Mind Runs At Midnight

Just a girl trying to post what's on her mind every midnight, when her mind is the busiest.

[mindrunsatmidnight]

I Never Meant to Let You Down

Mama always told me to do what makes me happy.

Mama always told me to follow my dreams. In her eyes, her baby was never meant to fly from the nest; she was meant to soar.

Mama always told me to keep my eye on the prize. As long as my mind was set, I was capable to do what no person had ever done before.

But I know parents also want the best for their children.

So when Mama told me to do what makes me happy, she reminded me to find a career that was stable.

When Mama told me to follow my dreams and I dreamt to be a writer, she feared that I would fail; that I would be unable.

When Mama told me to keep my eye on the prize, she set my mind to think that the prize was only a house, a job, and a salary.

But Mama, I can't be happy if I have no passion for what I do.

Mama, these dreams I have are no longer mine. They've become yours; they're dreams I'd never even had before.

And Mama, you always told me that I could do anything. But if I keep this path of practicality I will barely be able to fly, or let alone soar.

I understand you want the best for me, I do, but the best isn’t what you’re wishing from me.

You never meant for me to be unhappy, and I never meant to let you down.

[mindrunsatmidnight]

I was never meant to be a journalist.

I was born to be a creator of stories, not a narrator.

[mindrunsatmidnight]

Mama, you told me to follow my dreams. But they are no longer mine; they're yours.

I never meant to disappoint you

[mindrunsatmidnight]

In a sense, parents are supposed to be their child’s best friends. They’re the first to take care of me, the first shoulder that I cried on, and the first people to make me laugh until my stomach hurt. Even as time goes by, I found new friends, and I’m all grown up, my parents are still my best friends. 

But once I became an adult, I found it slightly harder to keep that relationship. Not because I’ve moved on with my life and I’ve been doing different things, but I know that parents worry. It’s an instinctive habit that doesn’t stop, even and especially when their baby goes off to college. I find it harder to talk to my parents about my life this semester, especially since almost everything but my grades have gone horribly wrong. No, Ma, I haven’t made any new friends here but I don’t mind; it’s fine. No, Daddy, I haven’t set out to have all of the adventures I was looking to have this semester but it’s ok; I’m fine. No, I’m not happy at this elite university that is a thousand miles away from everything I know and love but I’m going for my dreams, right Mom and Dad? I’ll be fine.

I don’t want them to worry. As far as I’m concerned, if I’m not starving, dirt poor, or homeless, then I’ll tell them that I’m fine.

[mindrunsatmidnight]

Sadness is everywhere. The most common sadnesses come from heartbreak, loss, and betrayal. However, the worst kind of sadness is not knowing why you are sad.

[mindrunsatmidnight]

Fitting In

All my life, I’ve bounced from group to group just trying to fit in. From elementary school, middle school, high school, I was always trying to find friends that I could be a part of and would accept me. 

I’ve lost a lot of friends in my life because of this trial and error.

I thought it was just a phase because of the community I was stuck with, and things would be better when I got to university.

Two years of college, and I still seem to be an outcast. 

I’ve accepted that I am the person I was meant to be and I love to embrace that, but I still have a fear that nobody else will.

[mindrunsatmidnight]

A Prolonged Writer’s Block

Lately it seems as if my inspiration, my motivation, and my passion are constantly blocked. 

And for months now, I’ve never been able to figure out why but recently, it’s been made clear to me.

I was reading an article giving advice to 20-year-olds about love, life, and careers. I wasn’t reading it because I was so desperate to know how to be 20, but mainly because it just popped up during my daily news feed scroll and with nothing better to do, I clicked to read. I skimmed through without taking any of the lessons to heart, until I got to the very last one.

“Don’t be so concerned with what you should do, but rather with what you want to do.”

That’s when I was finally to reach a realization about why I am no longer motivated to write: because I’ve turned my passion into a job.

And to me this was an extremely depressing revelation, knowing that I want to love what I do, but I cannot love it because it is something I do.

The summer before college, I started this anonymous account. I called it “mindrunsatmidnight” because my mind was most active in the middle of the night, and this usually motivated me to write whatever I was thinking. I knew it was never meant to be anything serious. No audience, no critic; just myself, my Tumblr, and a keyboard. I could have so much chaos and mayhem during my day but by the time midnight rolled around, I was in a state of active meditation. And honestly it was one of the best feelings, even though my writings would be rather sad. 

But ever since I’ve phased myself out of Tumblr and transitioned to professional writing – contributing to online magazines, creating my own Wordpress blog – the meditation ceased and the pressure began.

The creative world that was once my own, was now open for everyone else but what many can see, they also criticize. I underestimated the difficulty of getting through to professors, editors, and worse, the public. As many of my works got criticized, edited, or rejected, my creativity began to dwindle as my mind became set on pleasing the readers. 

I know a successful writer is best-known for their individual style and voice, it’s difficult to not be affected by the opinion of the readers. 

Writing was once an expression and one I just happened to be good at, but turning it into a profession has suppressed my creative outlet.

I miss writing with the chaos of my thoughts and organizing them into metaphors, similes and personifications. 

I miss the constant flow of ideas that came through my imagination.

I miss the instinct that followed behind my words, without giving a second-thought about what other people will think.

I was never that kind of person before and though this is probably just a case of toughening up, I can’t seem to express my passions without fine-tuning it to compel to readers. 

Because without a reader, what is the point in being a writer?

[mindrunsatmidnight]

To spread out my legs where ours should intertwine and hugging your hoodie drenched in your cologne instead of taking the essence of you, is just a reminder of another lonely night spent.

[mindrunsatmidnight]

I'm sitting outside of my door, knowing how easy it is to unlock it, go upstairs, lay in bed. But what I know is difficult is falling asleep tonight. I just can't stop thinking from the moment I stepped out of your room. I can't stop thinking about how cute you look when you're fast asleep. About your twitch when I was in your arms. About the warmth of your body when you held me so close. It's 12:11 in the morning and it seems like the wind carries nothing but the scent of your bedsheets, the taste of your kiss, the essence of you. And in this moment, no matter how much I want to get comfortable, no matter how tired I am, and no matter if I have class the next morning, I can't stop thinking about how much I just want you next to me.

[mindrunsatmidnight]

I Knew Of A Girl

I knew of a girl who called herself Sam.

Knew of, not knew.

She chose the seat next to mine on the first day of class. I never understood why she purposefully sat by this awkward, quiet boy that was myself but for 98 days, we were isolated on an island called the back row. While she doodled drawings on paper, I doodled tallies on desks; mainly keeping count of every day I was bored (which was, every day.)

Day 1, we did exercises on getting to know each other. This is the only reason I know the few things that composed her being. For example, I knew to call her Sam or Samantha, never Sammy. I knew she had never set foot outside of Richmond. I knew she had no siblings. I knew she liked coffee and she loved violin, but after Day 1, I never thought I’d know more about her.

Even then, I found that I learned much more than I thought. I knew she’d always say hello and ask how I was, even if I was just always “okay.” I knew she’d never leave until she’d tell me to have a good day. I knew she saw me copying her notes, but she’d push them for me to see instead of covering the page. I knew that words always looked better when she was the one writing them. I knew that her caramel brown hair always got in her face. I knew she always had that extra blue pen in her bag when I’d forget mine almost every single day. I knew I’d never forget her smile as she told me to keep her pen on day 98, and I knew I’d never forget it again when she was absent on day 99.

Because I did not know who she was or what she was going through. I never knew her passion of wandering the world and leaving this town behind. I never knew that she got lonely at night because she had no older sister, younger brother, or even a mother to tell her that things would be okay. I never knew her thermos was filled with one-half coffee, the other half vodka. I never knew how many tears she cried as daddy snapped the neck of her violin; I never knew that daddy called her “Sammy” when he did things he shouldn’t; I never knew there was so much misery behind the sweetest smile. Most of all, I never knew how she left this world and I will never want to, because I’d rather hold on to what little I knew.

I just wish I missed her in a more meaningful way.

I wish I knew all of her fears and insecurities. I wish I knew what her flaws were, if she ever did have any. I wish I knew how her hair smelled, how her lips tasted, how her skin felt. I wish I knew everything so I knew why I loved her but fact is, I never once asked how she was doing or what her phone number was. I never asked her where she lived or if she wanted to get a coffee without vodka. I never told her to have a good day or how pretty she was or that things were going to be okay.

I knew of a girl who called herself Sam.

Knew of, not knew.

I will only know of this wonderful person that I never actually knew, but I just wish I knew more than her name.

[mindrunsatmidnight]

Today in communications class, our professor created an exercise by asking us when was the last time we felt like we were treated like an object. A moment of silence followed as the class pondered their responses, then it was broken as she started one of the most important lessons anyone could learn. With a dried blue marker, she listed two columns that read "People vs. Objects" and asked us to list their differences. The first one that came to our minds was feelings. She went on to describe how an object is measurable to a full extent, but a person carries immeasurable and limitless attributes like feelings, psyche, soul and mind. These are all part of a concept she called the "black box" because of its infinity. The next few bullet points were among the more common examples I didn't quite take to heart, but were still important. People change and grow while objects stay the same. People can act and react while objects only react. People need others to survive while an object can survive alone. Our professor got to number five and this one made me think. She stated that people are unique and irreplaceable, but objects are the opposite. Objects have the ability to take on monotonous forms, but two people are never quite the same, especially in relationships. You have the ability to physically substitute another person and replace them in their title, but every significant person in your life will continue to be a part of who you are and they aren't traits you can erase from your being. She continued to explain number six and the difference in their value. People carry an inherent value whereas an object has only an ascribed value. Objects are given a (worthless) value by people when it is needed, such as our cellphones and ascribed value is only means to an end. Inherent value is an end in oneself; people are valuable simply because of who they are. The last item she wrote on the board was an ability to reflect. An object is not aware or able to reflect upon itself while people are infinite with the thoughts we are able to ponder. In other words, we are limitless, but objects are not. After this depth of explanation, she asked the question again. We were able to respond with a better understanding of the definition and when we finished our stories, she continued the lesson. We've all been objectified, yet we objectify others because it is just too easy. We can't treat each other as if we are static, as if we are replaceable, as if our value is worthless. People are more than that and carry so much meaning within them and if you look at the big picture, this is why people are amazing and humanity is beautiful. Our bodies are condensed with so much capability; we have no boundaries. We cannot underestimate the depths of another because if we do...we become the objects. We become static, monotonous, replaceable, worthless. Treat people as people, because that's who they are and all these deserve to be.

--My communications professor, when was the last time you felt like an object

[mindrunsatmidnight]

I know it's selfish but I can't bear the thought of having to lose somebody else so important to me.

[mindrunsatmidnight]

There are days when I miss you more than anything, but everyday I never forget the things you've taught me.

[mindrunsatmidnight]

You're too long of a story and I'm too tired to tell.

mindrunsatmidnight

[mindrunsatmidnight]

People will tell you that you are not alone but based on the amount of help I've received, it's not hard to prove them wrong.

[mindrunsatmidnight]

Why do I try to expect a response from a goodbye letter

[mindrunsatmidnight]

Once Upon A Time

If I could make life a storybook…I'd edit it hundreds, maybe even thousands of times before I sent it to the publisher. Parts would be rewritten, forgotten, added, subtracted, just to create the perfect fairytale. It would consist of a flawless beginning and a happy ending. Once upon a time, a girl knew how to love. Once upon a time, she didn’t give her heart to boys who didn’t know what to do with it. Once upon a time, she knew how to say “I love you” when she knew what love was. She wasn’t scared; those powerful words made her believe she could fly. The words took her on an amazing journey with her perfect prince. The two loved each other so innocently, yet so intensely. There was no heartbreaking, and no need for heart healing. Both hearts could stay perfectly whole, and they had everything they needed for happily ever after.

If only that was life. As much as we’d like to believe that’s how it happens, it’s not. More often than not, here’s how the real story goes. Once upon a time, a girl was reckless and naive. Once upon a time, she was hungry for love. Once upon a time, she had fallen in love a first time, and a second time, and a third and a fourth, and however many times it took for her to realize there were too many frogs in the pond, yet not enough fish in the sea. Once upon a time, she fell in love with her best friend. Even if their story was written with a mix of smiling and sadness, laughing and fighting, confusion and satisfaction...she knew that finally, this was love. But she was scared; even if she knew she wasn’t flying, she thought she’d crash yet again. She left her words unsaid and journey untraveled because her heart swerved enough for this boy, this prince charming. But even if he was perfection, timing never was. They lost each other, as well as their hearts. Not the ending one would expect, but it’s the ending nobody wants.

Unfortunately for us, life isn’t a storybook nor a fairytale. Life to us is a reality.

We can make believe and rewrite the stories in our heads, but we can’t rewrite the aching in our hearts. We can erase words on a page, but we can’t erase how their voice used to say them. We can delete the texts we sent at midnight, but we can’t delete the memories we spent with them. As much as we try to move on, we can’t because it’s easier to remember happiness than to try and forget it. And though that’s not how the stories are told, well that’s how they happen. For once upon a time, no one gets a happily ever after.