Steps to a "Prom"posal

When music cannot calm my nerves, there's a problem. I was as perepared as I could be, but the knots in my stomach said otherwise.

The two days before, however, excitment bubbled. Let's retrace the steps:
 

1.   Talk with friends

2.   Browse pinterest

3.   Find ideas

4.   I wasn't looking for a big production or anything romatic, so I talk to a friend again

5.   Use idea to create my own 

6.   Freak out & get nervous

7.   Talk to a friend

8.   Gather materials

9.   Modify idea

10. Write note

11. Be excited

12. Seal project & take a picture before putting in school bag

13. Send message with the picture to two friends to stay accountable
 

 

Walking to his normal morning spot, I freaked out since their was no sign of him. Just to my luck he wouldn't be here today... I sat and talked with our friends, feeling the knots become tighter in my stomach. Gosh, I finally understand what guys go through to ask a girl out... (props to you all). A few more minutes and he arrived, but I'd already lost my nerve to ask. Shortly following his arrival, the warning bell rung. Where did all that time go?

Be spontaneous, I told myself, just ask him. His face lit up and a smile streched from ear to ear. I laughed. That was all I could do. He was too adorable!

Of course he said "Yes"!

Yes, We all have to be Vulnerable

 

 

I was given the opportunity to be introduced and watch Ted Talk videos recently--not that I have a ton of time on my hands (that's not the point though). The lessons are phenomenal and no doubt have a connection to everyone. After watching The Power of Vulnerability one distinct memory came to mind.

 

Looking back, freshman year could've been yesterday. I wonder where all the time has gone. Three years. Three years gone. And one more one the way. I cannot see myself, however, as a Senior and to those who came after me, you are all still freshman. I don't want to see you grow up. But just as it is hard for me to see you all get older, I do too. Next year I'll be gone, although, but as yesterday began one of many "last", "last" does not mean "to end"; it allows for new opportunities. Most importantly, "last" never means forgotten.

 

Memories from the freshman year are still clear as day.

 

Creative Writing had to have been one of my favorite classes. And fortunately it was 4th period, the longest class period. As the twelve weeks dwindled to two, my final portfolio had to be created. I knew it our final pieces had to be edited, not by just anyone though. My teacher was taking on one-to-one conferences to edit pieces. Small naïve me had no idea what to ask her or how to approach editing my creative writing. I just wrote. I wrote, and wrote, and wrote. In my eyes it was not something for all eyes to see.

 

But let me take this moment to be vulnerable and let you read this piece:

 

Answer Me

            Whipping against my skin, the wind agitated me.  Autumn leaves colored the bleak path ahead, dancing in the gust while carrying hints of memories I once forgot.  My bare feet seeped into the softening soil, slowly suctioning to the gooey surface. 

            Distant thuds of waves rebounded off the cliff in a reverberating echo.  Oceans mixed with a slight hint of forest pine swirled into my nose, provoking tears that became suppressed behind my mask, hidden to the world.  A tight smile, wired and jagged, pricked at my lips waiting to be shown to my world of hatred, I permanently lived in.  Emotion left my eyes long ago, turning a warm spring meadow to an unrelenting sea storm. Brewing. Just beneath the surface as if one drop of rain could unleash overpowering anger.  Enraged.

            Seizing one last full breath, I tore away from the exposed trial dragging my mud-soaked feet from the ground.  Feeling lighter than a feather, I sprinted away to the last place I’d ever see.

            Thinning from a bushel of tangled trees, I gained speed aggressively.  Increasing.  Breaths became shallow pants.  Air fleeted my lungs, coursing my throat dry.  Crimson hair caught within the mangled branches unsuccessfully blocked a road I’d already started to race through.

            From smooth to rough, slick to rugged, rocks slit my feet open.  Gravel flew in the air just as unseen words.  No solid surface to find through thick or thin.  Current physical pain slipped unnoticed as I gasped for air to inhabit my burning lungs.  

Red flashed behind my closing eyes.  Scarlet slid from open wounds plaguing my damaged figure.  A disembodied voice collapsed my world. Words began rebounding off walls, slicing each gash deeper than the last. 

Holding back whimpers another impact rattled throughout my languished body.  Rage consuming eyes connected to mine. Power enveloped his pupil’s, feeding off freshly produced pain. Wanting more; fruitlessly.  Abandoning the first body, distorted by broken bones, a humorless laugh curled from his lips.  Lifeless.  Cruel.  Inhuman. 

“M-mom?” my voice croaked from my throat.  Screams echoed silently inside my head.  Unceasingly.  Ringing pounded my ears.  Endlessly. 

Boots incased my vision, hiding my non-breathing mother.  Cocking back the heavy leather boot, it collided into me, jolting myself away from my living nightmare.  Inescapable.  The edge loomed ever closer, awaiting my fateful decision.

            Dwelling in the horizon, a half disk sunk under the ocean consuming the clear blue sky in shades of zealous pinks and passionate oranges.  Sparse clouds decorated the crumbling sky allowing rocks to perish under my weight.  Whistling wind howled against my ears.   Ripping through thin cotton clothes, the gust tainted the temperature touching my chilling skin.

            Mere seconds passed before frigid ice water cloaked my body, scattering my mind of any coherent thoughts.  Pressure enclosed above me, shoving me beneath a crystalizing surface, with help of falling momentum.

            Time wouldn’t heal scars covering my suffering body, for it didn’t exist anymore.  Icing water numbed my skin.  A cold fire ignited within me alighting dusted memories to ashes. Vanishing along with the rest of me, I was nothing more than a hallucination.

            A wish granted.  A life taken.  For once death listened to my silent cries of despair.

That's the exact advice my teacher gave  me. Be vulnerable. For writing, it builds characterization and connections. And same for people. It opens up for all other emotions. But to numb vulnerability, numbs all emotions. Vulnerability is not something we like, and it's most definitely not something we want to give into. But if we want to live wholesomely with love and belonging there will always be sacrifice.

This vulnerability applies to every aspect in life, no matter if we want to believe it or not. Knowing when to allow ourselves to be vulnerable is the key.

My Views

Our world is jaded by the eyes which overlook values morals interest

we implant ideas into younger heads corrupting society           

and we ask: why is it that no one has individuality?

For the sake that we want to fit in

we want to be accepted into a group

not out casted

we are alienated by the characteristics that are against society’s ways

but reality we are humanoid

influenced by music books movies television, mainstream or alternative,

anything that occurs daily

no matter how much we say we break away

it’s bound to influence us

that’s how culture is shaped

we are shaped by our actions words thoughts

we are not ourselves

if we decide that this world is not right

that’s when change can occur

but until we admit the fact that along the lines something took a wrong turn

we cannot pave our own path

but it’s by unconformity that we become a destined person

together we stand strong

but apart we create an interesting world

conflicting ideas challenging one another is what spreads new ideas

no one said we have to be a like

don’t be

what’s your worth if we are all one in the same?

Reconnected

I am definitely the creative writer. I knew that before I even began to write journalistically. I’m always adding little details here and there, descriptive adjectives, varying my verbs. As journalism is becoming implemented into my writing style, I haven’t lost the touch for writing novels, short stories or poems. I’ve just been able to look at my pieces from a different point of view. I will approach a topic differently. And though keeping strait to the point without all the fluff is difficult (or at least for the moment), I thought I’d share a song I wrote.

My inspiration comes from everyday life; from dreams (if I remember them) and internal battles I fight with myself. But this particular composition, “Killing the Clocks”, was inspired by the novel I finished last winter.

In short, I’ve titled the novel Reconnected. It is about a girl, Sephora, who meets international boy band, Imagine Mir, before they became a worldwide phenomenon. Throughout while living in Germany, the four counterparts and Sephora bonded. Four years later it is blatantly obvious Sephora changed; however, Imagine Mir knows nothing of the mistakes and lessons she learned about relationships. Little does Sephora or the boys know that there is a connection between their families to lead Sephora back to Germany to confront her secret. Events following lead to unexpected fallouts, heartbreaks and overwhelming damage. Can the families cope with the outcome? Is there anything else to hold onto, or are relationships sliding on glass?

“Killing the Clocks” is the Imagine Mir’s first single released internationally. It was written for Sephora after she departed ways from Germany.

The first verse explains of the emotion felt when Sephora left. They don’t want time to pass because their life is not the same without the missing piece.

And I'm killing the clocks
So we don't lose time

We're a half a world away 

I don't want to hear the tick, tick, tick
Reminding me you’re not here
For you and me were meant to be
And I kill the clocks
Now and forever

Within the chorus, it conveys time flew by when the five of them were together. With Sephora gone, all they have is a memory. Time is not conceptual. But if they are not aware of the clocks, maybe, memories could be more than just a vision. Maybe the wish of her return will occur to save them from a world that keeps turning without meaning.

Cause eternity is what is left
And that is the time I want to spend
Not alone but with you
You, you, you
I want to be with you
You, you, you
I'm killing the clocks and not the time
Cause in my eyes you are the only one left to save me
From this world that's burning

 

They want to live in a memory, the second verse articulates. Reality is not somewhere that the boys can be expressive anymore. They are shunned from their world and memory is the only escape.

Kill the clocks with me
Let us be one in the same
Find me and together we will be
Lost from reality
Cause without time
We will live forever
In a world that doesn't matter
We can be who we are

And we kill the clocks
Now and forever

After a repeat in the chorus, the third verse proclaims that Sephora was open to their outcast ways. She accepted all four of them for their true colors. Never once did she judge the fact that they were different. Not everyone wants to have conformity in society. All five were unique individuals. 

 Kill the clocks
We won't see the time pass
That all I ask
Cause with our meeting
You changed my outlook
You've changed my perspective

All I want is to see you again
Without the limits of time or space

For you and me were meant to be 

And I kill the clocks

Now and forever
 

In a usual song there is a bridge with the chorus ending with a final repeat. But that isn’t how I composed this piece. With another repeat in the chorus, I end with a few more lines, repeating part of the chorus. 

Killing the clocks to be with you
You and only you
We are killing the clocks together

♫♫♫♫♫ 

As I was writing the lyrics to this song, there was a distinct melody. Normally, the piece begins as a poem and eventually I can pull chords together for the piano. But it was no doubt when I sat down to my beloved instrument that I played a few notes and immediately knew this was what I recalled in my head.

I’ve never written down the composition, come to find out the original sticks. I can pull out the piano bench and know exactly how to play “Killing the Clock”. Every time it changes in minute details to adds characteristic changes.

Nothing’s ever perfect. It’s always a work in progress. 

<3

© 2012 Katie Hermann. All rights reserved.