What the Heart Wants

My Dear Reader,

I am not the jealous type.

I am the protective type. I like to keep what I have, thankyouverymuch. I don't really enjoy it when people move, break, or take my belongings. I can even get pretty upset about it, depending. But then, I grew up with four younger siblings who liked to periodically come into my room and break anything of value. I guess I just developed a kind of survival mentality that I never got rid of.

But that's things. People are different.

When I was a freshman in high school, I had this rather pathetic crush on this guy in my English class. We talked all the time, and though I was too shy and awkward to make any coherent kind of move, we were great friends, he and I.

Then, he got a girlfriend.

Next thing I knew, all I ever heard from this guy was about this girlfriend he had and how great she was. He just could not shut up about her. I knew his girlfriend vaguely through another class we were in together, so I guess I was a good candidate for this kind of treatment. That, and I hung on every word he said because I was so hung up on him that I was thrilled that he was even speaking to me.

It was like one of those teen movies where the handsome guy ends up with his nerdy and somewhat repulsive friend. Except, of course, I got neither the guy nor the makeover. Instead, I was a good girl who slowly realized that the guy was all wrong for me. I didn't miss the very important fact that he was obviously not interested in me. To him, I might as well have been a particularly sensitive guy with unique access to the girl's locker room. Even my crushy, pudding brain could figure that one out.

Still, my feelings for him didn't go away, nor did my pathetic hopes that one day he would look at me like I was, you know, female. And there was, of course, the fact that our friendship had been established long before this girlfriend showed up. So I guess I should have felt something akin to anger or rage when I saw the two of them holding hands or flirting.

Instead, I felt sad. I just stood there and said to myself, "Yup. That's how it is." And I walked away.

Because that's when I knew that I'd lost, and it was time to give up. Not when he treated me the way he did. Not when I realized that we didn't have the same values. I gave up when I realized that he was aware of me and still chose someone else.

And what? I was supposed to take offense at that? I was supposed to try to win him? No. He made a choice, and that was it. My feelings didn't go away, but they became irrelevant. They certainly didn't give me the right to override his free will.

And perhaps you might say, Gentle Reader, that I am a coward. And I am. When it comes to that point where you're supposed to make that sweeping declaration of love and live happily ever after, I generally don't feel any less awkward or shy than the fourteen-year-old I used to be.

You might also call me a pessimist, and I know for a fact that you're right on that count. I'm creative enough to imagine every scenario in which something can go wrong. There are just too many ways to lose, and I can see them all too clearly.

But if we're going to sit here and examine my flaws, I think it's only fair that we eventually get to a strength or two. And if there's something that I've learned through many similar situations, it's that feelings often lead you astray. There are those who say that the heart wants what the heart wants, and that's mostly true.* But sometimes your heart wants the only thing that will most surely destroy you. Sometimes, you have to take a step back and make a decision to do the opposite of what you want, either for your own good, or for the good of someone else. Even though it really, really hurts.

I've gotten very good at reminding myself that I often deserve better than what my heart wants, because sometimes my heart wants the wrong things. I mean, sometimes, my heart wants nothing more than to find the nearest cliff and jump off of it. And sometimes, my heart wants a romantic relationship with someone who wants a platonic relationship with me.

I've also gotten very good at reminding myself that other people have the right to want the opposite of what I want, and that the best way to be happy is to try to change myself, because it's the only thing that I can change.

I guess I've just spent too much time being shoved in one direction or another. I can't count the amount of times I've been told that I'm supposed to have feelings for someone. I'm not sure how they expect me accomplish that task. You can't just put "Fall in love with So-and-So" on your to-do list and hope it gets done by Friday. So how could I expect that from someone else?

And if I really cared about him, how could I get angry at him for making his own choices?

So, I guess I really don't get this whole jealousy thing at all.

Maybe that's a good thing. Who knows.

Regards, best wishes, and requited love,

-Cecily Jane

*I feel that I'd be careless here if I didn't point out that there is a way to change destructive desires, and that's through the atonement of Jesus Christ. It is real, and I can personally guarantee that it works. It takes a lot of time, a lot of prayer, and a lot of faith, but it works better than you can believe.

Gotta Collect 'Em All, Or Something

My Dear Reader,

I was in junior high when they started making quarters that honored each state. One day, all quarters were the same, and the next, there were these cool new ones with what looked like Paul Revere* on them. I kind of hoarded them. A little. They were just so awesome!

And guess what? There were more of them! There were quarters with trees and ships on them. One even had a peach! It was a pretty exciting time to be a distractible pre-teen.

And I know it wasn't just me, because other people were going crazy for these new quarters, too. My grandpa even went so far as to get me a board that had a slot for every quarter in the series. Lots of people had them. And, like me, lots of people waited in anticipation for the next quarter to be released so that they could gleefully fill another empty slot.

And, like lots of people, I lost interest about two or three years in.

I always figured that I'd finish it eventually. When I got around to it. I mean, it's not like the quarters were going anywhere.

And a few months back when I found that quarter board in a bunch of packed stuff, I didn't really think much of it. Then, a few weeks ago, life threw me a few curve balls that hit me right in the gut. All of a sudden, I had all these problems, and there was nothing I could do to solve them. Sometimes it just happens that way.

An unsolvable problem is complete agony. There is nothing that you can do but hurt, and wait, and hurt some more.

And it's funny how in a situation like that, something trivial can suddenly become very important. Next thing I knew, I was determined to finish that quarter board as soon as possible. I couldn't change the laws of physics or the choices other people made, but I could find South Dakota, by jingo.

Luckily for me, I work at a place with a cash register. Soon, scouring the quarters was an almost hourly routine. To the annoyance of my co-workers, I enthusiastically looked for state after state, and the work went quite quickly. I was able to get a state almost every day, and four or five on good days. By the end of the first week, I'd gotten around forty-five of the fifty states.

I ended up finishing the whole thing before the second week was over.

And when I placed that final quarter (Texas, for those keeping score) in that final slot, I wasn't Cecily the Loser anymore. I was Cecily the Finisher.

Cecily the Solver of Problems.

Cecily the Conqueror.

And that felt pretty good, considering the situation I was in. Sometimes, you just need a challenge, even if it's not very difficult. Sometimes, you just need to remind yourself that you're actually capable of something, even if it's not something important. Sometimes, you just need to win one.

And thanks to a loving grandpa and a fad that died a decade ago, I was able to give myself that small victory. It's the small victories that give you the courage to fight for the big ones.

My problems, of course, have not gone away. They'll be around for a while yet. But guess what? They also made quarters for the six U. S. territories. And they're starting this new ten-year series for state parks. My grandpa even sent me two to get started with.

So I'll chip away at that. And at the other things, when I can.

You don't happen to have a Guam quarter, do you?

Regards, best wishes, and coping mechanisms,

-Cecily Jane

*I didn't even realize until I looked it up that it's actually Caesar Rodney on the Delaware quarter, not Paul Revere. I somehow feel used. Also, Delaware missed out some pretty fantastic symbolism, and that's just unacceptable behavior.

Things That Go Bump in the Night

My Dear Reader,

This story is brought to you by request.

I love the bed that I have. It was given to me by my grandmother, and it's both legitimately vintage and elegantly beautiful. It's the same bed that Padre slept in when he was a little boy.

The only problem is that the mattress that came with it is just as old.

For the past few decades, the bed was used as a secondary guest bed, and until I tried to move it out of their house, I had no idea how bad the mattress truly was. Grandma had put layers and layers of blankets and sheets on top of it, creating a Princess-and-the-Pea*-kind of situation. I'm not quite a princess, so I had always slept on it just fine. When I moved it and had to leave the blankets behind, I was confident that I could handle sleeping on it without the protective barrier.

I'm tough, you know.

Two nights later, exhausted and suffering from a sore back and a mysterious rash, I went to my parents' house and took almost every blanket I could find. They will have no idea until they read this blog post.

That pretty much solved the problem as well as a person as poor as I could solve it.

I tried to save up for a mattress, but between rent and paying off a car, it wasn't easy. So a few months went by, I moved again, and I kept trying to save up to get that new mattress. I mean, after forty-or-so years, who knows what was going on inside that thing. It could have its own ecosystem that supported organisms that were slowly evolving into sentience. My mattress could be the birthplace of the race that would one day supplant humanity as Earth's dominant species.

Yup, that was probably it.

And whether that was the case or not, there was something alive in there, because about two months ago it started biting me.

It was pretty horrible. I went through almost an entire bottle of calamine lotion that week. It was the kind of experience you'd expect to have in a North Korean prison.

Near-sentient or not, it turned out that flea powder wiped them suckers out. I poured enough on my mattress to put down every creepy-crawly thing within thirty feet. And while the mass murder of my unknown assailants was quite a relief, I couldn't exactly sleep on that mattress again.

Luckily, I have a friend who has this uncanny habit of swooping in and saving the day right when I needed help the most, and she miraculously produced a new mattress for me to sleep on. She is the kind of friend I never could deserve.

Now, there is another thing about my bed that I should probably mention. Like most beds, the mattress is supported by a number of removable slats. Unlike most beds, though, mine only has only two slats left. But since I'd never had any problems with them before, I didn't even think that my new, heavier mattress would make any difference.

That was, of course, until a few nights later when I heard a loud thump, and suddenly I was see-sawing on only one slat with my toes about a foot above my head. And if it wasn't two in the morning, if I hadn't been exhausted from attending my church Christmas party, and if putting a mattress back wasn't a two-person job, maybe I would have done something about it right then. But those were not the facts of the matter.

So I just slept like that.

I was on a steep enough incline that all the blood had rushed to my head by the time I woke up. It felt like I had a bad ear infection. But you never know that you have the skill of sleeping head first on a twenty percent grade unless you try, right? Guess I'm pretty tough after all.

I turned out the troublesome slat hadn't broken; it had simply fallen out. So my roommate and I put it back in.

At some point, I'll have to get some new slats to put in my bed frame. But I have other fires to put out, and since things are no longer sucking my blood at night, it's a little low on my priority list. But I am a little wary every time I climb into bed at night, knowing that at any moment, my bed could once again turn into a catapult.

Oh, well.

Regards, best wishes, and restful slumbers,

-Cecily Jane

*That hasn't been made into a Disney movie yet? Pffft. I mean, it's a musical.

2012!

My Dear Reader,

I just want you to know that I've written several drafts of several different posts, because I really feel like I should be blogging regularly again.

I know.

I've said it before, and who knows how long it will take before I make good on my promise. I really should have done what I did when I started this blog: write ten or so posts in advance and schedule them to be automatically posted so I could have a head start. Well, that didn't happen. Not because I didn't have anything to say, but because life has me in a half-nelson right now, and it's just been difficult.

But don't worry, Gentle Reader. It's fine. It's just kind of like God and Satan are playing tug of war with my soul, and the rope around my middle is starting to chafe. That's all. You'll hear more about that later.

Anyway, my goal is to at some point resume my schedule of posting on Tuesdays. And maybe every once and a while, fiction on Fridays.

If you're new to this blog, you should know that it's something of a room of requirement for me. It's where I put stuff when I have nowhere else to put it. That includes everything from short stories that aren't really publishable to a drawn-out explanation of why I like doughnuts.*

But mostly it's a way to sit down, organize my thoughts, and let those thoughts loose on an unsuspecting world. It's my way of taking out a megaphone and saying what I need to say. And you may find that I have more to say than most. But I find when I don't say it here, it just gets tucked away under a rug somewhere, and that's no way to live.

So, here I am. Cecily Jane, the blogger, back again.

Gentle Reader, I have missed you so!

Regards, best wishes, and resolutions,

-Cecily Jane

*Oh, that post is in there. It's not too hard to find. I dare you.

Short Story: "Dear Gentleman, Dear Lady"

My Dear Reader,

I know I've been away for a while, but here I am, with new entries planned. For now, please enjoy this randosity.

"Dear Gentleman, Dear Lady"

By Cecily Jane

Dear Gentleman,

You must understand that there are wolves at my door. I feel that I must be upfront about this at the beginning. I realize that everybody is stalked by a creature of some kind or another, and that the subject thereof is somewhat taboo. I do not mean to boast or complain about the breed or the number of them. I am only trying to inform you, for the benefit of your own safety, that not only are they particularly ferocious, they are so numerous and wild that I am still not sure how many there are. I don't go around counting other people's beasts, but I am of the opinion that this is above average.

I wish I could end it there. In fact, I wish that didn't have to write you this at all, but I know that you must be thoroughly warned. Please forgive me for the intimacy attached to the following:

When I say that they are wild and ferocious, I mean just that. But before you can fully understand the degree of their ferocity, I must tell you that these wolves used to live inside the house. They were very cunning, stealing in silently and tearing my house apart only when they were all the way inside. I am sure that I do not need to describe the destruction that they caused. I will say that it was extensive.

There was a point where it was beyond certain that getting the wolves out would be impossible. This was the general consensus in my entire village. My neighbors were so weary of getting bitten that they had long stopped visiting. I was effectively in quarantine, with the hope that once I was fully devoured, my wolves would no longer be a threat to them.

This, as you can guess, was not how it turned out. It took time, but I was able to drive them out one by one. If you don't believe me, I can easily show you my scars.

Perhaps by now you are thinking that I should have moved. It is obvious enough a solution that I did try it more than once. This seems to solve the problem only temporarily. If I leave as silently and covertly as they once came, I can slip out unnoticed. But they know my scent, and I cannot hide my tracks from them. I am lucky if I have time to put my home in order before I find one stalking along the borders of my property. When one comes, others soon follow.

I do find that moving is helpful, though. It gives me time to devise new defenses and get stronger windows. Most importantly, I find that it is much easier to become part of a new village than to convince an old one that your wolves have been chased away.

So, yes. I have lived in many places. I have slowly been able to replace my damaged furniture stick by stick. I have devised plans and backup plans so the wolves will never be able to cause as much damage again.

Over the course of time, I have learned their habits. I know their moods. Sometimes I can distract them long enough to sneak outside and fix an awning, or paint. It took a full year before I was able to get a fresh coat of paint on the entire outside, but I did it. If you looked at the house, you would see no indication of the pains I took. Most in the village have no idea.

This is another thing: my neighbors don't know my full history, nor do they understand the true nature of my wolves. I have tried to warn them, but it is not often that I can write such a detailed letter as this one. But, of course, my first village taught me that there are circumstances in which it is difficult to determine if this behavior is prudent. Things become taboo for a reason.

Now, I will tell you a secret that I usually keep close. I charge you with it only as a response to the specific requests you have made of me. Please guard it as well as I do.

I will just say it plain: the wolves occasionally get back in the house. It does not happen often, but it happens. I do not believe that it is possible to keep them out indefinitely. Sometimes, if I am careless, they will slip through the crack of an open door. Other times, I will return from the market and find one in my kitchen. I have made discreet inquiries as to possible solutions, but this has lead to little success. I have become practiced at getting them out, but the process is exhausting. The repair work is only slightly easier, if only because the work is spread over a longer period of time.

And now that you know the extent of my situation, you can see why I cannot let you inside. It is hard enough to keep them out when it is only me in this house. You could imagine the trouble if there were more occupants. I would not subject you to that. I could not bear it if you ended up with my scars.

In all reality, it is much more work than you would have expected. These wolves, I know, will never go away. I have a hope that someday they will become tame, but I couldn't ask you to wait for something that may never happen.

This is how things are. This is my fate, and I cannot change it. I dream of ways to get to you, but those dreams will stay unfulfilled. The best way to love you is to let you go.

Please don't share my pain with me. I love you too much to let you near what will tear you apart.

Mournfully,

Lady

Dear Lady,

You underestimate me. You underestimate how much I expect to work. I will tell you: a lot.

There are things that a man learns as he grows out of boyhood. One is that everyone has something. I once met a man whose house was infested with hornets. And if it's not hornets or wolves, it's lice, or rats, or some other kind of creature. There is always something. People with ladybugs and butterflies only exist in fairy tales.

Another thing I know is that when you find a good woman, you work for her. You work hard to get her, and you work hard to keep her. Otherwise, she will only find someone else who is stronger and better looking. Perhaps a boy would be scared by your letter. I am heartened.

I do have my pests, you know. I am not brave enough to write it down, but I have them. You will learn all about them soon enough. When I move into your house, they are sure to follow.

I love your house, you know. I admit, I often come to look at it from a distance. It is quite breathtaking. A man knows that a house like yours can only be kept so well by an extraordinary woman.

I've met your wolves there. I know, I probably shouldn't have come that close, and I apologize. But I saw them. One came up and sniffed my hand. I might have been fooled if it weren't for her wild eyes.

I think you've made a crucial miscalculation. You say that it's harder to fight wolves with two; I would argue the opposite. You have not seen the kinds of doors I can build or the traps I can set. You would be amazed, I think. If I was yours, I would spend my life keeping those wolves at bay. Together, I know we could do it.

Do you think that it's any easier to watch you fight them alone? Let me come and help you. Let me be as near to you as I can be, for as long as I am. We will work wonders together.

I love you too much to be frightened by you, you see. I certainly love you too much to to give up. I will come and gaze at your house and socialize with the wolves if that is all you will give me. But I think that you are smarter than that. I think that you will see that the best way to love me is to let me in.

Yours always,

Gentleman

Regards, best wishes, and metaphors,

-Cecily Jane

Short Story: "Sunday"

My Dear Reader,

I wrote this today while in Sacrament meeting. To prove it, I've also added pictures of the notebook I keep in my scriptures. So yeah.

"Sunday"

By Cecily Jane

I am waiting in silence.

Perhaps it is not true silence. I can hear myself licking my lips. I can hear the soft bustling of the air conditioner. I can hear the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. And once in a forever, I hear the scraping of a shoe on the carpet, the rearranging of a suit coat, or the wriggling in a padded pew.

I lick my lips again.

I'm not hungry this month, but then, it's only the first hour. This place has a way of leaving your stomach empty.

What I am is thirsty. So thirsty, that I'm trying to think of things that will water my mouth enough to overcome the dryness.

If I left this room, it would take me only half a dozen steps to find a drinking fountain. They don't turn them off on a day like this, and I've often wished they would. Instead, it sits there, perhaps giving its own gentle hum as its machinery stores water and keeps it cold. If that's how such things work. I do know that it hums.

It would take less than ten seconds to get there, push the button, and get my fill of water. And if I left this building and took a five-minute drive, I would have glasses and pitchers full of water. Not to mention cupboards full of food.

I have so much that I don't use.

But I am not at home. I am here, in the silence, and as the clock ticks out the seconds, I stay. I listen to the stillness. I speak to the One who made both my tongue and that water it craves. I hear the shoes against carpet as they come closer and closer, and when the noise stops, I lift my eyes to the tray I know will be there.

I take a piece of bread.

I pass the tray.

On normal days, I am happy to take it. Today, it is stealing the few drops of moisture that I have.

No, not stealing. Receiving. No one else put this in my mouth.

The piece is almost too small to chew, but I always chew it anyway. I know what it means. I also know what it means to me. I remember.

The shufflings of shoes have stopped, and before I can get a few more silent words out, the silence is broken by words spoken out loud.

No, not broken. Filled. Edified. Sustained.

And the words, now spoken, melt back into silence. I am pleading now, even as the spot on the back of my tongue won't moisten. But I am not pleading about that. There are many other things I lack. So many other things.

I know why I am sitting here. I know it down to my bones. I would do anything to be here. I just need longer in the silence. I have more things to say. I have more promises to make. And I need more time to wait, and to listen. There are so many things I need today.

There's a nudge at my arm, and I look up. The tray is exactly where it should be. I give a weak smile as I take the thimbleful of water and let it pour through my lips. I pass the tray and keep the water on my tongue for a bit. I know what it means. I know what it means to me. I know that today, in this moment, it is more than it ever was.

I open my eyes today. Other people have my tray and are partaking of it, just as I did. Now it's their tray. Our tray. It is the small amount of nourishment that we share together.

My throat is so dry that I can feel every drop slip through it. It is all that I will have for a long while, but I'm not worried about that. How can I? If I had taken more than that thimbleful, I would have drowned in it. How can I worry about that when I have only a few precious seconds of silence left?

There is so much more to say. A lifetime of things. But I am not sending any words out, not even silent ones. I am waiting for the words that will come to me.

I was hungry, and I was fed. I was thirsty, and I was refreshed. But I am hungry and thirsty in so many ways. I could be lying in a sea of fresh water and still crave what I crave now.

The silence will soon be filled with pleadings just like mine. It will be a series of vignettes made by those who hunger and thirst.

But this is my time alone, and I am listening. I am waiting.

And then, I'm not waiting anymore.

I am receiving.

There is more in this world than bread and water. You can survive on bread and water, but there is more to that in living. You need more than a beating heart, if the heart is empty.

I know it again this month, but then, this is just the first hour. This place has a way of leaving your heart full.

And what I am is full to bursting.

There is a silence that teaches. There is water that lives. There is power that speaks to the fleshy tables of the heart.

I know this now. I know it again. And I am full enough to let the silence leave me. I am primed and ready.

In a moment, I will be wading in living water.

-Cecily Jane

*There are several things that make this less than factual. First of all, I was late today, so I took the sacrament in the foyer. Second, it's a fifteen minute drive home. Third, "cupboards full" really means a cupboard and a drawer (I don't eat much at home). However, I was actually as thirsty as I depicted myself. I was drinking a tall glass of water as I typed this.

Short Story: Sacred

My Dear Reader,

I wrote this piece of Mormon fiction a few months ago. Take it as you will.

Sacred

My mother thinks everything is so important.

“Don't drink that!” she says, when I reach for some coffee at the gas station. I don't know why she gets so worked up about it. My friends' parents don't. Of course, they're not like us.

They're not like her.

I'm sacred, she says. Not special—sacred. Made by God. Placed here. Sent.

She says that God made my spirit, and then tailored a body for me to live in. It was crafted, she says. My body is that big of a deal—crafted by God. I'm supposed to learn how to use my body. How to care for it.

How to control it.

Controlling it, she says, it what life is all about. It's why I was sent here, or at least, that was part of it. God took all the trouble of making this body for me, and then He went and made a whole world so that I could learn how to use it. That's how important it it.

Sacred, she says.

And there's more to it, too.

My body, this thing that God created, is some kind of weapon. She says that if I learn how to use it, if I learn how to control it, to master it, all kinds of things are supposed to happen. Joy is one of those things. Not pleasure—joy. They're supposed to be different.

And then, of course, there's the devil. He always gets mixed up in this stuff. My mom says that God wouldn't make a body for him, and that's mostly what he's so mad about. So he goes around and tries to get me to misuse my body, just out of spite. For something that happened eons ago. I don't know how I managed to get messed up in it. And I certainly don't know why he would take so much trouble to mess around with me. It seems way out of his way.

When I ask her, she squeezes my hand and says that he's jealous. That he's trying to make me fail. He's trying to trick me into believing that my body isn't sacred, so that I won't realize that it gives me power over him.

Somehow, my body gives me that—the ability to beat the devil. But only if I use it right, if I feed it right, if I control it at all times. I have to watch what I do with it and what is done to it. I especially have to watch what goes into it, and what words come out of it.

At all times, and in all things, and in all places.

I have to be one who acts instead of one who is acted upon.

Because I'm sacred.

And that's why I can't have coffee. It takes her all the way from the gas station, to the car, to the grocery store, and all the way back to the kitchen table just for her to explain it to me. Like I don't already know. Like we haven't already had this conversation a million times.

Sacred. Of all the things she could say, she says sacred.

And then she takes a deep breath, stands up, and tells me to do the dishes.

I can't wait to get out of here. Tomorrow I'll wake up, go to school, and get away from Mom and her lectures.

One day, I'll be out of here for good, and I'll go far away and do what I want. No lectures involved. No guilt about being so holy. Just me, and what I want.

That's all.

The next morning in the car, she's talking about joy again. She says you have to work for it. I tell her that I'd prefer to never have to work at all. She laughs at me and tells me that it's because I'm still a child.

Laughs at me.

My own mother.

She's saying something at me, but I get out of the car and close the door. Can't let her ruin my whole morning.

You'd think that I would finally get a break from all this, but I don't. Because she doesn't drop me off at school, oh no. That doesn't start 'til eight. Instead, I'm in church. Before the sun even comes up. Church.

At least I'm not alone. They make all of us go this early in the morning. I've spent every Sunday with these kids as long as I can remember, and we understand each other. We understand how ridiculous it is. After all, not everything is a matter of life and death. Not everything matters so much.

I grit my teeth as I get through the lesson. Old Testament people were messed up, and that's pretty much all I get out of it. At least they didn't have mothers who lectured them. Or maybe they did.

It takes forever for it to be over. Fifty minutes stretched into eternity. I guess it wasn't so bad; after all, there were some interesting bits. And at least it wasn't just me.

Mom wants to know what I learned about when I climb back in the car. She always wants to know what I'm learning. I have to say something, or she'll start talking again.

It's always funny when I get to school and see my friends getting dropped off. Their morning has just started; I've been up for hours by now. A couple of them hand coffee cups back to their parents as they put their backpacks on.

They must think I come from another world.

And I do. But I try not to show it.

It's really stupid, if you think about it. Making us get up early and not letting us have any coffee. All because of how sacred we are. Sacred people never get what they want, apparently.

It's a certain type that gets coffee on their way to school. They have the hair, and the clothes, and everything. They look at me as they walk by, or rather, they glance as they walk by in groups. I'm not that different from them.

I'm only different in every way that matters.

Regards, best wishes, and I'm not sure what to make of that myself,

-Cecily Jane