I am Afraid

I am afraid I will wake up tomorrow and all of this life will have been a dream. All of my accomplishments, growth, knowledge? Gone.

I am afraid that the dream I had when I was five will come true.

I am afraid of aliens. Especially when I am alone in my room in the dark.

I am afraid of getting hit on by awkward middle-aged men.

I am afraid of being allergic to gluten.

I am afraid that good music will cease to exist.

I am afraid of being normal.

I am afraid that I am of no worth to anyone but my family.

I am afraid of stapling my finger.

I am afraid of  losing my voice permanently.

I am afraid of being called out on doing something wrong.

I am afraid of not having love.

I am afraid of books being banned.

I am afraid of writing on wide-ruled paper.

I am afraid of paper cuts.

I am afraid of being led on. Again.

I am afraid of getting lost in a new place. Getting lost in old places is fine.

I am afraid of this.

I am afraid of you.

 

--P.A.

Real

She moved with strength, surprising onlookers, her slight frame bold. Lights
bouncing off her skin, her smile, her hair. The air around her shone and waved. Her steps
were light, un-choreographed, but beautiful, expressive. Expressive of her newfound joy,
her newly discovered world. Who could have predicted she would find a light burning
inside of her, warming her thoughts and sending shocks through to her ends, traces of the
light found in each touch, each smile, each laugh. This light had attracted a crowd. No, it
wasn’t the elaborate dancing, or perfect dress, because everyone here screamed
perfection. She was different than the others; a little more free, a little more real.
And she was always real to him.
Always there, always constant. Constant and present in thought, action, word. He
felt her light spreading through him with every electrifying touch. The smallest things
caught his heart mid-beat, stopped his mind mid-thought. Her breath on his neck as she
leaned over to say something, her humming along to the rhythm, her simple smiles when
she saw him looking, watching. Everything she was affected him, affected every part of
him. He knew she was there. He knew her. She was the most real thing in the world to
him.
Yet she was not real to him.
Too good to be true, the phrase he wore out day after day. It felt so surreal, they
felt so surreal. Everyday he woke and felt everything again and again and again, always
new, always throwing him back to the first time they touched, the first time they spoke,
the first time they danced. Each emotion he felt with fresh enthusiasm, but with the
familiar sensation of “too good to be true.” How could she happen? How could they
happen? Was this all a dream that might fade? He tried to remember, make sure he would
never forget, would never forget the moments and the little things they shared. He wanted
it all to be real for forever. He wanted it to be perfectly real for them. He wanted to be
real for her.

--P.A.

Unlock

I am not supposed to be thinking about you. I told myself to play it cool this time, to ignore the buzzing your smell creates. I am not supposed to be thinking about you, but I am.

10:01 and I’m sitting, staring, sitting and staring. My eyes hurt. My eyes hurt because of you. Because of you my eyes hurt. But don’t worry, it’s not because I have been crying. I’m not crying right now. Not like that one time. Or the others.

I can hear your laugh; see the scrunch of your nose, the shutting of your eyes. I make you laugh sometimes, sometimes. I feel your laugh as it climbs out from between your lips, fanning over my face, my mind. It makes me happy, pleasure sliding over my skin like the lotion you gave to help me feel better. Your laugh makes me feel better.

Your skin is hot when it touches, burning the feelings into my mind. We touch sometimes, sometimes. It can be a startling touch, but it can be a comforting touch too. You choose. But I know you don’t like choosing, so you won’t, and I’ll be left wondering what you really want.

I want to know, I want to feel. I want to see your mind, see you. What are you thinking? Are you thinking about me too? Am I confusing you just as much as you confuse me? Probably. But you won’t fix us unless I hand you the tools.

Maybe I should unlock the tool box.

--P.A.

 

Thinking

To: You
Love:
From: Me

We always talk about running away to Italy, about how we'll be hopelessly in love and live off of the charity of an old Italian couple until we can find jobs. You say we'd have cute little kids, because we're both so cute that they're bound to be cute. I decided we'd need a home by the sea side and one up in the mountains, both with lots of glass and pictures. We'd take lots of cute pictures, because we're both so cute that they're bound to be cute. We would own a dog.
Or at least, I think so.

You tell me about how you would love to live next to me. We'd run over at odd times and have long conversations, some of them ending in a waltz, some of them ending with our favorite jokes. You like to tell jokes, and I like to laugh. We make a great pair.
Or at least, I think so.

Sometimes I can't tell if you think we'd be great. They tell me you're no good, trouble, just like that Taylor Swift song that they listen to. Yeah, I think you're trouble too. But I kind of like your trouble... I like you. I like you like a student likes to write on desks. It seems harmless at first, but it's an addiction that drives the people who have to clean up crazy. You're driving my friends crazy. They wouldn't mind if you left. But I would.
Or at least, I think so.

You like to use words a lot. I've tried to see if I could figure out which words are real and which are not, but it's like trying to listen to only one voice in a five-part harmony, or only the cello in the orchestra's performance of Adagio in G Minor. I want to believe all of them, I want to not have to keep my reactions in check. I want you to mean all of them, I want you to not care if I keep my reactions in check. I want you to unleash the feelings that I keep pent up in fear, to unleash their magnificence and glory. Not for the world, but for you. I don't want all of them to see, but I don't care if they do. All I want is for you to know that they're there, and they're yours, and they're mine, and they're ours.
Or at least, I think so.

I hate that I confuse you, I hate that you confuse me, I hate that emotions are confusing. They're as confusing as

I couldn't think of anything as confusing. Tell me if you come up with something. For now I'll just pull a *Faulkner.

--P.A.

*William Faulkner, a rather renowned writer, liked to get creative and leave blanks in the middle of his writing. I guess he thought it was cool. Or maybe he's just a genius and laughs at us mere mortals that think he did it just to be cool.

Shot

That idea was shot down.
That bullet was shot in my heart.
You shot me out of the sky.

The idea of you and I was the idea you shot down, repeatedly. I tried to shoot it down too, but you took my gun. You stole my ability to shoot it down with your charm, your smile, your smell. I breathed it in and lost control. And you knew. You knew the effect you had, the power that you held. And you abused it.

The way you shot us down was like a bullet shot in my heart. Clean wound, but hard to mend. What with your knowledge of my  flare for the dramatics I hope you saw that simile coming.

When your bullet pierced me I fell. I fell long, fast, hard, the sky suddenly slipping, intent on banishing me from it's vast beauty. Down, down, down. The ground didn't welcome me with open arms, my landing pad rocky and damaging, like you had planned out exactly where I'd fall.

So thanks for the trip, I hope you got to see it through your closed eyes.

--P.A.

Love

Dear Love,
you stink.
From: Teenagers.

 Yeah yeah, not every teenager thinks love stinks. Or at least, we don't think so right at this moment. But what about tomorrow? What about two months ago? Pretty sure all of us have hated their love and what it does to us at some point in our supposedly miserable teenager-hood.

But...it doesn't always stink...does it?

No. No, love doesn't always make us groan, cry, glare. Love doesn't always cause a twisting pain in the stomach. Love doesn't always cause our judgement to be off. Love doesn't always have a bitter feel to it.

Sometimes love feels nice. It is a cool breeze that floats through our hair and rubs against our skin. It fills us with laughter, bubbling inside, bursting out and creating waves of joy. We thrive on the memories of the tingling in our chest, the shortened breaths, the long conversations. How could we ever live without love?

But just when love is playing it nice, giving us good feelings, it stops. Sometimes abruptly, sometimes stretching out the halt. We ask:
How could love  cause us pain? 
How could love not care anymore?
How could love betray us?

It's a dramatic thing, to fall in and out of love. The brain asks all of they psychological questions that has us spinning in circles, falling down amidst the memories of the feelings, the moments.

Love makes us do funny things. Love is a funny thing. But the funnier thing is, love doesn't make us all do the same funny things. It's different for each person. It has a different affect on each person.To try to define love is hopeless because yeah, maybe that definition works for you and fifteen other people in your neighborhood, but I'm sure that the next person in line on the alphabetical list of life has a different look on it, different emotions about it. But no matter how evident this is, love is still confined by those with narrow minds and narrow hearts. Your heart is big though, isn't it? Your mind is not narrow, is it? You know a love that no one else does.
We all feel love, we all know love. But your love is not my love, and my knowledge of love is not your knowledge of love.

--P.A.

Memories

It's the memories that kill us,
They're in an old box, stuffed under the bed, covered in a layer of dust.
They're in notebooks and carefully penned words.
They're lurking around the hallway corner in the picture you forgot to take down.

And these memories,
They make you cry.
They make you laugh.
They fill you with bittersweet longing.









Whew. I don't write poetry. Now I remember why.
Memories are something that have been on my mind, or haunting me, so to say. Sometimes I think "I need to forget and let go" but then I remember how much I've learned and say "not yet." But it's the holding on to these memories that hurt me deeper. The remembrance of an embrace, a look, a word; it shakes my nerve ends till a slight electric current runs around and around my heart, stomach, throat, head. Why do we as humans subject ourselves to these emotions that memories bring? Why do we hold on to things of the past?

Because we don't want to grow up.
Because we don't want to grow away, away from the things we have once felt and been fond of.

And because of a lot of other things. But those things are revealed to each individual gradually, over time.

--P.A.

Alive

These trees live, the sun shines, and the air is tangible. Take it as proof of life.

I hate theoretical questions because they make my brain think in ways I prefer not. It's a scary thing to think that I'm not alive and that this is all just pretend. Pretend that sometimes isn't very fun. But let's face it. This is real and we're alive. I can feel, you can feel, we all can feel. We feel our hearts race, we feel the cold floor in the morning, we feel the bitterness of disappointment. Can't you take that as enough proof? What else do you need?

 Some nights it is easier to just make believe that this is all just a dream, but where would the world be if it was only full of make believe and pretending? There would be no progression, no improvement. We need to accept the lives we live and make them ours. 

--P.A.

Intro

Welcome, unnamed reader. I don't know you, you don't know me, lovely situation, eh?

I guess I'm supposed to talk about this blog. Or myself. Or both. There's...uh... not much to say, I guess, about this blog, seeing as this is my first post. I chose the name/pen name because well, I like paper airplanes.

I could say that paper airplanes to me represent a beautiful release, an escape. They can be molded and shaped in the hands of others, just like us. But really, once let go, we fly where we decide. Our pathway is our own. Huh... I just came up with that. I guess it's true, but let's be honest here. That is not why I chose that name. I suppose the overarching reason behind it is that I thought it was simple, nice, catchy, and wouldn't be judged too harshly by my peers. Yeah, yeah. I shouldn't worry about them, because this is for me. But I worry anyway. I worry about a lot of things. I'm getting over it, sometimes.