by then, I will be me.

I will see you in a while.

But for now I will buy myself some flowers.

I will write.

and I will enjoy this middle, undefinable time.

I will see those things differently.

I will figure out what I can fix and what was not mine to hold in the first place.

and I will be totally transformed by the time you come around.

what's wrong with 365?

I have been working myself up to starting a 365 blog.  something... anything that I could try to do once, just once,  every day. baking? photoing? writing? I duh know.

And yet, the only thing I seem to be able to do every day is procrastinate and do nothing at all.
I think I am so afraid of failing, of missing a day and having the wrath of myself come down upon... well... myself. or even worse, miss a day/ week/ month and not even care.
I am not all about failing.  Especially when I have a choice to blend in and not have anyone realize I am failing by not doing anything at all.

so, I feel it bubbling up. something. something to be dedicated to.  something other than facebook to be slightly obsessed with.  something that I may even find myself passionate about.  And who knows? I could be the new "Cake Wrecks" of the blogging world.  who. knows.

Here is to tomorrow. Here's to one more night of procrastination.  Here is to reading this blog in a month and remembering what I had wanted to do (nah. no cheers to that. we will see change this time)

remember?

As a twenty-something, about to be a twenty-something-more, I cannot help but come out of this a little bit wrinkled and grayed. I am not saying I am old. I have too many who are old surrounding me to think that of myself. But I certainly am aging.

But in this process, part of me just wants to go back.

I woke up late, today. And instead of laying there basking in the beginnings of my day, filled with glee at the thought of waking up, I pressed snooze so that I would not have to deal with the problems I knew the day would bring. I woke up late. And instead of enjoying it, I hurried to catch up with the fading sun.

I took my kids out to recess and worried about my too-tight shirt and my wind blown hair.

I saw my crush and worried about my too-tight shirt and wind blown hair.

I went to the store and worried about my too-tight shirt and wind blown hair.

I also worried about my bills. other's bills. starting a business. doing laundry. having enough change to do laundry. crying in front of the wrong people. my mom's health. my dad's sanity. my sister's job. my brother's runny nose.

How do I look? How do I feel? How do I appear? I hope these are all different. because I know the answer to one or two of them.

Remember when all you had to worry about was if there was enough puff paint on your denim jacket, if your teased bangs were puffy enough, and if you would get to tag your crush on the playground? When going to the store only meant begging for a toy, and having the electricity turned off just meant you got to play with candles?

Actually. I don't remember those times either.

Sometimes remembering is hard. Not harder. But hard.

I, like you, am afraid of writing. Afraid that I will only hurt them. Afraid that they will not understand that I have forgiven, but I do not have to have forgotten.

Why is it that in the midst of remembering a moment of peace, a torrent of other thoughts flood in?

I remember eskimo kisses

I remember recorded Saturday morning cartoons

I remember cool-aid popsicles

I remember yelling

I remember love

I remember leaving

I remember crying

I remember needing

I remember soggy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on a long bus ride away from home.

I remember purple fingerprints on a bruised neck.

I remember making myself only cry out for "mommy" after years of also having "Daddy"

I remember Birthday cards.

I remember Christmas cards.

I remember Valentine's day cards.

I remember being terrified.

So I guess I was wrong. No part of me wants to go back. I just wish I could retrieve it, go back and rub its head and say "It will all be okay. No one will die. You will be happy. Promise. Now use that sun-block, because you may have early signs of aging if you don't, dear."

Problem is. There seems to be no reprieve. They still leave or just never come around. The electric still gets turned off, but candles are not as fun. There are no more fingerprints on her neck but her medication runs out and she falls down.

Good news is. I am not alone.

Other good news: I never felt like that was unbearable. It just was. It just is. Life sucks sometimes... but that is life, right? I am still happy. It does not have to feel like sucking. It just sometimes feels heavy. Sometimes my chest hurts. Sometimes I cry at recess.

Maybe I just need some cooler candles and another container of cool-aid, and perhaps some puff paint.

absence.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Memories more desirable through layers of reflecting fragments.

Like shattered glass covering a muddled mess.

Dangerous to tread.

Beautiful to remember.

A forgotten fear.

An enticing boredom.

A mask of recollections made up with the concealer of time.

How beautiful, a past blurred with forgetfulness.