When Eating Doesn’t Work

“Aren’t you going to eat?” Amelia looked at her mother, surprised at the sudden sound.

“Um, I’m not very hungry tonight.”

In truth, Amelia was never hungry, not tonight, not any night. There was a dull, hollow, vaguely aching pit where the food should have been. But the pain had long since subsided. After the first week of not eating, Amelia felt… numb. Hollow. But she felt whole, like nothing could hurt her now.

When she gingerly lifted her milky hand and placed it on her stomach, she knew she had lost weight. She could trail her hand up her torso and feel her ribs, the pitiful small bones of her hips jutting out like the awkward shapes they were.

She had been doing this for as long she she could remember. It was a sick and twisted thing to do, but she loved it. She loved the limp weakness the hunger left in her bones, and she delighted at the thought of feeling a bony, sickly spine. Why? She didn’t know. But some part of it was addicting.

When she didn’t eat, it was like a void was created, and a void was filled at the same time. She felt like her body would go limp and cave in. Maybe it should.

Fourteen Years and Seventy-eight Days Without A Dream

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dailywrite

Italo Calvino said: The more enlightened our houses are, the more their walls ooze ghosts. Describe the ghosts that live in this house: Image credit: “love Don’t live here anymore…” – © 2009 Robb North – made available under Attribution 2.0 Generic

Opposites attract, the wise ones say. That’s true– but sometimes not in a romantic way. The dark ones come searching in the light places for light. They search in the minds of those who know what they are, in hopes of being accepted. 

“The more you know,” my grandmother told me many a time, “the more you are put into danger. Ignorance is bliss, child. Ignorance is bliss.” I wasn’t a child who was very much loved; in fact, my parents had died in a car crash when I was young, and my grandmother, who had raised me after that, only offered sage advice when she drank her tea on the porch in the light of the full moon, once a month. This was one of those times, because she ignored me the rest of the time, even when we saw each other every day in that little brick house. I wondered what she meant by that phrase, because she uttered it every chance she got. I wondered what she was talking about. I didn’t think I would find out so soon.

Our peaceful little brick house was destroyed in a twister the summer I turned fourteen. I sat by the scarce ruins for days, crying. Days melded into weeks, and the weeks into months. No tears flowed anymore, not for the house, not for my grandmother. But I stubbornly forced myself to squat, day after day, at the spot where the house once stood. On the seventy-eighth day, on the third full moon, I had my first ever dream. I dreamed of a stranger. That stranger was her. 

I’m Not Very Good at Dodging Flying Balls of Doom

As many of you know, I fractured my finger in Physical Education a few weeks ago, and I must say, although I dislike P.E. in general, sitting on the sidelines is not fun. At all. Up until now, I’ve never ever injured anything before, and I guessthis breaks my streak.

What happened was that in class, we were warming up for basketball, and we were passing a basketball back and forth between two people. Being the klutz that I am, I missed the ball(just barely) and I realized that the ball had bent my finger backwards, and after discovering that I could not bend it, I went to see the nurse, who told me to see the doctor, who told me to get an x-ray, which told me to see the doctor, who relayed the information and put it in a splint. Lovely.

I guess I’m just not very good at dodging flying balls of doom. First tennis, now basketball, then dodgeball and kickball. I’m not suited for these activities. Don’t even get me started on the frisbee.

Oh, did I tell you about the lovely time I had while dodge balls were slamming the walls around me and my poor finger, who tried our best to avoid them, but ended up getting hit anyway? Or the time that my partner and I consecutively launched three tennis balls out of the court in doubles?

My point is: P.E. teacher, please, don’t put me anywhere near those flying balls of doom.

Message in a Bottle: Dandelions Dancing in the Wind

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Blog, Word

A message in a bottle. It’s an old fashioned, well-coveted means of conveyance. Of love, of sorrow, of ecstasy and of hate. But where will it land? No one knows. It might not even reach the hands of civilization.

A blog is the same. It’s an attempt for us bloggers to get our voice out into the world, and if it reaches someone, then great. If it doesn’t, too bad. But a blog is empowering. It gives us the courage to step out of our shell and say things we truly feel.

Talking to a real person is scary. To be exact, their reaction scares us. Scares me. When you talk to someone, you worry: “Will he/she be offended? Will they hate me for life? Will they make my life miserable?” Hidden behind a shield we call the internet, we are protected, and we build the courage to impart our wisdom and feeling to an audience I doubt is usually even there.

Message in a bottle- a symbol of the unknown. What could happen? Who’ll read it? WIll they reply? Will their reply reach me? Perhaps the shores on which the message tumbles on to is the shores of the human heart.

As a blogger myself, I find that, increasingly, my task is gravitating toward the art of manifesting the written word, and moving hearts. My challenge: Can I make you think about what I say, instead of just blankly reading? Will my words make you ponder? Will my words make you smile, or cry, or frown, or laugh?

Will my words reach the shores of your heart?

So I, like thousands of other bloggers, open my heart and mind. I convey my thoughts and feelings onto a collection previously created. I’ve debuted my words to the world, and I am proud. Are you proud? Have your words been broken free, and drifted away, flying like dandelions dancing in the wind?