Lint of Crimson


I was in the moment;

Caught off guard.

You didn’t notice.

Hard is hard.


I saw my memory dance before me,

And it was glorious, let me tell you.

But it wasn’t like that,

And you bet I know it.


Sometimes my mind likes to add colors where they aren’t supposed to be.

I know too well that memory was golden grey.

As plain as could be,

But golden to me.


I deserved better than that;

Every color the eye can see.

Yes, we know that now,

With a new partner to be.


I see shades of fuchsia ingrained in my sockets;

Vibrant evergreens along my nerves;

Lint of hints of crimson within my old coat’s pockets.

But lint is lint;

Fleeting, is it not?

The memory came as sudden as the memory left.

No lint of crimson left to preserve.

Not when I deserve an endless palette of colors to explore.




Journal #BetweenYouandMe


I’ve taken a break from my daily journals for two distinct reasons. Firstly, I started school and work again recently, so my time is quite divided. Secondly, Honesty Hour has taken on other plights. Maybe short stories will reign, or maybe vlogs will take over. I’ll explore the art of writing and filming for now.

Topic: “Give me your best first-person-based short story that touches all the heart strings while keeping everyone aloof. The story that gives too much leaves everyone with too little.”

Dear You,

So, between me and you, there’s something that you should know. There’s something that I want to say. I didn’t plan this out at all. Go-with-the-flow-Rebecca did just what she said she’d do; she went wherever the wind took her. And it led to some pretty great things. I believe we should all loosen our reigns at times, because it’s as if we have this ever-tightening noose around our necks since childhood. Some of us don’t notice that its starting to leave marks around our necks. Others cut the noose somewhere along the way. The rest of us loosen the knot to give us enough leeway to breathe comfortably, but leave it in tact just in case we need something to pull us back to reality. Now this noose isn’t a negative symbol for sin or wrongdoing. It’s a symbol for our analytic mindset that can prove to be detrimental if we constantly count our steps and overthink our decisions. We all do it. And I for one prize that part of myself because it makes me all the more wiser. But I will also acknowledge the downfall such processes can have if constantly applied. Overthinking is a cloaked villain.

Now, back to the topic at hand. I can be walking down the street or cruising down the freeway. I’ll hear the sound of the cars, and the chatter of the common folk. I’ll see bicyclists strolling alongside cars, and I’ll see people waiting to cross the street. These are everyday occurrences that we’re all used to. Nothing has every seemed so foreign to me now. I know that its daily life, and a life that I am accustomed to, but I walk with a foot of uncertainty.

I’ll think back to what had happened, and I’ll get lost in a wave of overthinking. I get caught up in the thing that I hate the most: ‘what-if.’  I think what-ifs are pointless and nonsensical. I avoid them at every turn. But now I’m stuck with ‘what if I went to the pond.’

I stared off in the pond’s direction for a minute. A solid minute. My first instinct was to go, but I gave myself time to reflect on what that decision would mean. It would mean that I would inevitably be in the wrong for exploring other options. So I wasn’t go-with-the-flow-Rebecca for that instance, and it cost me dearly.

Fifteen minutes later I was left in shock. I stood up, and sort of shook it off. I was fine. Things were fine. Everything was okay because I told myself it would be.

The following day I remember waking up and thinking about you. And I wish they were happy thoughts, but they really weren’t. I thought about the pond and that minute of reflection I had before I left. In that minute, I thought about what I had said. I’d keep to myself, I said. And so I did. I turned away from the pond’s direction, and went onward towards home.

I didn’t want to explain what had been running through my mind that morning because my thoughts were scattered, and I would have made things worse if I had. To be entirely honest, I didn’t want to say what I was thinking, because it was wrong and illogical. But when I see your name pop up on my phone, I can’t help but go back to that day and watch it play out in fast-forward. I’ll connect two dots that shouldn’t really be connected: that memory and you.

I tried to change it too. I started conversations, expecting it to fade, but when it didn’t, I was left feeling distraught. Where do I go from here? Do I stand here waiting for you to assure me that you would have never wanted this, or do I walk forward focused straight ahead with the hope that time will be the answer? That, I have yet to decide. But oh, how grateful I am to realize this noose is another angel’s halo.

Sincerely, Me

Coming Together


The pond is calling,
And it’s asking me why I turned my back.
It reflects on my path and on my falling,
And it looks away when the blow turned into a smack.

Two worlds diverged;
I chose the lesser of the two.
Though, in tact, I emerged,
I had to draw the line at you.

Had I gone to the pond,
None of this would have spawned.
Had I gone with my gut,
This tie would have inevitably been cut.

So it’s all coming together,
Yet it’s still all up in the air.
I’ll wait for better weather;
Clearer skies.
And try to be wise.
I’ll  divert another collision.
From this fall, I will rise.

The Moon, the Sun, My Friend


If she’s the moon,
I’d give anything to be her star.
Joy falls rather soon,
On all both close and far.

If she’s the sun,
I’d be pleased to be the grass.
To be hit by one of her shining rays, even but one,
Would revitalize my entire mass.

If she’s my friend,
I’d do everything I can to keep her by.
No road would be without a bend;
Without a moon to shine up high,
Reminding me that she’s definitely mine.

Journal #68 – If My Body Could Speak


Topic: If your body could speak, what would it say?

Working my way from the bottom down, my legs would argue about the necessity in running. It would question my motives, and wine its way out of doing it daily.

My stomach would be in harmony with how it’s running, and probably praise me for eating healthy like I normally did last semester in college. It would be quite anxious though. It would want to complain about the butterflies floating around in there, and it would want to cite all the varying sources. But I know that it wouldn’t; the stomach would keep it all to itself.

My arms would beg me to keep them busy. They’d probably ask me to go rock climbing or to start drawing again.

My heart would be the one having a stand-off with itself. It would try to talk louder than everyone else, and even when it would speak, it would be very conflicted as to what to say. It would ask me what it is that I want, and it would try to sort out the rest.

My shoulders would say that you’re carrying a decent load. It could be bigger, yes, but at times it feels like it can weigh me down. My shoulders would give me a thumbs up, and say that I’m good to go for now.

My brain would be a mess, in it of itself. My amygdala would tell me that I have so many things to fear this upcoming semester. My hippocampus would still be moving some things into long-term memory, and be overloaded with having to remember things when I start working in a few hours. My limbic system would be haywire, and would probably just yell out random emotions that I’m feeling whenever they come to mind. My pre-frontal cortex would question my actions. My temporal lobe would be content with all the sounds of wildlife around me. My parietal lobe would be backed up trying to go through all the things that have hit my senses this past week, so I don’t think it would say much. My brain in general would have a lot to say.

My hair would thank me for not straightening my hair daily like I did back in tenth grade.

Journal #64 – Not That I Remember


Topic: Write about your first love — whether a person, place or thing.

My first love is one that I don’t remember. I’ve seen pictures of him recently, and I’ve heard more about him in the past year or two. He was my great-grandfather on my dad’s side of family. He used to absolutely love to spend time with me.

My mom would come home and ask where I was, and I was usually outside somewhere with him, walking. He adored me, and I loved to be with him. He would take me to the park or anywhere nearby, and I would just brighten his day.

I’m sad because I can’t remember all of these things, considering the fact that I was just a small girl. I’m also sad because I know that I will never be able to get know him now.

He passed away when I was pretty little during one of his trips to Mexico. He had fallen in his house, and he had hit his head. Not long after that he died.

I know that I loved him so much. Everyone that knew him would tell me that. I wish I could remember what they remember.

—–late journal—-



I know those eyes.
They’re genuine and kind.
They follow my movements,
Gaze at my shadow.
The owner is wise,
Can sort out my lies.
The owner is old,
Or so I’ve been told.

In these eyes I hold much hope.
I can see a sparkle as bright as ever.
Even when my shadow meets it’s slope,
That sparkle is constant;
That sparkle wanes, never.

These eyes are being pryed off of me.
And it hurts to not see what they see.
Neither of us wants this,
Yet neither of us pleas.
Words can’t bring back these eyes.
These eyes are all that I know.
Though that sparkle will soon likely die,
I think my shadow has reached a very new low.

We know it too,
So it hurts all the more.
These eyes drown in blue,
As I head to the door.

With nothing to watch, not even my shadow,
These eyes grow dim, as it meets it’s empty plateau.