I’ve always been a lucid dreamer and my dreams never cease to excite me. Just last night I took a journey to an alternate place where the world had been overran by zombies but humans were not entirely wiped out. We lived amongst each other and the only time they took interest in us was when we were obnoxiously loud. When I was little girl, I’d think that maybe if I held onto something tight enough I could bring it from my dream to show everyone.
Sometimes, when I would dream I’d do things that I’d never have the guts to do in real life. Sing a song—perform with the Spice Girls (I love them unapologetically—you tried it). I would live in a place that wasn’t perfect but felt safe. In my dreams, I have time for everything and everyone I love. I hold on super tight and try to manifest that into my real life as well.
When I fall asleep I’m still back at high school—and I’m always late for literature class. The bell rings and I miss the bus home. When night falls, bad things happen. I’m chased or vampires and monsters begin to appear. It’s crazy how our perception of life can follow us even into the depths of slumber. What amazes me is that I’m constantly on the run from something in my dreams—the monsters are kind of a representation of what I perceive to be my problems.
© Kyanna Kitt
I wonder whether birds fly objectively. When they flap their wings, and charge their path, if they’re moving knowingly. Even when the wind is rough and sun won’t shine and still they fly and fly and fly.
When they glide through and through relentless squalls and still—I’ve become curious about their sweet candor. Daunted by forces beyond their will and still they fly. And they fly like they flew and have flown and always will.
© Kyanna Kitt
I wasn’t obliged, I didn’t feel inclined to stop. I loved the flavor of tobacco, the smoke rolling over my tongue the smell of burning chemicals. When I started, it was a matter of relieving stress when yoga and exercising didn’t work. I’d walk to the park and sit under the tree on the far side of the lake and look in the water.
What made me feel numb in this time where I struggled with what the good Lord was giving me, was doing anything to get away. If I could just focus on something else for a moment when all the writing and guitar playing wouldn’t save me. How ironic is it that I’d choose such harmful outlet?
In between smoking and not eating I spent time working. And when I wasn’t working I was madly scribbling away in my journal. I swore there was something wrong with me. Why do I like hurting myself when I don’t know how to regain control?
I guess part of the answer to the question is that I wasn’t built for the kinds of things being thrown my way. At least, I didn’t think I was and I’ve never been one to cope well with large emotional burden. I didn’t like not being able to manage on my own—it made me feel weak and vulnerable so I stopped. I stopped forcing myself to be perfect, I stopped worrying about the things I couldn’t change and I learned that if something was out of my control it was just that. I guess sometimes the hardest thing to learn to do is to let go.
© Kyanna K.
I carefully searched for myself in the nightly place. Picking apart metaphors in search for relevancy. Purposefully choosing the innate truth over nature and what I deserve. Beneath the noise, under the bumbling of the voices—the thoughts and unspoken words. I listened to your reflection. The imagery. Gorgeous, bright oxygen. If it weren’t for you, your likeness, I wouldn’t be.
© Kyanna Kitt
I have a lot on my plate as a student, writer and business owner. I find it almost impossible to find time to socialize and do things that I love outside of work. Between filling, filing and uploading paperwork, squeezing time in to study for tests, complete projects and learn the ins and outs of my business genre there is little time for even the bare necessities. Though I’ve always pondered the essentials—planning, coming up with short-term and long-term work goals and working towards them; I must admit for a long time I was lost in the bustle of things.
My mind tells me to work and my heart follows. I am passionate about what I do in every sense of the word. When I pick something up I feel obligated to finish it. To deny such responsibility would be a true shame and yet I find myself partaking in cycle of unending action. Immense duty calls for compromise. Something had to give so I stopped blogging. I stopped writing for clients who weren’t willing to pay my wages. I stopped getting involved in compromises that were unfruitful both short and long term. I stopped selling myself short.
Just recently, I began investing and saving the little extra money I do have for a better future for myself. The worst thing I can imagine is bringing children into the world with little to support them and no one to act as both aspiration and motivation for them. I often dabble with the almost irrational fear off not being ready if the man of my dreams finally comes along. Who will I be then and who am I now? To be honest, I don’t know.
One thing I do know is that I will get to the beautiful middle—the place I’ve always wanted to be and I will do it right.
Stuck in the muck of rubber soles
Mashing fervor against the ground
Ramming incessantly deeper into my brain
Making promises that I can’t keep
I never do…
Tied down to something more
Realizing sown seeds of decades’ past
Hooking into whatever passes by
Hoping for something stronger