone in my hand and my camera in the other. How could someone fathom the immense joy I derived from drinking wine on the patio of the flat we rented while watching the gems of the Eiffel Tower sparkle in the fading light. These moments were bittersweet because they were fleeting; and I knew that soon I'd be going back to America, the home that wasn't home. Often times - during conversations with my mother - I would jokingly ask "could you just leave me here?". She would laugh and comment on how she too dreaded the journey back but I don't think she knew that I meant every word I said. I wanted to stay. For this foreign place - this new and exciting city sprawling before me - felt more of a home than California did. I knew no one here, I spoke very little French, and I barely knew how to navigate around, but for the first time, I felt pure bliss. That bliss was derived from the fact that I was fulfilling a lifelong dream, that I was surrounded by originality and beauty, and that my being felt whole and was cohesive with my environment. How glorious it is to feel like you belong! At that moment, I realized that everyone should experience this. That everyone should search for the place that best reflects the person that lies within for it evokes creativity and the thrill that comes from being alive. In Paris, I felt so alive. Even though it was freezing and my limbs were often numb from all the rain, I felt human. I felt all my emotions so strongly and suddenly, I saw the world with clarity. Everything caught my eye and I would observe my surroundings with I always knew before I went to Paris that I'd find something incomprehensible; and I did.
    I don't want to reveal too much too soon; I'm currently working on a booklet with a zine-esque layout about my trip to Paris. It'll include my photographs, reflections, and journal entries. But for now, here is a sneak preview of my time in Paris!

  

Rust and Stardust

          You have been replaced with the fabricated hologram of a potential lover. You no longer bring the thrill to my life or fulfill my thirst for reciprocated affection. I have found someone much better, someone utterly oblivious to my lustful gaze and romantic prose. Someone I can fantasize about while lying in my desolate bed, someone I can impose personality traits on without their knowing. Someone I can claim as my own. He lives an ordinary life but is living, breathing, and walking in the corridors of my mind simultaneously. He becomes a greater person when I write or think about him, even though our verbal exchanges are limited - practically nonexistent - and our relationship is merely acquaintances. 
          But even all of this is not enough to distract me from my infinite melancholy. The melancholy that will never fade, regardless of how much happiness I experience in my mundane life. It is always there, sometimes more prominent and sometimes less obvious; but it is there, lurking, thriving, manifesting. To an outsider, it’s a morose idea to live in a constant state of sadness. However, I have come to terms with it and have even embraced it for it inspires artistic creation and has made me even more profound. No one will ever take away my melancholy for it has become so engrained in my person that it defines me. Not even you could shatter my hypnotic state; for although you brought me joy and blessed me with adventure, I was still sad and so that’s how it will remain. 

Nothing

          I can no longer be around her because she has morphed into the person I was just a few months ago. It's as if I'm watching someone else live my past and it's unbearable. I look at her and see the startling image of myself. We are the same person, our only differences being physical. Otherwise, we are identical. Our thoughts are in sync, unintentionally telepathic. And now you're with him, the very same boy I had fawned over just months prior. Initially, I tolerated it by ignoring what was blatantly in front of me. I kept quiet because I didn't want to make a scene. But now, as I try to move on and reinvent myself, everything has resurfaced and I'm constantly confronted with his lack of shame and your oblivion to my pain. What can I do except pace my room during the darkest hour of the night and dwell on my misery and misfortune. So many sleepless nights were spent thinking about the words I didn't say but wanted to. I am paralyzed, trapped within my own pathetic complacency without a reason why. I have never felt the desire to seek revenge but I find myself wishing to bestow harm on him for I strongly feel that he should not be permitted to get away with all the harm he has caused - all those insomniac nights, my sobs resounding in the darkness, my cheeks constantly damp, my eyes swollen red, the false hope, the disappointment, the self-loathing that caused me to be impulsive and cut off all my hair, and the emptiness that dulled my senses and rendered me a zombie. It's disgusting how much impact he has had on my life, how much he has destroyed. I look at my surroundings and watch my once joyous life deteriorate to ash before my eyes. I see my friends slipping away due to our differing opinions, I see my home lying in ruins. I look at myself and am shocked at my minute pupils, sallow sockets, painted mouth slightly imperfect, and indifferent expression.
          I am a lot happier than I was a few months ago. For a while, I thought I had moved on. I thought I was capable of dealing with the problems that were arising. I don't doubt the strength of my character, I just can't bear to witness this betrayal anymore. Even though my wounds are healed and protected by new layers of flesh, they still remain.

 

Salto Angel

          I am dead in a world blooming with life. My skeleton is amongst a meadow of newborn buds. I am suspended in a realm separate from reality yet still within it. Time slips from my fingertips and I watch opportunity fade with indifference. I no longer care what happens anymore; I have no motivation to alter any part of my life. Not because I'm content with how it is, but because I'm too tired. My perception is hazy and all the substance of my being has dispersed. Anticipation for Paris, the approach of summer, and all the opportunities that exist everyday are not enough to pull me out of this comatose state. 
          I cut off all my hair in the hopes that I would feel something. Each time I brought the scissors to my head, more hair would gather on my bedroom floor. I stared at my reflection as I did it, hoping that I would detect a flinch of fear or a hesitant sigh. It would have been enough to stop me, for it would have proven that I am not utterly devoid of emotion. The sight of my severed locks evoked nothing in me except a feeling of renewal. I realized it was a moment of liberation, for my hair represented everything I had lost in the past week. Now that it was gone, I could focus on more important things like my poetry and art. This year is supposed to be my Renaissance era. Yet I'm still empty.