march

My life swings in this usual cliche. Every time I round the calendar into spring, my life tends to change drastically along with the weather. I feel brighter, the sun shines longer. I learn important things, the apple trees blossom. Even when something goes terribly wrong, thunder clouds gather and the rain pours endlessly. My life is the definition of pathetic fallacy.

And every spring, I tend to look back. Reflect.

Though in New York March isn’t really considered spring, today’s warm weather has prompted me to gaze back at my life, back at the upstate snow and blistering winds.

Last March was one of the worst times in my life.

Continue reading “march”

And then suddenly it hits me, it’s a year ago.

Cue the indie rock music playlist as I nostalgically reflect on the fact that it’s been a year since last spring.

Spring is not my favorite season, but I really like it for many of the reasons that others like it. The rebirth of plants, the ending of the school year, the more sunlight during the day, the birds, the general upbeat vibes that everyone seems to have during the spring. I like springtime, even though my motivation to actually get stuff done, like homework, decreases, and I look out the window during class more. I like springtime, even though it’s getting warmer and soon it’ll be insufferable in school. I like springtime for many of the reasons that others like it.

And a year ago I was writing so much during the spring. I wrote Basil in a few weeks last spring, during April. And I can’t believe it’s been a year. In that year I really haven’t done much writing that equals the expanse that the one piece contains. When summer comes around the bend, I don’t write as much as I do experience. And in fall I’m always busy, and in winter too tired. So spring seems to be the most productive. And I’m looking forward to write more, hopefully.

Last spring I was keeping a journal, and I was angry still with the world, and I was figuring stuff out. A year ago I was a girl with braces who took geometry class and was ostracized in gym and who spent more free time with friends. It’s actually funny to read back in my journal and think “if 15 year old Kylie even knew”. Last April I went on a school trip to Chicago and spent the majority of the time alone, watching people. Last year I sat with this kid I didn’t know every other day during lunch, and we wouldn’t talk to each other unless I was in a good enough mood to say hi. Here’s a quote from my journal. April 21st 2014: On another note, I don’t feel awful. It’s raining so I feel kind of down. Plus everything that is going on in the world, but I don’t want to completely separate myself. Not yet, at least. I guess not much has changed. I don’t want to separate myself completely from the world right now, but I’ve gotten close as 2014 dragged on. Later that April I wrote: A year ago it was very bad. I’m still discontent but I’m dealing with it. I guess life is full of that. So I guess reflecting on years past is a thing of spring.

I’m not sure why I’m writing all of this down. Maybe this is sort of a journal, this blog. Seldom I can be transparent, however, because anyone can see this. So perhaps this transparency, this clear glimpse in the fog of my life, is special. Consider yourself lucky.

I wish I’ve been keeping a journal this year, because it is so much more to actually read your own thoughts than to remember bits and pieces of what your life was like years ago. A year. It’s been a year since last spring, when I read Catcher in the Rye and when I went I started my phase (which hasn’t really ended) of just not caring. Last spring I was constantly arguing with my best friend and shaking ground so much with every relationship I had that everything was on verge of collapsing. I could have separated myself from the entire world. But I didn’t.

It’s funny to think of all the things I didn’t know back then. It’s funny to think of the things I was angry about last year that have no matter anymore. And the things I felt that actually still have relevance.

I’m not sure what this post serves to prove or show. Maybe it’s just for me.

Anyway, this is dragging on, and I should probably end with whatever moral there is to my story. I guess it’s important for spring to happen each year, even if it means with the end of winter, other things end as well. I’m a different person in some respects, but I feel like no one ever really changes. You can grow up, but you can’t really change into something totally different, especially in only a year.

A lot has happened since last spring, and it wouldn’t be coherent to write it all down here, but it’s still pertinent in my heart. Oh, how sentimental I am.

Hopefully this spring has it’s own surprises and awesomeness and I can look back on it next year with happy nostalgia and slight embarrassment. And hopefully your spring is just as ace.

Until next year, or next time, rather,

Kylie Eileen

Red Flash Drive

Red flash drive

You contain everything

Over 150,00 words

And I lost you

And with your death

I am also buried

Because the universe hates me

That is a micro-poem I posted on Twitter a few days ago. I have lost my red flash drive, and no one understands how I feel. And this post is mainly going to turn into a rant. And I literally feel dead because my life is an epic action film, where the flash drive contains everything.

An epic action film where the only plot is of a girl, walking away out of a room, and then a jump shot to her crying because after exhausting all resources, the flash drive is most likely never going to be found. It’s a sad film, and most people will walk out of the theatre, and not for the good reasons like the best depicted war scene ever. No, this isn’t Saving Private Red Flash drive, this is a sad tale of Kylie being stupid and making people walk away, because they simply don’t understand my cinematographic art.

The death of the flash drive is the death of me

I suppose I should start from a small beginning, or something, even though I feel dead right now. A few months ago, my computer screen broke, and I’m no expert but since I had to hook up another monitor, I moved all my writing and documents onto a red flash drive. This was a good idea seeing as the lap top failed to work after a few days of being all bionically hooked up to something that was high-tech in 2006. The red flash drive was the back up.  And so for the next few months I’ve been writing on there, and during that time, I’ve successfully completed a 60,000 word work, give or take a few hundred. It was over 130 pages long, and was the sequel to Basil, which you can read in the Longer Works section of this blog, but you probably won’t.

After the sequel to Basil, titled Clover on the flash drive, I began some pieces that I have yet to finish. These range from 4-15 pages, so it isn’t a major loss, but the novel I wrote in 9th grade is on there, and the only other versions are ones with spelling errors and stuff, which are on my email. That was 61,225 words, I think. A short story trilogy, titled “The Insomniac” that I wrote in 2012, spanning around novel length all together, is on there and no where else. Now the others, including the trilogy, aren’t written well and they aren’t anything I’d let people read now that I’ve developed as a writer, but they’re important to me. I can remember something and go back and read about these characters and their lives.

When I talk to people in school, and even my mother, I see that no one understands how much time is put into writing something around 50,000 words. There are so many little short stories on that flash drive that I’ll end up forgetting about in years and never being able to feel the stories and characters again. The short story Clover was one of the most transparent things I’ve written, and I expressed myself in it and I felt everything I wrote. I felt the main characters and I felt what was going on. Letting that just fade off into nothing makes me fade off into nothing.

Without my writing, I am nothing.

And not even the so-called “writer” friends I have understand. I hate putting people under the bus, but they have no idea what it feels like to connect to a story and to write something that you put in your mind as art. Something that is art. They’re writing is like the Insomniac story I mentioned before. It is something I would be embarrassed to call my own. And I hate saying that but it’s true, and I am ranting. And the universe hates me.

I lost the flash drive at a small college, but security and an intern at my mother’s work who goes there can’t help me. The security desk has my phone number, and the intern looked all over the room I left it in. My mother says a college kid probably wiped it clean, but to do so one would have to go through everything. Can anyone be so awful that they would delete years of my life away? Probably.

And, yes, I know what comes next. “You should have put it on several flash drives”.

Do you know how many times I’ve heard that the past week? Almost every single person has said that to me. But, really, would you have taken the time to buy another flash drive and then copy all 50 or so documents onto it just for a back up in case you left it at a college at a Model United Nation’s conference? NO. You’re lying if that would have come to your mind. The flash drive was the back up. 

No one understands. Not a single person. And sympathy does nothing, because it’s easy to say “Aw bro I’m sorry your mom got murdered” but it means nothing when your mom also didn’t get murdered, bro. And it means nothing when people go “Yeah that sucks but you should have made other copies and put it in other places” because I’ve done everything in my power to get it back after my awful mistake. It’s as if people don’t see how much losing the red flash drive is killing me. My soul is literally breaking.

The flash drive was the back up.

I’ve said that so many times. I’ve been defending myself this whole time, and keeping my spirits up, but right now, I want to cry. And die. Because it isn’t just a red flash drive. It is literally years of my life. It is a story that I can’t retell. Some girl actually said to me “re-writing that is going to suck”. I can’t re-write my life. I don’t plan my stories, I have a thing called talent and I let them flow and waver and I can’t remember every single thing that happened in 60,000 words. No one understands, and I have to defend myself on a topic they automatically loose on because of what? Popularity?

The characters are dead. And they were part of me. So part of me is dead.

Part of me is dead. It isn’t the red flash drive, it is the lives they’ve lived and the part of me that feels them. A year after I wrote the Amleth Tales, which are also on here in the Longer Works and aren’t that great, I can still feel the characters in my heart. Do you ever have a good memory of something or someone, and you feel it in your heart? You literally feel it there in your heart?

That’s what it is like for what I’ve written. And when someone leaves my life, I feel the loss and grief, and sadly, these made up characters give me more pain than anyone who has ever left me. These just “made up” characters mean more to me than my friendships and family relationships. They are part of my life. Writing is the only thing I can do where I feel human, and reading the writing, I can remember who I am and who these just “made up” people are. They aren’t just me. They’re something so much bigger. And no one understands this.

The death of the flash drive is the death of me.

And I’m so angry, and sad, and I feel even more alone than I did before. Basically all of my life’s work is gone. And, I know, I’ll write more, or whatever, but the stories are important to me. Clover is important to me. Writing more doesn’t change that. Writing more doesn’t negate the time I’ve spent on the story and the life I’ve build within it. Writing more without anything to reflect back on doesn’t let me grow as a writer. And so, I’m angry and sad and alone.

And this is the end to my rant, I guess.

It isn’t just a flash drive. It is more than 200,000 words.

To give you perspective, this post doesn’t even break 1,400 words.

The death of the flash drive is the death of me.