I don't care. I don't care. I don't care. I don't care.

I wish I didn't care.

Part of me says, "Good Riddance." It's like you don't exist anymore. Not to me.

The other part of me is screaming.

Home

I think I want to go home. The problem? I'm not sure I know where home is anymore.

Is it my hometown? The place I lived for 18 years? I've been missing it lately. My beautiful mountains, my sky, my sunsets out by the volcanos. I miss my city lights, and the view from my kitchen window. I miss what I used to have there, but I think that's gone forever. I miss my friend(s). My parents are there I guess, in the house I grew up in. Quietly doing what they've always done. But in a house where we keep to ourselves and I have to go out to get any normal human interaction, am I home?

Is this my home? This tiny college dorm room in this college town where everyone is the same? Don't get me wrong, I like it here. It's just that sometimes I think about the people here...how they're all so perfect and happy and I'm not, and then I feel trapped and want to leave. I hate the tiny room and the tension and the shallow relationships and not being able to cook or watch a movie. And sometimes I feel so lonely here, I want to scream.

I feel pretty lost, I'm not going to lie. I guess I'll go work on the getting found part.

Love

I think love is when all the happiness someone brings you is worth all the pain that they cause you.

And hey, guess what. I don't love you anymore.

Because

Sometimes, it's nice to be reminded that this world is filled with billions of other people. And sometimes some of those people need your help

Take My Hand

One of my photography assignments was to create an album cover. I wasn't sure what to do, until I thought of my friend Blake who was pursuing music and working on recording an album. Perfect.

We went to the tunnels (well, maybe not THE tunnels...but a place with tunnels when you go down La Orilla). It was kind of awkward. I don't like taking photos of people...too much pressure to make them look good. I can't make someone else feel comfortable in front of a camera when I, myself, wouldn't feel comfortable and when I barely feel adequate behind the camera.

This was one of the first photos I took. Blake offered me his hand to help me from one concrete block to the next as we made our way over to the tunnel. I told him to freeze, and took this.

I took a few other pictures. I used a different one for the assignment. But this photo...this one.

I'm not going to go into some explanation of what it means, symbolism, blah blah blah. You can decide that for yourself. I just...I like it. I like looking at it and thinking "I took this. I captured this moment, and pretty dang well if I say so myself." I don't even like this edit very much. I've never been able to get it to look right on a computer screen. The colors in the print are brighter, and better (I promise).

I like thinking that this photo hangs somewhere in the office of my high school, like I left something behind. Proof I existed, a few years from now when no one remembers me.

I've been thinking about the time I took this photo a lot today. Those months, that life I was living when I took this...wondering if anyone would offer me their hand now.

Monologues, etc.

The post below is my favorite monologue I ever performed during my time in theater. I just love how strong Portia is...how she stands up to Brutus and says "HEY. I'm here. Talk to me. I deserve to know what's going on."

I was thinking today, and wishing I could act again. I've never wanted to pursue theater and really I still don't. I got tired of it and quit and I don't regret that.

I wish I had another chance to act because I want to shout at someone. I want to lace my voice with spite and hatred and tighten my jaw and narrow my eyes. I want to get angry. Well, I already am angry actually. And I want to let that anger out.

That was always the cool thing about acting. I don't remember ever being openly hostile to someone in person. I try to act sweet, quiet, and gentle for the most part. Sweet, quiet, gentle Melissa doesn't shout or spit angry words in someone's face, no matter how much she wants to. When I was acting though, I got to be someone different. I got to be the kind of person who shouts when she's mad. I got to be the kind of person who's voice shakes with anger, who's cold eyes stare the offender down, who's jaw clenches with hatred before she explodes. Even if it was only for a short scene on a small stage a couple times a week during rehearsal.

I'm more angry now than I've been in a long time. And I know even if I were given the opportunity, I would probably just break down and start crying furious tears instead of yelling. I am dying to get on stage again. Give me one monologue...just one...something spiteful, and mean, so I can get it out of my system and start feeling normal again.

Portia

Nor for yours neither. You've ungently, Brutus,
Stole from my bed: and yesternight, at supper,
You suddenly arose, and walk'd about,
Musing and sighing, with your arms across,
And when I ask'd you what the matter was,
You stared upon me with ungentle looks;
I urged you further; then you scratch'd your head,
And too impatiently stamp'd with your foot;
Yet I insisted, yet you answer'd not,
But, with an angry wafture of your hand,
Gave sign for me to leave you: so I did;
Fearing to strengthen that impatience
Which seem'd too much enkindled, and withal
Hoping it was but an effect of humour,
Which sometime hath his hour with every man.
It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep,
And could it work so much upon your shape
As it hath much prevail'd on your condition,
I should not know you, Brutus. Dear my lord,
Make me acquainted with your cause of grief.

-Portia
William Shakespeare's Julius Caesar