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The Unfortunate Mishandling’s of Masks and Magic Muse

 I’ve forgotten what it feels like to write for an audience, rather than just for myself in my journal. It’s nerve wracking but long over due.

In recent months I have been on an emotional roller coaster. It has taken me through twists and turns, flips and loops and has, for now, come to a halt. I have begun to come to terms with things that I was never willing to admit existed. I have owned up to problems I believed weren’t there, or if I ignored hard enough, would go away. My writers muse was no longer a muse but a monster in disguise, a disease that plagued me for far too long. I had to answer a simple question.

“Do you want to live this way forever?”

The question didn’t seem simple at the time, and any answers I could come up with felt rehearsed or unnecessarily cynical. The only truth I could muster up the courage to admit was I was afraid of losing the face I created. We often wear a mask for so long, we hardly recognized who we are without it, but this was not my problem. I was afraid of what my world would be like if I took off my mask. Would the people in my life still love me? Or did they only love the version of me I let them see? The scariest question I had to ask myself was could I be anybody with, or without my magic muse? It had always been there as an excuse, a crutch, but now there is nothing, and no one to blame but the one person who has always had the final say in my life.

It’s been 13 days since I answered that question. 13 glorious days I never believed I could get through, but I have, and with a smile on my face. The journey doesn’t end but begins here. I know every day will not feel glorious, and I will not always be sporting a smile but for now, I feel like throwing that mask away and walking bare faced towards the future. It will always be a part of me, but it won’t be the only part that anyone sees anymore.

In an attempt to curb my boredom, which is my Kryptonite against the muse monster, I have started painting again, reading, writing in my journal, anything to keep my mind occupied and unsullied (to a certain extent), but I can’t help becoming frustrated. I thought with this new step in my life, would come inspiration and ideas but instead, I find myself staring at the same unfinished stories, unable to put into words what I want or need to happen. I could start new stories, and I have, but it’s something about these stories that scream “FINISH ME”. I’m only 24 and I know there is plenty of time for finishing unwritten endings, but I feel so much pressure to prove to these characters, and mostly myself, that I can finish what I’ve started.  I guess that’s not the worst attitude to have in this current state of my life.

My name is Brianne. I am The Greenest of Blues. I am a writerI am an alcoholic. 

 

Until Next Time,

The Greenest of Blues

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Lets Not Call my Absence, Abandonment, but instead a Long Sabbatical…

This wasn’t a traditional leave of absence; I wasn’t searching for a greater meaning, or broadening my horizons. No, I remained in Southern Florida, working, saving money, trying to stay out of trouble. The monotonous routine, I can only imagine, didn’t help my ongoing writers block which has plagued me for months. I know we’ve all been there.

I was so full of passion when I first started this blog, but after a certain relationship unraveled in my life, that fire burned out. I knew I just needed time to feel my grief, my anger and to let those emotions overcome me, ultimately helping me grow as an individual. I just didn’t realize how much time would go by.

It truly wasn’t even the lose of the relationship that had me floored, but the understanding of what happened to me while I was in it. The acceptance of not just their wrongs, but mine as well. It consumed my mind. I didn’t miss the relationship but I missed every sign of it going down hill; how did I miss the signs? The answer was surprisingly simple (seeing as it took so long to get there). I didn’t miss them. I saw every sign, and ignored them, pretended it was my imagination, or my fault, or their mistake. Why would someone do that, you ask? Allow me to introduce you to a favorite quote of mine, from an incredible book that I’ll never forget.

“We accept the love we think we deserve” – Stephen Chbosky, “The Perks of Being a Wallflower” 

I had accepted a violent and turbulent love with open arms. I couldn’t blame it on having no where else to turn. I could only blame it on the image I had of myself, the idea that I was only worth this kind of love, and to simply accept it or be alone.

I am happy to report; I am blissfully alone.

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And now that I seem to be in a more comfortable place, I’d love to get back to writing my blog and engaging with you wonderful people out there. I want to reignite my flame and forge my words in it. I’d like to finally and hopefully, successfully, pursue a passion I have for so long cast aside, or told myself I was not good enough to go after. I just need a little help in doing this.

Does anyone have any tips for writers block? Maybe your own personal practices, or something you’ve read about somewhere?

Maybe just some words of wisdom or encouragement?

Any bit helps.

Until next time,

The Greenest of Blues

 

Stories

My Happy Place

The snow falls quietly in the dark woods, laying a white blanket of silence over the charming cabin. Clouds of smoke pour out of the chimney. A warm glow illuminates from the two front facing windows, inviting me in from the bitter cold. The steps of the porch creak as I make my way to the front door, the handmade rocking chairs sway in the snowy winds. When I enter,I am immediately enveloped in the warmth provided by the red brick fireplace, in the corner of the room. I hang my snow soaked jacket on the coat hanger next to the door, and throw off my boots. I walk across the one room cabin, to a small kitchen, with black and white checkered floors, and 1950’s era appliances. The small window above the sink, reveals a moonlit lake just a few feet away, and behind the lake, beautiful snowcapped mountains resting against a blanket of stars. I turn to a pastel green coffee maker on the counter, and search the cabinets for a tin of coffee grounds and filters. I start a pot and the smell of Folger’s begins to invade my nostrils. I take a white mug out from the cabinet closest to the refrigerator and place it down next to the gurgling coffee maker.  I step off the tiled floor of the kitchen and onto the cherry wood floor that covers the rest of cabin. I walk to the middle of the room and let the feeling of serenity wash over me. In front of the fireplace is a brown couch, with a red woolen blanket draped over it and an ottoman, for warming your feet in front of the fire. A small end table sits to the right of the couch and atop it sits a small lamp, perfect for reading. On the wall to the left of the fireplace stood three tall, mahogany bookcases filled with many great works of literature. I run my fingers against the bindings, searching for the perfect book to nestle in with, when I hear the coffee maker begin to beep.

A cold breeze sweeps through the cabin. I turn to see the front door open and someone standing in the doorway. It was him. My eyes widen and I forget for a moment how cold it is. “How did you get here?” I ask, looking him up and down. His presence sends a shiver down my spine. He takes off his coat and kicks off his boots, as he closes the door behind him. He walks across the room, headed towards the kitchen and smiles at me. He pours himself a cup of coffee, then pours out a cup for me. “How did you get here?” I repeat, more urgently this time. Only I knew about this cabin. How did he know about this place? He walked toward me, handing me my cup of coffee and looked at me with those green eyes that melt me to my core. “You invited me here” he says and takes a sip of coffee, “why else would I be here?”. I looked around the cabin. This was the place I went to when the world got to be too much, when I needed to silence my mind. Why would I want someone else in my happy place? He got up to examine the bookshelves. He grabs a leather copy of “The Count of Monte Cristo” and retreats to the couch. I watch him as he basks in the glow of the fire, drinking his coffee and reading. I sit down next to him and stare into the dancing flames, thinking of the only reason why he would be here, after all the countless times I had been here alone. Sitting on this couch with him, wrapped in a warm wool blanket, feeling the heat from the fire and watching the snow fall quietly outside the window, was my happy place.

So, why am I so terrified?

 

Until next time,

The Greenest of Blues

 

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Hurricane Irma

While this category five storm makes it’s way towards Florida, and many Floridians desperately scramble for the last cases of water, sandbags and cans of tuna, I batten down the hatches at my own home, and pack a bag incase an evacuation order is issued for my county. Only the essentials. Long pants, baggy shirts, closed toe shoes, some toiletries and a blanket. I throw a book in the bag, so I will have something to occupy my mind. I stand in my room and look around, scanning for anything I might have missed while packing. Instead my eyes focus to the things I cannot take. The “non-essentials”.

In the spirit of preparation, I know these things can be replaced, and that ultimately my own safety is the most important thing, but I am only human.

I pick up my stuffed dog that I’ve had since I was one years old. The same dog I slept with and cried on for so many years and think, how is this replaceable?

I gaze at the framed pictures of my loved ones. My nieces, my nephews, my parents on their wedding day and a picture of my best friend and I in Manhattan, in a frame I had made at a pottery studio back in New York. Yes I will always have the memories, but these pictures helped me to feel at home in a strange new place. They are priceless to me.

I am trying to remain level headed and to think of the bigger picture. I want my family, friends, boyfriend and pets to be safe during and after this devastating storm. I want the state of Florida to come out of this stronger than ever. I want to help my fellow citizens in any way that I can, and ultimately make the best of an absolutely horrible situation (if that’s even possible). I don’t want to be the type of person to worry about silly possessions, but like I said before, I am only human.

Life has a funny way of teaching you lessons. I think this is one of them. I imagine this will be a humbling experience for me, and many others. The lesson; to care for what’s most important in life, the people who make it worth living.

For anyone reading this who lives in the state of Florida or has any family here, you are all in my thoughts. I pray she is gentle lover, and doesn’t fuck us too hard.

 

Until next time,

The Greenest of Blues

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Finding My Roots in the Sky

“Learn character from trees; values from roots and change from leaves” – Tasneem Hameed

DUMBO

After a two week excursion to my home state of New York, with some much needed time with my family and friends, I sat in LaGuardia Airport at five o’clock in the morning, my mind running a mile a minute. I wondered how I could live without New York. How could I make a home anywhere other than Long Island? While thinking that, I recollected on the trip and a feeling I couldn’t shake while in my own home town. I felt out of place. I stood in my favorite bar, where I had spent my 21st birthday (and birthdays before) and felt like I was in a room full of strangers. I walked down Tulip Ave and felt the nostalgia wearing away. The high school where I had spent six years of my life was being remodeled, the park where I played as a child was no longer the same park I remembered, even the home I grew up in looked different and made me feel different too. Everything was changing. I started to realize that I was changing too.

I began to think of myself as a tree.

New York is my roots. It has made me the person I am today. It will always be with me, even if it is hidden beneath the surface. Florida is my trunk. The sturdy trunk of my tree, which makes it possible for branches to grow. I was able to learn to stand on my own two feet again in Florida; it has helped me to remain resilient and steadfast in my stages of growth. My branches are where ever I go or where ever I end up. Whether or not they be boughs or twigs, all will be significant to the tree. Last but certainly not least, the people I meet or the people that will inevitably affect my life, will be my leaves. Some will grow on my branch, change color, and eventually fall off. Some will blossom into something else entirely. It’s important to note the tree will not always be full with foliage, it will sometimes be bare. It does not make the tree less. Sometimes all that is needed is a quenching rain or beam of sunlight to give it life again.

I boarded the plane, took my seat and peered out the window as we took off. I watched New York slowly fade into the clouds and for the first time since taking the trip back to Florida, I felt okay with leaving. I wasn’t losing my home and I wasn’t losing who I was. I’ll always have my roots, and so I’ll never have to fear the winds of change.

 

Until next time,

The Greenest of Blues

 

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The Great Divide

“You don’t want to work towards your future, so why would you want to work towards ours?” he says

 

I don’t even think, I just say  “Maybe I don’t want a future”

 

He looks away, disappointed at my answer. I’m too angry to care about my response.

 

“I pictured a life with you and I don’t want to be the only one working towards it” he says; his eyes focus towards the steering wheel.

 

I think of ten million things I want to say.

 

“I’m sorry if I make you think our future is unimportant to me”

 

“I wish I could believe in myself the way you believe in me”

 

“I love you and appreciate the work you’ve put in to show me how amazing you think I am”

“I’m going to prove you wrong. I’m going to show you what our future means to me”

Instead I say

 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you needed. I hope you find someone that you deserve”

 

Now laying in bed, I’m staring at the ceiling and wishing things could be different.

 

That I could be different.

 

I want to prove him wrong but that takes time.

 

Time is what I’m most afraid of.

 

What if he finds someone new? What if he falls out of love with me?

 

What if in the end, I’m still not good enough?

 

Until next time,

The Greenest of Blues