I don’t know what I want to do with my life

A brief essay on my future

You know, I really don’t know what I want to do with my life. When I try to think about my future, I just imagine myself, standing there, looking much older than I am right now. I am not doing anything. I’m just standing there with an interchangeable background still. What is my job? What is my life like? Am I happy? God, I hope I am. Because with the way adolescence is treating me, you’d think I will never be happy. But maybe I chose my future so particularly that I am forced to be happy. Maybe my future ends up good and easy going. But how do I get there? I don’t know. I don’t even know what I am doing tomorrow, let alone with my life.
I’d like to do a lot of things. Getting an idea for a future goal really isn’t my problem. I have wanted to be a psychologist for a long time now. But I don’t know if I am so committed to nine years of college for a doctorate. Then there is writing. I’ve always been good at that yet somehow I manage to fail English class because I hate doing homework. If I hate homework I don’t know if nine years of school is a good idea. But with writing, you see, there is all these deadlines and learning about Victorian literature and French philosophy. I just want to write, and get paid. So, then, there is this totally different idea of becoming a filmmaker. Ever since I was a little kid, I loved making movies and recording things. I recorded over my great aunt’s birthday film just to practice bootlegging in my grandparent’s living room. I know, and yes, I got in trouble. But no matter how much I love the art of film, and trust me, I watch a lot of movies, my mother doesn’t see it as a practical idea to land myself some money and a stable career.
I can’t go to medical school because I will throw up if you talk about veins or how we have a heartbeat. My science teacher literally had to stop giving her lecture during class because she thought I was going to vomit. She asked me if I wanted to leave the room while she talked about blood. I can stand the idea of blood, when being described in a literal sense. I am good at describing with the written word. But novelist isn’t really in the best interest, as said before. So journalist? Well, I don’t really care much for current news. I don’t really care much for people either, so becoming a sales person is also out of the option. I’d just be very cynical and rude all the time. “Buy this or I will stab you”. Yeah, I probably shouldn’t become a sales person. Or waitress; I don’t have much hospitality.
I couldn’t be an artist. I mean sure, yes, that one time in Studio in Art I drew a really good picture. But I don’t care very much for art. I like photography, but I hate photographers. What with their hipster attitude and putting everyday things in black and white just to give it a meaning. They’re always trying to find some kind of meaning. I couldn’t be an artist. I would look at an apple and be like “That is a nicely drawn apple” and someone would come up and try to tell me that it is the “Fruit of the world and the heart of God”. Speaking of apples, I’m not very good at transitions. Nevertheless, I couldn’t become a chief. I burned my hand one time on the top of an oven while taking out a casserole and because of that very traumatic event, I make all my friends take food out of the oven now. You can give me the thickest mitts ever and I’d find a way to manipulate someone into taking those already burnt cookies out for me. So there are two more paths I cannot take.
Let’s just get all sports out of the picture right now. I can barely walk up stairs. Do you really expect me to go work out when there is a perfectly good couch right there? I don’t really like most sports, anyway. The sports I enjoy, I am not very good at. Well, I am not very good at any sport and that right there is exactly my point. I’m not going to become an athlete. I don’t have very much will power. “Hmm I could go for a jog but oh look some Oreos are all alone why don’t I bring them some joy”. I also couldn’t be a physical therapist. As I said before, I am not a people person and touching these same people, who are sweaty, nonetheless, and making them move in all sorts of positions really isn’t what I want to spend my life doing. I don’t even like shaking hands with people. When I was younger, I would wipe my hand off after people gave peace in church. The catholic school teachers didn’t like that very much. But then I moved into public school where sweaty hands are the norm.
I really couldn’t be a teacher. No offense to teachers, but unless your life is exactly like every cliché movie where the teacher with the troubled past reaches out to troubled kids and you all live happily ever after, I don’t want to become part of a schooling system. If I was an English teacher I would hate the novels they made the kids read and make them do writing tasks, because, hey, I like writing. If I was a history teacher all I would be doing was looking out for the kid like me who actually thought of an easier way Hitler could have gotten rid of all the Jews. Putting this disturbing fact aside, I couldn’t be a science teacher because most sciences either disgust or bore me. I like some aspects of science, but there is usually math involved. And if I was a math teacher, well let’s just say that this would only be occurring if we were in a place called hell. Hopefully I could somehow defend my way out of that situation.
I’m a good arguer. I think so at least. Why? Do you have proof I am not? I’d like to talk to your lawyer. No. I can’t become any part of our government and that includes lawyers and attorneys and tax officials. I don’t want to study law and learn laws and read Latin. For a while, back in Middle School, I wanted to become a lawyer. But then I read all the courses you have to take, and how long it takes and the bar exam and I got completely overwhelmed. I also, like many others, don’t really care to work in the government. Don’t worry I won’t be holding a sign at a rally, explaining the corruptness of it. I’ll just be standing with my background still, wondering what in god’s name I’m doing with my life. Perhaps a lawyer can explain it to me.
And then there is always the option of going to a four year college and working in a cubicle and hating my life. But I can’t sit still during a three hour exam let alone spend eight hours a day doing paper work. I can’t hear phrases like “The copier is jammed” or “Open Microsoft Excel and make a new template”. I refuse to sit at a computer screen and read memos and listen to that sound a fax machine makes. Do people even send faxes anymore? I can’t hear Cisco phones ring and padded feet on carpet. I just couldn’t. I would lose my mind. I would be the one to set the office on fire and watch outside, sipping from my foam cup filled with coffee, as ashes and soot fall onto my well-pressed blazer.
So, what do I do? Who do I become? Standing in front of a background still, if that is even a thing, is that even a real thing? Did I make that up? The point is I can’t stand in front of some random city, while people busy by. I can’t just stand somewhere, like an open field, in everyday clothing, in an everyday mood, ready for the world. I don’t know what I want to do. I can’t go and ask my future self “Hey, does everything work out? What are you doing? How is your life? Are you happy?” because that’s not how the world works. I hope I end up happy and free yet contempt with my finite and confined life. It seems like a hard thing to accomplish now and days. I don’t know what I want to do.
I know that, at the very least, I want to change. I want to become a better person than I was and that I am. But how do I get there? By seeing the world and traveling places, or by simply opening my eyes in the small town I am in? Do I talk to more people, or do I shut myself out and somehow hope that my mind finds the answer with solitude? You see, there is no true answer. Life is paradoxical. You find a way to make your life work, or you don’t and that results in other people’s lives working and that results in your life working. Maybe you are meant to help people. Maybe you are meant to help yourself.
Some people go through life thinking every plan is made out for them. That they have a destiny, that everything will work out for them if they simply do one thing: let it. You see, I don’t know what I am going to do with my life. But I know I am not going to wait around for this so called destiny to come and grant me every wish like to find love and meaning and happiness. Life is paradoxical.
In order to let destiny happen, I believe, you must first choose what happens to you. And your choice will lead to your fate, to your true destiny. But your fate is the one that made you choose. But, you must choose for yourself. You are in charge for your future. And it is funny, really, that I still don’t even know what I am going to do tomorrow. Because that is just it. You don’t know- at least, I don’t.

Second Person Narrative

You look outside your window. It has snowed a lot since the last time you were able to muster enough energy to get out of bed, and see. All that white powder, layered on top of itself. It makes you think, doesn’t it? There must be four or five feet of snow out there, outside and below the window. The kids who live down the road are probably playing out there, right now, in all that snow. They are probably making forts and digging holes and having snow ball fights. Remember when you were young, and you had snow ball fights? Remember running, and playing? Remember being outside?

You used to make the best snow forts. You were the master of all the snow forts, they said. You would pack down each handful, layer after layer, until a wall was built. And then you would make the other kids build walls, and so it went. Soon, the fort would be amazingly tall and would protect you from dragons and evil invaders of the other kingdoms. Your snow fort was the best; it had rooms and snow ball chambers. It had tunnels and wood planks to hold up the many stories that would intertwine within the entire castle. You had fun. You loved the snow.

More snow flakes, these big, white ones, fall down outside the frosty window. You place your hand on the window and feel how cold it is, the small thin sheet of ice melting under your hands. Your hands are too warm. You take the coldness on your hand and put it on your face. That feels good. Do it again. Cool down your rosy cheeks and your reddened forehead. And now the window doesn’t have any white, crispy frost anymore. So you sigh, and lean against the wall that lines this window seat, and close your eyes.

“Lyn,” You hear and open your lids. Mother is standing in the doorway. “Lyn get back into bed, darling,” She orders. Don’t you hate mother when she orders? Always telling people what to do. “Lyn,” She warns, after you don’t do anything.

“I am just sitting,” You say softly. “It isn’t as if I am running around in the snow,”

“You need to rest,” She demands, placing her hands on her hips and gripping the hand towel in her hand tighter. Always carrying around some kind of cleaning supply.

“I am resting. I am sitting,” You tell the woman. She sighs and looks at the wooden floor.

“Are you hungry?” Mother asks. You shrug. You’re not hungry but they all want you to be.

“No,” You say.

“Very well. If you do get hungry I will be back up in an hour or so, all right?” She asks. You are supposed to tell her it is all right and not even a bit wrong.

“All right, mother. Goodbye,”

“Goodbye, Lyn. Get back to bed soon,” And she leaves, seeming still distressed. The visit was worthless, you know, but she is just being kind. You know that, right? She is just being kind and making sure you’re okay. But it is not all right.

“Someday,” You say out loud, watching the snow fall. “Someday I will be outside again. Someday I will live again. Someday I will-” It is a shame you start coughing. It is a shame you have that thing, what is it called? Tuberculosis, you think. Tuberculosis and something else. They won’t tell you what the something else is. Truly a shame.

How many years has it been? You think about it. Three years sitting in this room. You used to, when it was not very bad, go throughout the house and play with the cats and just stay indoors. But a few months ago it has been nothing but sitting in bed all day, waiting to feel better. Remember that week when no one could come and see you? That’s when your mind went like this. That week when you talked to no one. Was it more than a week? It felt like decades, don’t you remember?

“Decades,” You say. “Decades of living like this. I hate living like this I hate it I-” And there it is. Cough cough cough. “You hate living like this,” You say. “You hate living in a room forever. You have to leave. You have to go out in the snow again,”

“Lyn was that you coughing?” Mother asks from down the hall, dusting, presumably.

“Fine, mother,” You say. You will be fine. She does not answer. “You will be fine,” You say aloud.

And you will. You just have to watch the snow and remember it and then you will feel better. Life used to come forever and then it only came in these small bouts. And then it stood still. And now you are here. It is funny, isn’t it? How life works out like that. The frost is back on the window so you trace your hand on the fog and draw a line, bit slowly make it break and then stop it all together. Just like your life.

“Funny how it works,” You say. “Funny how you are not a self anymore,”

“Lyn,” Mother calls, again. She opens the door with a book in her hands. “Care to do some reading?”

“No,” You say. “Would not care at all,”

You would not care?” She asks. “At all?”



Hey everyone! I hope you enjoyed my example of a second person narrative. I wrote this a little while ago because my English teacher and I had a conversation months back about second person narratives. I know, I am such a rebel, writing these things and breaking the POV rules. Comment below on how you felt about it. Was it awkward? Did you feel violated that the narrator was in second person? I’d love to know! As always, keep on writing!


You all have seen them before. Those little specks that float around in your sight, and when you move your eye to the right, they move too. You can’t focus on them, ever, and they get more noticeable the less you actually try to notice them, which is truthfully annoying. You see similar ones when you look at the sun, in a nice, straight line perpendicular to the sun’s brightest spot. Those specks, I call them. The specks that are not always circles, sometimes blotches, sometimes lines, sometimes a box, or triangle. But they’ll always be there. Not every day, not every week, but when you finally forgot they exist, they’ll show up. You don’t have to respect these, or pay truthful attention to them. You don’t have to hate them, or love them. Most of the time, if you blink they go away. I’d like to think they go way back in your memory, so deep you’ll never let the though resurface and you’ll never remember truthfully those exact specks again. Or maybe, when you blink, you kill them and erase them from total existence.

Some people say they are white blood cells, and some say they are specks of dust or dirt. Some say they are just light or a small defect in your eye at the time. I don’t want to believe any of those. I honestly and truthfully do not care what they are. But they are there, and I notice them when they come over to my sight, those specks. I do not hate them. I do not love them, who does? I’m indifferent toward the specks that show up in my vision. I can simply blink them away, can I not? I am indifferent about them.

I am indifferent about most things, really. The fact we chose to keep going on simply on indifference really displays the indifference of society. The indifference of life.


Hopefully more to come, soon, as promised before! Thank you all for following and as always, please comment your opinion. Thanks so much, too, for staying even though I’ve been super busy with school. Keep on writing!

So Hatefully Alone…

A special Valentines Day post

My eyes set into his. It’s cold here, in the evening of winter. Wair air emits from parted lips; his face is flushed with the chill of the air. 

I am here; I know. I feel his warm hands on my waist and his neck under my own two chilled hands. But, I am not here. I don’t feel the cold or the darkness. He is my warm darkness. 

He leans in and places his lips on mine. I feel his warm body press me further into the wall, every brick lining up against me. I taste his sent and our tongues begin to dance in the warmth of belief. His warm, comforting, hands snake down my back, separating me from the wall, sending warmth through my entire body. My entire mind. When he parts from me, I softly sigh. 

“I love you,” He whispers, the air clouding around his mouth as he speaks. I smile and tell him I love him as well and we kiss once again. My hands finger through his thick hair and feel the short, choppiness of it. When he parts again, he takes off his glasses, revealing deep brown eyes. I grin wider, feeling him kiss my neck up to my lips, every one exploding on my skin like magic. I then bring my hands to his flushed face, cradling his jaw to align with mine. 

He rests his forehead against my own as we breathe. 

I am definitely not here, in the snowy city. I am far away, somewhere warm. I must be. 

But, my eyes stare into his, watching the icy pools of obscurity,, and I know. He’s real. This, all this nipping air and lucid thoughts; this is all real. He told me he loves me. Words can be of a surer essence, they can know more than the person themselves know. 

And then I wake up. 

My eyes set into the ceiling and once again, I am alone.

Hey guys, thanks so much for reading. I’ve been trying to post more often, but it’s been a bit hectic with school lately. As always, be sure to follow and keep on writing!

Once lived a day

There once lived a day when I talked to no one and lived an excruciating painfully life which only entailed the deepest, darkest depths of any ocean you can find. Perhaps my soul was the epithet of my life. For by which the outcomes didn’t seem to exist, I continued living in an utterly examinable entity. From afar anyone who dared to observe would not be surprised in any manner. The discerners would simply agree that my entire being was a pit of despondence and nothing more. The viability of my pith was nothing more than a train without fuel or a creature without endurance. Trudging day by day, I used to appear worn when I was dead and dead when I was alive. Neither personas nor imaginary outputs considered me as someone who could feel such a thing as happiness. Such things can elude a person for only a modest span of time, though, and there was a day that came when I saw the lambent aubade glistening in my amber eyes.


I”M BACK!!!! Yes, it has surely been a while, but i have been so busy with fall and doing a play (Tech crew) and winter with school and other stresses. I’ve always been here, though, at heart! I hope to keep writing and making more blog posts very soon!

As for this paragraph, it is the opening to a short story I have yet to finish… But someday, it might conclude. I used a large vocabulary to get the full effect and was going for a more Edgar Allan Poe style- without the ravens. 

Please comment and follow! As always, I’m on twitter @KylieEileen.

Thanks so much! It feels great to be back

Blog update- Holiday edition

It has been some time since I have posted something on this blog, but I have been very busy lately! This November I spent most of my time at my High School working on the lights for our play. This December I have been busy with school work and Christmas things. Hopefully soon, I can get back into the swing of regularly writing for this blog, so keep holding on!


With Christmas, it can seem like too busy of a time to be writing and getting pieces done. What you should keep in mind during holiday seasons is the inspiration that can come from certain times of the year, be it Christmas, Hanukkah or Boxing day! Looking around at lighted streets and snow (or palm trees) brings the holiday spirit into most hearts (unless, of course you are fond of acting like a grinch). This energy and life of certain times of the year are nice gateway moments that lead into that novel or short story idea you’ve been looking for.

Tis the season to be writing! Falalalala lalalala! In my own experience, I tend to write with bounce in my fingers when things are happy or exciting. So this holiday, look around and open your eyes. People watch around a decorated mall or festive street. Do things that can get those ideas flowing! And most of all, have a great holiday! (And a happy new year!)

-Kylie Eileen

An intro I have written

This is an intro to a rough draft of my second novel. Nothing I have ever written is published (yet). I chose to post this to give an example of a fast paced and developmental introduction.

It was a hectic Sunday morning in the Ravenswood household. Feet were padding around, looking for Sunday things; Shoes, papers, people. Names were called through corridors of the small level three house. Breakfast, toasted bread, was quickly being eaten as to leave on time. Hair was being combed fast but gentile as to rush out the door. Small whimpers of children pleaded to not leave. Calm adult voices reached over walls, urging others to keep moving. But while people moved quickly, the things in the small house sat still. The government issued newspaper sat unread on a kitchen table. Ancient photographs of two people standing on a dock in front of the ocean stood patiently on the mantel. Paintings of the sun hung sadly on the off-white walls. And, a clock ticked away the time every second. It was nearing seven. Church started at seven.

The Ravenswoods were a small family of only four people. Two parents, a mother and father, and two children, a boy and a girl. The family had lived in level three for six years, as long as Coriander, the oldest child, has lived. Jarreth, the younger child was four. Most people of level three would never guess that Coriander and Jarreth were siblings. Coriander had dark hair with deep brown eyes, while Jarreth was blonde with light brown eyes, just like his mother, Mae. Mae Ravenswood was then 23 years old and married to Taren Ravenswood, who had just turned 27. They had their first child two years after they met each other for the first time. The family was a loving one; they had friends in level three who would call them a perfect family with no flaws at all. This of course, was a lie.

Kylie Eileen

Moaning- Paragraph

Moaning. The sheer sound of a person’s half asleep subconsciousness crying a plea to take back what they had done before, makes me cringe. A contorted face, seeming like something unlovable is whining, crying, yelling for no reason. Drops of drool pleadingly fall off the desperate, confused lips of the moaning person. They show the carelessness in the placement of the slacking body, draped like a curtain over a couch or floor. Through grinding teeth, I watch as the moaning person opens diluted eyes and sees nothing but filminess. And filminess is a representation of their life. Only faded views and self hatred brought the person there, lying, moaning. With stale breath, they continue to live, to breathe each lung full of air, allowing their stone cold hearts to beat.

Overview coming soon, so keep checking up on it!

Last Meal

It is a weird combination of food on my plate. Freshly cooked green beans, scalped potatoes and chilly with wild rice in it sit on the off-white plate on the counter. I asked for it, though I haven’t eaten any of it yet. I’m not hungry. It has been a long day.

Just this morning I was on my living room couch, watching the daily news. Everything was normal and well and fine, as it should be. The couch was rough and old; the ten-year-old TV flickered every few seconds. It tasted starchy and felt like liquid cheese on my tongue. There were bread crumbs. Swallowing was easy.

That afternoon was when things took a wrong turn. I had been getting into bad things; bad people were always surrounding me. I found myself in an alley way with a gun in my hand; it felt cold and unusual. Blood was all over the man in front of me and his eyes rolled in the back of his head, not wanting to see his last sights. It tasted spicy and meaty. I felt the grain go down my throat and there were some black beans, too. Swallowing came hard, but I managed.

Now it is night, and I cannot eat the green beans. There were five of them- the number of years I’ve been here, reliving the moment when the cops came and pushed me into the snow, screaming at me not to move. I didn’t move.  I didn’t breathe. I knew what I did was wrong but none of my peers believed my reason, so for five years until tonight, I’ve been here. It tastes slightly moist and chalky. I feel the last drop of water on my tongue as they hit the red button and I am gone.

This idea came thanks to my mother, who cooked this meal for dinner tonight. It reflects on how people look back on their life as if it were in a day. 

The Window

This is a short story I wrote when I heard people yelling outside at night. I took one simple fact, noise out a window, and made a whole little scene with background information and such all in one. I may write more in the future, but for now please enjoy and comment your opinion!                                                                                                                                                                              **Contains explicit language


“Where’d you put it? Huh, huh? Where did you put it!?” These were the screams heard from Addison’s open bedroom window. They echoed off of the suburban houses’ walls and straight into her mind. The thrash of bodies and crash of garbage cans being pushed over in the brawl were also heard. They mimicked the echoes of mountain climbers; strong and proud. Addison didn’t know who exactly was yelling the words over and over but she knew who was being beaten mercifully.

Addison sat with her knees to her chest, under the open window. Curtains gently flew over her head, the cool autumn breeze making her hair move around her dark eyes like snakes wanting to know more. What her brother did to deserve such a horrific beating on this Sunday night was beyond Addison’s comprehension.

Brent is Addison’s brother. He was fifteen at this time. Tall, thin with dark features, he was the best brother nine-year-old Addison could dream of. He read her stories when it thundered out, he helped her pick what to wear to school, he combed her stringy blonde hair and he stood up for her at the bus stop where the high school kids made fun of Addison for having Autism. Brent told Addison later that day that it only meant she was special. No matter how special she was, she knew not to ask about it again because after they finished talking, Brent started to cry.

And so now she sat under the window, listening to her big brother being hurt, both emotionally and physically. Addison’s breathing was light, in through the nose, out the mouth. It was calming. Her mother taught her how to do this when she felt nervous or anxious.

Addison’s mother’s name is Tabatha. Tabatha has stage two lung cancer. She never leaves the hospital. Brent takes care of Addison for this reason and lies to their mother by saying that everything is fine at home. That Addison isn’t having nightmares, that he is not being bullied, that everything is absolutely fine. Sadly, everything is not absolutely fine. Tabatha is going to die very soon, just like Adam.

Adam is Addison and Brent’s father. He died three years before, when Addison was six, in a car accident. Police said that his car was hit by a drunk driver, and he was killed almost instantly. Well, once he hit the ground after being flung for thirty yards, he was killed. The drunk driver lives to tell the tale to this day. Brent passes him on his way to school; the man sits outside on a corner, drinking from a bottle covered by a paper bag. He never tells and will never tell Addison this.

The reason Brent sometimes walks to school, and passes the man who killed their father, is because the bus=bullies. They don’t hurt him on the bus, after being suspended when the bus driver had to break up a fight and Brent had a concussion, but use verbal words instead. As he slowly walks up the bus isle, the word “Faggot” is coughed and whispered by many. When Brent sits down, at least two boys will come up to him and ask simple questions like “What’s up, homo?” and “Hey, fag, how hot am I from a scale of one to ten?” Brent buries his head in a book and pretends to read. That’s when Drew comes into play.

Drew is beating Brent up as Addison listens under her window. Drew is almost six feet tall with eyes that are always angry and thickly calloused hands. Ironically, Drew’s father is the head of the police department. Drew’s father told Brent how Adam died. The two boys do not speak of this today. What they are speaking of now, is the point of Drew’s missing bike.

Brent isn’t a stupid kid. He knows where his bully lives, and knows where he puts his bike. This morning, while Drew was at church with his father resentfully, Brent went to Drew’s house, took his bike, and rode it two miles to the junkyard where he climbed an oak tree and hung it on a tall branch. Brent broke the chain, and used it to help ensure the bike wouldn’t fall by looping the handlebars to yet another branch. It will not fall in the toughest of storms. After this, Brent took a pocket knife out of his jeans pocket, and sliced the tires open. He carved his initials into the cheap paint of the orange bike.

“The- The junk yard!” Addison heard Brent scream. “I put it in the Junkyard!” There was another crash. Addison’s breathing stopped as the noise seized. Only crickets were the ones talking, the ones moving, the ones breathing.

“Fuck you, fag,” Another muffled crashing sound. “I’ll see you tomorrow in school. Be fucking ready,” Another muffled sound and a moaning sound. The moan was from her brother. She breathed again. He was alive. This time.

Addison stood up, her too-long pajama pants covering her little feet, and looked out the window. In the dark, she couldn’t see anything until Brent walked toward the house and set off the garage’s motion light. His face looked bright red, but it had to be the lighting, right? The house door opened and Addison’s socked feet moved quietly on carpet as she made her way downstairs. 

Forever Burdening what once was Free

This is a poem. Every line is 5 words. I put it in the blog section because I feel it tells a unique story.

I used to be free.

Until once I became sad.

And my life was gone,

And so that was that.

I wanted to be happy.

But I couldn’t find it.

Behind dusted corners and shelves?

Underneath sofas and forgotten things?

It was never, ever there.

I loathed sadness like death.

So I wasn’t very happy,

And so that was that.

But one day came near.

And I found a glimmer.

It shined and sparkled so.

Like a sun or star.

But as it came             quickly,

It also left fast too.

And then now I wait.

Will joy now come today?

Will it return once again?

No, it will not return.

No, it won’t be happy.

It is fleeting forever, now.

Stars and universes are expanding.

And like happiness, will forever.

And I was never there.

I was never, ever there.


-Kylie Eileen

This is the day

It smells like dew covered grass and misty air. The sun is barely peeking beyond the horizon yet you’ve been awake for some time now, getting ready. One foot in front of the other, you tell yourself. It seems like a death march, as you approach the giant yellow monster huffing in the foggy air of the morning. The others are there too, waiting. You know they are just as nervous as you.

It smells like vinyl and shampoo. You are sitting now, riding along, butterflies in your stomach. More and more people board, crowding. It seems like everyone is acting happy but you know no one wants this to happen. You distract yourself and look out a window. The sun is up a bit more now. Another one boards. And another. What each fate is that lies in each soul remains a mystery for today. You have stopped moving. Sadly, you are here.

It smells like floor wax and new shoes. You walk silently, to the place where you were to meet your friend. Everyone walks in a large crowd, emotionless faces walking to their affixation. There’s a familiar face. And another.  How long has it been since you talked to them? There’s your friend. She’s smiling but you know she’s been groaning about this day for weeks. This is the day. 

This is the day, you repeat to yourself. This is the first day of school.

I wrote this because, today was my first day of Sophomore year! It’s how I felt that morning and made the metaphor a bit morbid and in relations to death. I feel like this is one of the many truths of this day, but alas is just my opinion. So please comment below with your own opinion and follow- thanks!

Oh, and if you would like to see some pics added to a post, please comment about it :)

-Kylie Eileen


I don’t know, really. I don’t know why no one pays attention to me anymore. It all started a few days ago when the storm hit our town like a wave. A wave of darkness. The power went out and everyone was left with nothing but a flame to keep them warm through the night. Rain pounded on windows, begging for the wind to stop. It was as if the heavens were whispering to us, saying that the pitch dark storm would soon end. That lightning striking down willow trees and thunder roaring in nightmares would soon seize. I just didn’t think I would too.

After twenty-four hours of the earth ripping at us, trying to kill us, we were left with clear skies and dew covered grasses. My family celebrated and danced around the moist field of the morning. My little sister cheered and our older brother hoisted her up on his shoulders while my parents held hands and smiled at their children. All was well. I watched from my bedroom window, looking down at broken tree branches and smiles all in the same scene. I couldn’t seem to leave my bedroom; my eyes hurt when I saw the sun shining proudly, boasting it had beaten off the storm. Yet, I felt I hadn’t.

No one called my name for supper that night. No one asked how I was doing or why I hadn’t left my room. Instead of sitting with them at our small table, which was seated only for the four of them, I stayed back, watching. I spoke only when no sound was heard. I was polite, at dinner yet lost my appetite when they ignored me as if I had died along with the storm itself. 

Another day passed with my loved ones not acknowledging me. I was heartbroken. What was I doing wrong? I mocked them, their wretched souls. I played along with what they were doing. I acted happy for them, following them into every corridor of the small house, listening to their every word. I have never felt so awful in my life. I no longer watched them from a bedroom window. I sat with my sister as she drifted off to sleep. I took walks with my brother, staying just behind him, waiting for him to see me.

I saw me. I felt myself disappear as rooms became brighter. I felt myself cry as day after day I had no one to turn to. I felt myself lose hope that someday people would see me; see my pain. I dreaded the night of the storm. It is the storm’s fault! I was once alive with them. Was I dead? I moved alongside my loved ones, my so hated loved ones days on end. I left the house after that. 

But no one saw me. I’m there, though. I follow you in dim light. I seem to frighten little children when they are alone in their rooms. I am always silent, only listening. I grow and I shrink everyday, at sun’s angles. Do you see me?

-Kylie Eileen

–@KylieEileen on twitter

Trying New Things

I know, I know. You’ve heard it all before. I’m outside my New York homestead in Connecticut, on my mother’s GOD AWFUL laptop’s key board, telling you the obvious. But reason with me; I’ve got a story.

As you know, inspiration can come from anywhere. Today, I went to this fancy Asian food restaurant (Called: Asian Excellence or something like that) and had sushi for the first time. I’m pretty skilled with the chopsticks, as I have a lot of free time, and I enjoyed myself eating these yummy things called California rolls. It’s like  if heaven tasted like a type of fish and threw up on my plate. Well, maybe something more appetizing, but overall the experience was new and enticing. There were these flaming red fake candles everywhere and it was a dark scene. Beautiful Asian artwork lined the walls, all subtly a picture of a silhouette of something iconic and in black and white. Dim yellow overhead lights gave the pictures a tint of colour. I’ve never been to Connecticut. 

This was honestly a very fun night and there are other beautiful oceanic views I can tell you about, but it gave me a new experience and a new thing i can write about. I’m not saying to race out to a new restaurant and write a book about it, but simply being open to new things and ideas and actually trying them can do wonders. Understandably, I would love to incorporate a type of restaurant with such a picturesque scene into a piece of writing in the future As a writer, you know that with one picture thousands of story lines can parade in your head. It’s magnificent at times and can be more times in your life by opening up and trying new things. 

I hope this gave you another reason to obey what society wants and try something new, but when doing so, don’t specifically plan it out. Being spontaneous can be the best in terms of writing in most causes. Nevertheless, thinking about doing something new and coming to a conclusion that it would be great for inspiration isn’t a bad thing at all. Simply put, inspiration is out there! You’re brilliant moment is yet to come (Or at least another one, you geniuses). Try new things and keep on writing!

-Kylie Eileen


Paragraph and Overview


The first breaths of a newborn child are small, and full of fright and pain. They are shallow, crying for the mother’s caressing hand to soothe the new heartbeats of the outside world. These breaths are heard by that mother and by that father whose thoughts are not pertaining to anything but the infant being held in front of them. The room the child is born in tends to move in a slow pace, everyone wanting to see this beautiful array of new life. And with red face and tears streaming down the youthful complexion, the babe’s first inward breath is only a small insight on its huge and great future. A future that perhaps will be entirely different from this first day, this first moment in the newborn’s lifetime. The first breaths of a newborn child are small, and lead way into a life no one could ever imagine themselves; it is a life that can be only imagined by the sheer face of God. But what God had planned for this child, born on the one hundred fifty-fourth day, a Wednesday, was not what was to be expected or even thought of on this moment. This moment, these first breaths, are only small pebbles compared to the brick wall of the cold world it will soon live in. The first breaths of a newborn child are small, and small is what they will always be.


Repetitiveness isn’t always a bad thing. In the case of this, it adds a way to repeat in such a standpoint that bigger things are said within the repeated line. It repeats the knowledge that the child is just born “First breaths”. It constantly is saying that this is “small”. If this were an opening paragraph, it could be the bigger picture in the simple word of “small”. It could mean emotionally small, short statured, the person feels small in the big world, etc. Each time it is repeated, more information is added to create a new idea within every sentence yet it is still reflecting the basic thesis of the paragraph. You see, repetitiveness isn’t always a bad thing… Unless you’re saying “Then, then, then,” which, by far, is a horrible way to tell a story. Absolutely horrid. Anyway, if used right, repeating things can add a sort of definition to enhance certain areas of your writing. Don’t go overboard, after all, this is only paragraph evaluation.

Thanks for reading and keep on writing! Comment any questions, opinions and statements- you’re voice is valued!
-Kylie Eileen

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