He was gone.

After years of chaos, the storm finally left along with him. But even the stillness was corrupted.

He didn't have a place here anymore, so I scratched him out of my life, like tabletop graffiti when you didn't do your best. There was a problem, though: His leftovers. The memorabilia that sloshed through our three years and spilled over the brim of our breakup like contaminated water. I couldn't take seeing them. It was like he labelled his name all over my life- especially my bedroom.

I ripped the notes and photos and letters from my walls, the clothes from my hangers, and the bears from my bed, leaving a spray of thumbtacks, clawed closets and lonely pillows that still managed to salt my wounds.

I grabbed his remnants and stuffed them in a shoebox- also from him, collaged in polaroids and pink crepe paper. I laid them to rest in their cardboard coffin and buried it in the farthest, darkest corner under my bed, away from sight and mind.

I thought that I would be okay, but they haunted me still.

4AM nightmares of nostalgia: Our ghost scratching my bed frame. A skinny finger tapping the back of my head as I try to sleep, calling for me to take one last look at the life I was attempting to erase from my memory. Your hand on my knee, your kiss on my neck, your laugh in my air. It was like a corpse under my floorboards- rotting and stinking, and so evidently there. I squeezed my eyes close, tighter than the grip you said I had on you, and evaded the thoughts like I was running through reckless cars on a highway.

But it was impossible. Sooner or later, I knew I was going to get hit.

Nightcall

He was silent, both hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead into the orange glow of the city streets. I held onto my elbows, kept my head straight, but couldn't stop my peripherals from watching him. Silence, a game of second-guessing and over-thinking.

I could smell his cologne faintly under the thin blanket of cigarette smoke embedded in his shirt. A simple silver watch gleamed on his wrist, ticking louder than the vicious rain outside. I wondered where we were going, if he had something planned or if he just likes driving at night. We were getting farther from the city, and I wished I hadn't agreed when he asked me if I felt like heading out tonight. I was perfectly happy in my bed with a book, when he mentioned a "drive" I expected conversation and maybe some scenery. Not a silent escape to God-knows-where.

I felt nervous, like we were going to rob a store and throw the money out on the highway, or get sickly drunk and sling the bottles into Church windows. I pictured us, casually walking into a convenience store and asking the cashier to give us everything he's got. Intimidating, but sexy. The cashier wouldn't take me seriously at first, but he would pull out the gun and lay it casually on the counter. The cashier would probably get a little angry, but we'd keep our faces straight, maybe a little smirk here or there, and ask one last time before we shoot one of the liquor bottles on the back shelf- that would teach him.

I snapped out of my daydream. Was I the only one noticing the thick silence? I wanted to slice into it and set free all the conversations we could be having. Why was I nervous? How was he doing this to me? I hated his cool composure and his stupid jawline, and I hated my mind for wandering and thinking of stupid robbery daydreams.

Finally, the car slowed down. The bright lights of a convenience store portruded the darkness like blood from a fresh cut. He stopped the car and looked over at me.

"Lets go."

Someone else's idea of perfect.

I knew a long time ago that I wanted to be a writer. Well, I thought I did. I know how easy it is to change what you want to be in the future- one minute you want to be a doctor, but then you realize it's too difficult so you decide you want to work in business instead, but business has no soul so you decide to be a teacher, but it doesn't pay well so ... the list goes on. I can recall around six professions I felt so certain of when I growing up- a doctor, a forensic investigator, an archaeologist (I blame Lara Croft and the Discovery Channel), a restaurant owner, a writer, and now, I want to work in Marketing, Advertising, or Media production. The ideas still aren't certain, but they're much more realistic and aligned to my goals now, at least?

As uncertain as I am with my future profession, I know by now that it will never be stuck in stone. As long as I enjoy what I'm doing, I'll be fine. However, there's this small voice at the back of my head and  I can't help but feel guilty as I ignore it. "What about writing?" it asks.

Writing, for a long time, felt like my first love. I would dedicate so much time to this blog, I would use notebooks, even. But as I grew older and got busier with college and life, all the time I usually spent sharpening my sword (or pen, in this case- haha lame) was was dissolved. Now, I'm not even sure if I'm good at it. I can't commit to an idea long enough to write an actual story, nor can I just leave my blog blank.

I read a lot of blogs, usually among the lifestyle genre, and they're always so good. I think to myself, "Wow, she's witty!" or "I really like how she writes," and then my little dusty blog pops into my head and I just feel crappy, knowing that I haven't been writing in it as often as I want to. I want to be able to write blogs like them. I want to be able to talk about a life lesson in such a profound, insightful way, so I can blow all my readers minds and make them come back for more. I'm going to start practicing, that's for sure, but right now, I just can't do that. I can't write about the lesson life just taught me, but I do think I'm skilled at something else- I can write about feelings. I can write about the little moments in the heart, and I can dedicate three hundred words to those moments. Hey, three-hundred is a short blog post, but those are a lot of words for one little confusing feeling.