I am sitting on a bus, watching with tired eyes as the lights of LAX fade off in the distance only to be replaced with brighter lights of the city ahead. It is one in the morning and my eyelids are heavy but my hands are shaking and my mind is grinding, spinning like a wheel. My body is so tired I cannot even reach into my backpack for my notebook and so I pull out my phone and now here I am, writing this.

It’s as if every thought that flows through my brain will disappear forever and I cannot possibly live with that truth. My thoughts are like the people in my life: I hold onto them as tight as I can, even when I no longer need them, even when they fill my soul with nothing but negative energy. And so I write each one down wherever I can; in the pages of my notebook, on my locked phone notes, on napkins from restaurants, tucked into the faded pockets of my jeans.

I don’t know why my mind doesn’t stop. Perhaps it is constantly grinding, trying to find an explanation for the way I am, the way the world is, the way everyone else is and I feel I am not. All I know is that my poor mind has not stopped spinning for the past seventeen odd years. I believe the day I die will be the day I find the explanation my mind is searching for.


Ticking, turning, thinking.


It is when she feels so frequently covered by the restricting layers of her modern society that she is drawn back in time. She feels a rush of serenity as her mother’s gentle hands return from their grave in the earth to softly weave a comb through the girl’s long, dark locks. She can taste the unforgettable intensity of double-fudge hot chocolate on the tip of her tongue and smell the familiar odor of burning logs. She looks down, her legs having shrunk and covered once again in her polka dot pajamas; she once again owns the innocence of untouched, golden eyes.

She takes in her mother’s missed face: the soft curve of her jaw line, her deeply set, wise chocolate eyes, the mark above her finely shaped lips. When the girl speaks, her voice is untouched by the cruel influence of the world she will later come to know. “Will you tell the moon and sun story?”

A chuckle escapes her mother’s lips, her hand shaking slightly while tediously combing through the dark hair. “Haven’t you grown tired of that story yet?” The question is rhetorical; she needs no reply as she sets down the brush on her daughter’s pale pink nightstand and sets the child’s fragile body in her warm lap. Her fingers, spread out before lustful, child eyes, begin the story before her voice.

She speaks; velvet. “The moon and the sun existed long before toes touched terrain, or the first apple seed grew out of itself. The two bodies lived in sole existence, with nothing but empty planets surrounding them. So you see, they were destined for each other from the start – to need each other, to see the beauty in everything the other was.

“The moon and the sun especially needed one another to perform their two-man light shows. It is said that these light shows were more beautiful than any sight our human eyes will ever see, a wondrous motion of the colors that inhabit the universe, spurred by the passion of each body, turned into inexplicable art.”

The girl has heard these exact lines countless times, yet her young eyes are glued to her mother as she speaks – to her hands, and to the words that flow from her lips. Her almond eyes grow in size as she imagines the light show before her mother and her, something just for them. She thinks to herself, “Either my mother is the most beautiful woman in the world, or she is the only woman in the world.”

“You must understand: the stars were created for this show, for the love that the moon and the sun shared, and for all the beauty in their universe.” And then her mother’s eyes shift downward, her hands droop, and her excited body begins to relax. There is a sudden sadness to her silky voice, and the girl feels water well up in the corners of her eyes because she knows what will happen next.

“But out of envy, one planet could not allow the spectacle to continue. You see, the earth wasn’t always so bad; she just wasn’t loved. Instead she was cursed with the disease of mankind, taken to fits of pure evil and contempt for all that was beautiful in the universe. Nobody, not the sun or the moon or their stars, could imagine the sort of pain that the earth endured. Her suffering was that of hearing about the blessings of the world and of the beauty it contained, without ever experiencing that beauty for herself. This is why the earth felt she needed to destroy the most beautiful thing she knew of.

“With the aid of her contemptuous people, the earth used all of her power to forbid the moon and the sun from being together. Granted, they were still necessary for the function of her own planet, but never again would they be able to conduct their magnificent light shows. When the moon was out, the sun was hidden, and neither could ever see the presence of the other.

“But the earth was not entirely destitute of feeling: she still wanted to believe in something, even if she didn’t want to have it exist and to cause her pain. So she left the two lovers with one thing: they only saw each other once a day, for only a moment, and only in passing. This is how it would be for the rest of eternity.”

There is silence, and then the girl opens her tiny mouth to ask a question she never has before. She feels the urgent desire for a different ending to this story, this everlasting sadness of a tale. She asks, in the most innocent sound the world could ever hear, “Do the moon and the sun still love each other?”

Her mother looks to her child’s face, taking in the sweetness of her tiny nose and the clear purity of her eyes, and she can’t help but smile at the corners of her mouth. “I’m glad you asked, darling.

“The moon and the sun may exist still in a forbidden love, but it is love nonetheless. It is a passionate, never-ending love strengthened by ongoing desire. They may not see each other but only for a single second a day, but they know that as long as they are pulled away with every new day, the other must still exist in the universe. That’s called selfless love.”

The girl seems to understand, and the empty, nervous pit in her small stomach starts to fade. “And will the earth ever let them be together again?”

Her mother nods slowly, her eyes now set on something far off in the distance, something that makes her dark eyes glow just slightly. “Not yet; but everyday she is learning to accept the beauty of love even if she can’t have it for herself.”

“Then she will also be selfless, right?”

“Yes,” her mother says, her eyes locking with her daughter’s. “She will.”

I believe a person once told me that if you write something down on paper, it will actualize itself and become true. That’s why I’m holding a piece of notebook paper with ragged edges, torn from its place inside of my math notes, the words “it gets better” scrawled across ignored lines. Except now I’m not so sure what to do with this paper prayer of mine. Is it bad that I feel more heard when I crumple my feelings into a ball and shove them into the contents of my journal than if I were to scream my jumbled thoughts from the top of the Hollywood hills? I’m tired of feeling like a good story with a sad ending; wasted paper.

“You serve the best by doing what you love the most” – Maria Bello.

Let me paint the scene: April of last year, a nervous, sophomore version of myself, and a plastic bag from the Costco photo center resting on both of my palms like a sacrifice to the artistic gods. My eyes glittered not only with excitement to show my peers the finished product of my year-long determination, but also with the hope that my teacher would be proud of my work — of me, more importantly.

My photos were good. I would believe someone if they told me they were great; I would just as easily believe someone if they told me that my work could use major improvement. Looking back now, those photos aren’t my proudest work. Nevertheless, everyone has to start somewhere. I may not ever hang those photos on a gallery wall or submit them as part of my college application portfolio, but they just may be the most important photos I will ever take. They are the 5 photos that made me fall in love with the art of capturing the world’s living beauty.

I don’t think that I do anything exceptionally. I write well and I take a great photo every now and then. I don’t consider myself to be extremely intelligent or anything, either. But I do love what I do with a passion, and in the end, that’s all I really know about life: you have to do what you love and are passionate about.

So when people ask what I want to be when I’m older, I tell them this:

“I love to read and write, and I love to take photos. I love to learn and I love to give back to my community. I want to be happy and I want to end my life knowing that I did everything I ever wanted to do and loved with all of my heart. That’s what I want to be when I’m older.”

Going into the new year of 2018, I want to inspire others to carry that ideal with them. This is a big year for many of the world’s adolescents; anyone born in the year 2000, like myself, will be transitioning into an adult this year. I’m going to be applying for colleges, taking important tests, and finding the place I truly want to spend the next four years of my life in – something that will sprout the entirety of my new adult life. I’m lucky enough to have known what it is I wanted to do since an early age, but if you’re not like me, then it’s perfectly okay. Listen to your heart; The answer really isn’t as far as you might think.

I have a strong feeling this is going to be a year of people telling us, “You can’t.” I get that a lot, as many consider me a dreamer. But if you are loving who you are, what you do, and how you treat others, then someone’s close-minded opinion will not have the power to sway you. It is a year for strength, pursuit, and discovery.

With that in mind, here are the photos that first inspired my discovery. To a new year of beginnings and positive change; let’s take 2018 on together. Santé!


Everyone has a mood hobby. You know, the one thing you can always do when you’re happy or sad or angry. For some, that’s movies: The Fault In Our Stars when they want to be sad, High School Musical when they’re full of joy.

Personally, I prefer poems – specifically, poems from Pinterest. Seriously, you should see my Pinterest board full of words. It’s insane. I spend more time on that app than the twenty-first-century average housewife. I’m not sure why I save every poem I’m drawn to, because there’s definitely over five hundred on that board by now and I rarely look back at the pieces I’ve already read. Anyway, the point is that I’m way too obsessed and I’ve decided to do something about it.

Instead of just being the reader of poetry, I want to become the writer of it. I want my words to be the ones that jump out at a sad girl or a man in love and make them save it to their Pinterest boards – of life, that is. Catch the metaphor.

So, I guess this is my way of announcing my new – and first – series on here. I’m a newbie to the world of poets, and maybe this won’t turn into anything important at all. Or, maybe it will. Either way, get excited; it’s about to get real.


You daydream about it. You make plans and outlines; you do your research. You read too many “Blogging 101” articles that it boggles your mind. And then you wait because, maybe, the time isn’t right.

I’ve been making excuses for myself for far too long. Perhaps the years will get better, or my life will get less stressful, but perhaps the years will get even harder and my life will plow head-on into the pit of the earth. I’ve used up all my “what if’s” and “soon’s”. I’ve come into contact with a now or never conflict. And, because of that, I am now writing my first post on a blog that I should have started years ago.

This should serve as a forewarning for anything and everything I have written or will write on this blog. I could list the many things I am, but most importantly you must know that I am an amateur; not only am I too young to vote, but too naive to know, too insecure to be confident, too uneducated to educate, and too inexperienced to tell of my many experiences. Despite all of the reasons I should not be starting a blog, I have a strong feeling of urgency to get my words out into the world. I have something worthy of sharing with young people like me who have been pushed to revolt from creativity and stay within the lines of tradition. If I don’t share my words, then I will live forever with the feeling of guilt from not at least trying to better others’ takes on our world.

So lean back, turn off all the lights and ignite a few candles or a single lamp (I promise, everything means more in the dark). You’re in for way too many unedited first drafts, possibly overly depressing poems, black and white photography, and annoyingly close-minded worldly opinions from a sixteen-year-old girl who thinks she knows it all. Sorry, I’m not sorry.