. . .

The dead of night,

An unrelenting peace,

Above me

I find a sea of stars.

It is a cold winter night,

But I know

In the end

There will be rest for all of us.

Have you ever had a dream where you got up, and went about your morning?

You get dressed, maybe get in your car and start driving to wherever it is you go. You notice the car is harder to control today than it was yesterday, maybe a problem with your wheel? Either way you keep driving.

You get to wherever it is you go but everything is off. The people seem different. The furniture is strange. You can't put your finger exactly on why, though, so you go about your day as usual.

Then something happens. You can't exactly tell what, but you know your're scared. Something flashes out of the corner of your eye, dark, and instilling a primal fear in your gut. You try to move, scream, anything, but you can't. You're stuck where you are, this unknown threat lomming just outside of your field of vision. Maybe you regain control of your limbs but it feels as though you're running through a deep body of water. Your legs restrained by the atmosphere that seems to have thickened around you in the past few seconds. You still can't see the figure from before but you know its there. You can feel it watching as you struggle to escape.

You awake with a start. Looking around you can see you are in your bed, safe. You go about your day, the dream quickly fading from your mind. The dread may still linger, but you can rest easy knowing it was never real.

Music has always been in my life, ever since I was young.

I think one of my earliest memories was from when I was just a small child, in my grandparents living room. My grandpa had his electric guitar plugged into an amp and was playing music he had written. I think it was one about my grandma. He had a lot about my grandma.

After he died, I got that electric guitar. It's a red Washburn guitar he bought in the 90s. The fretboard is worn down and the red body probably isn't as vibrant as it was over 30 years ago, but it's his. I don't play the electric guitar all that much, I'm more of an acoustic person myself, but it's a nice reminder.

I also got his favorite guitar pick, probably as old as the guitar. It's a small cream-colored thing. The end is worn down to a nice rounded edge. It has an American flag on it with the words "united we stand" on it. He used that pick to make so much music. It's the only one I like playing with, it just sounds much better than any of my other ones.

I study music now. I'm not majoring in it since my university doens't have that yet, but I'm getting a vocal performance minor. It's weird to think about how if it weren't for that early exposure to people making music, and enjoying music so thoroughly I wouldn't be the person I am today.

I have music to thank for being alive.

The ticking of the clocks,

Their simple rhythm,

The gentle tick, tick, tick torturous as I lay sleeplessly.

The room is spinning though I am laying down.

It's too hot, too cold.

Is this what hell is like?

I'm being sucked down

Deeper

And deeper

Into the pit of my mind.

I'm going to be sick.

But where am I going?

I can feel my body laying still.

The clocks are still ticking.

I don't think I'll be getting much sleep tonight.

Every morning on my way to school, there is a specific route I take that gets me there quicker.

You would think that driving out to the highway, and then hopping on another highway, then taking yet another highway would be the fastest route for someone so far out into the county, but it's not. It's the safest which means nothing to me.

My way takes a right turn at the church I was baptized in, whose roof got blown off in a tornado last year, and finally reopened in time for Thanksgiving mass. Something to be thankful for indeed. I still make the sign of the cross every time I pass it though I no longer consider myself to be Catholic. The road is named for the church, and it stretches all the way to the highway where I turn to get on to the one that leads to my university.

This is, for lack of better term, a curvy-ass road. It's the one I learned to drive on and subsequently had a panic attack on. It is full of hills, has multiple 90 degree turns, and passes through numerous fields. The speed limit is 40mph and it really shouldn't be, but I drive it at that speed anyway. I have to slow down about 20mph for every sharp turn just so I don't spin out or crash into a field (which happened once, I know the family but I never told them).

It's as scenic as Southern Indiana can get in my opinion.

In mid-September when everything is almost ready to be harvested, I like to leave a bit earlier so I can watch as the dew on the crops evaporates with the rising sun, casting a golden and hazy light on everything. There's this one specific tree in the middle of one of these fields, in a deep valley, where this is the most prominent. Even in winter, or in the rain, or just after the harvest, I look at that tree and everything is alright. I sometimes slow down, if it's been a particularly hectic morning. That tree also symbolizes the fact that I am now halfway to school, and about to face the highway once again. It is the boundary between my home and the urban sprawl of the city that I hate so much but will deliver me from the life I've longed to leave since I was young. Sometimes I see that tree and feel dread, but sometimes I see it and a wave of peace washes over me.

I can only hope that the peace lasts through the day.

For me, writing has always been a love-hate sort of thing. I am most certainly not a words person, but I like challenging myself. I love writing academically, but I also love writing about things I'm passionate about. I've posted many a blog posts about random topics I can think about. I think by joining this club I can expand my writing style to more than just this kind of academic vibe I've noticed myself falling into. If you were to actually talk to me in a random conversation, you would notice I do NOT speak how I write.

It used to be different.

I used to write exactly how I spoke. But of course that was NOT good for an academic setting. I was told my writing was too informal, and that I needed more "sophistication" in it. And I attribute that to how I write today. My blog was a good start I think, before I kind of abandoned it (not for long!!!! I have Plans), but being able to write without worrying about having to be formal felt so freeing.

Of course I had my Writings page, and I posted some of my work there, but I'm not happy with them. I still have some of my zines up and available (I still need to format some of them to be readable without printing them), but some of them were just kind of... meh? I guess? I don't know.

I do actually write in my free time, but it just so happens that I hate everything I write. Every artists greatest pitfall. I have countless fanfics I have written, but have I posted them? No. Will I? Maybe. I don't know yet. It really is just a matter of confidence for me.

I think, though, with time I will be just fine.