this is NOT an ordinary post

My soul decided to scream its way out of me tonight, and the rest of me picked up the pieces, fixing a puzzle early this Sunday morning.

I have been difficulty seeing the light people keep mentioning to me about that shines ever so gently yet brightly. But, I am blind. And I sort of wish everyone else was, too.

If everyone was blind, then I believe that we could truly, and honestly see in each other. Beauty can more easily blossom when no one's pesticide looks poison it.

I was thinking about the concequences I have created because of what I think about myself. I starve for compliments on my personality despite my blindness. They speak a different language in which I know few words.

I am writing to tell the adventure, the story that happened to me in the hour of eleven. I say this because it was not seen from a human eye, but a camera, capturing specific yet blurry shots. This isn't worth the hype my words are creating. To me, the hype is half the fun. Here are the shots for you in order. They are fuzzy because the pen didn't kidnap them and throw them violently onto my old bible notebook paper until the early twelve. Take peek through my lenses.

Pause. Background information first. I finished watching the decent, corny film called Penelope. It's good, not fantastic, but it got me thinking. I can't keep punishing myself for just being who I am. There is no need to defend myself and what I believe when no one is on the fighting side. I am Don Quixote.

Here it is. "How Will He Find Me" by The Weepies is a stream flowing past my ear drums.
I walk the black path contrasting the thin white spread on both sides. I silently cry a little. The light upon the hill of Walton reveals the sweet of what's left in my eyes and now resting on my cheeks ever so gently.

(I walk pass Walton) I softly stomp my way to a dark fork in the pavement, mediating on the lack of love I receive because of the lack of respect that I supply for myself. My eyes fight the stream to see the vivid illumination that is now the centerpiece of my sight. The song is still looming.

I am welcomed by stamps left by snow-bottomed shoes. I holt at the center of the glowing, softly beaming twinkles hugging the gazebo. As the song concludes, it cues my tears to fall.

I take my time to get to the edge, to see the solid reflections with fuzzy edges of street lamps lining the hollow paths across the pond. A heart carved by a human hand in the snow rests in the corner. Silence still reigns from my earbuds.

My icy toes move like a sloth leaving the gazebo with "Dancing Alone" by Ashlee Simpson. Even now, I cannot despise any part of her in any way because she has given me this single song which has allowed me to grow one white spray rose with every listen.

I leave, walking up the path, watching light dance upon the thin concrete coating half the pond. I stop for a second. The sweet gets caught, entangled in the light, I imagine. My lips are roughly dry, yet my tears can't satisfy.

I pass their voices for that is all I know. I dig deeper into my hood as I continue up the steep. As I cautiously reach the top, a boy takes wide steps up the hill at the top towards me, where I oversee Gough beyond the second pond. I descend before I can find out what he sees.

I trudge down to the gazebo to find at the mouth of it that two knotted hands attached to two cloudy breaths from two shy smiles claim the place I recently abandoned. The minature mount of Walton spills tangerine light all over the ground, even on the snow. It catches the sweet probably, pulling me back down the path toward the building I call home. My eye arrests the hands in union soon create two lips in a bow. The song has ceased to play.

There are very few moments in which music cannot properly nor accurately describe. This is one of those moments.

They take my security away. I'm not particularly nor completely settled into my skin. They are. They know themselves and each other. They could admire one another whole-heartedly.

I am numb. I cannot feel my walking pattern, the beats of my heart, not even the inhale that is being taken in my mouth. I feel nothing except drops of watery Hershey kisses dripping from the corners of ever so blue eyes. "The Blower's Daughter" by Damien Rice calls for this.

I roughly glide back down the path, stealing a pre-made snowball from the bridge's ledge. I smooth the edges delicately like a stream soothes the coarse spots away. This sphere made from, at its core, water, is the collection of comments about my personality that I hold ever so dear. I nurture these words and try to make them echo in my head forever.

I reach the opening of the soccer field. I rebel. I walk on the curb, defying the footsteps that spot the snow to my left and do not dent any more the white meadow to my left. I walk discreetly passed not to disturb the sleeping snowflakes.

I proudly smash the collection of flakes and thoughts in front of Gough, curious to see what will happen without them, without it.

I stare through the archway to the ledge. My sunken palms upon it dissipate the flakes and awake my nerves. "Loveson ♥ g" is what I melt. "'Lion's Mane' by Iron & Wine" is further sucken, creating valleys of flakes.

"by Iron & Wine" is later demolished due to construction of a snow castle, standing proud from many yards away, basking in the light.