I've been going through some tough times, just your regular, average problems that every other regular, average teenage girl goes through. Nothing too drastic. But instead of whining or putting on black clothes, I write. I didn't write this for reviews; heck, I don't write for reviews anyway. I didn't write this for your sympathy. I just need you to listen, if you can. Or just read. Many of you are good at that too, and that's fine.

I just had to write.


--The Outsider--

We had a powwow a few weeks ago. It was my people's turn to shine. It was supposed to be good, supposed to make me feel alive. Instead, the moccasins felt too tight on my toes, and the feathers scratched the back of my neck. The drums made my head throb, and the long stares of the young boys, those pre-pubescent "braves" with their acne scars and beaded headdresses, did nothing to quell the discomfort. Once it was done I headed for my room, tore the outfit off and stored the turquoise away in exchange for a pair of worn blue jeans and a gray sweater I'd purchased a couple years ago at Target. It was like breaking out of some kind of cage, and I sighed in relief. But then I looked down at my jeans; I was disgusted too. Some white guy designed these jeans, I know it. Ha, ha. White guys designed the whole country nowadays. Maybe I should just go naked.

"I thought you were looking forward to this powwow. Didn't you want to dress up?" Yes.

"It's your culture. Suck it up for a couple hours." I did.

"Once you wear this, you'll be irresistible. Best quality dress, right here! We'll find you a nice Navajo boy, ok? Unless you don't like Navajo boys. Wait, do you prefer white boys? Is that it? Black boys?"

No; ethnicity has nothing to do with it. I love who I love, get it?

I laugh as I look in the mirror and stuff a feather into my hair, adjusting my glasses. I look ridiculous. Who are you kidding, Julia Chang? White America or Native America, you still don't fit in. Exotic. Cool. Ugly. Lovely. But always an outsider.


--A Heart as Well as a Mind--

Speak.

Open your mouth and communicate; it isn't that hard. Open up. Reveal your mind. Tell me your secrets. Let me see that heart of yours. It's easier said than done. I tried. I opened my mouth to try and explain, to try and reach an understanding, and all that escaped was a cold silence, a muteness mistaken for stupidity and malice, and you leaped down my throat to try to dig out those unspoken words; I choked. Don't get me wrong; I can speak. I can be eloquent and arrogant and elegant and brash. But only when I choose. I love you, don't doubt that, but let me have something of my own too, Michelle.

Speak. I tried. But I'm back to square one, and I've pushed them away again. Something's been lost.

But when I put my pen to the paper, the words come alive. Release. Understanding. Coherence. Alive, alive, alive, I feel so alive. Expressed, I am expressed. Invisible I am not. Euphoria. When I put my brush to the canvas, the images come to life, colors abundant, violent, intoxicating, raw and real and honest, hidden and vile, gentle and sweet, sweet, sweet. Expressed, I am expressed.

I had a dream once. I was screaming at the top of my lungs, straining my vocal chords until it hurt, until my head ached, screaming as if it would tear me to pieces. Screaming, screaming, screaming, over and over and over. It was strange; I'd never heard myself utter such a noise. They weren't screams of terror or rage. I just wanted to hear myself, because for once, words had become useless.

I think it was my heart screaming. Listen to me, remember me; you still have a heart as well as a mind, little sage. Don't forget me. Here. Let me remind you, stupid…All the anguish, all the frustration and guilt and disappointment and love and regret, shoved into one night's dream of shrill cries, cries which could only be heard through the bittersweet confines of a dream—a dream come to life within a mind with too much reign over the heart. Pathetic, isn't it? A poetic and idealistic notion, the stuff of dramas and shitty romance, angst novels, but in reality just pathetic and idealistic and incoherent.

But how else can I explain the emotions without sounding too sappy? I guess my writing's deteriorating.

Outside, awake, aware, reality was very quiet. Inside, awake, aware, the dream wailed and clawed its way out.

The dream had been so vivid. I'd expected to hear my parents running to my room to see why I'd been screaming my lungs raw. But no one came. But it'd been so vivid. I'd been so sure. And so, closing my eyes, I thought about the person who could restore that calm to my heart, the sole person who might end that screaming…

It was during nights like these when I envisioned his face, heard his laughter and his voice. Lonely, cold, indigo nights like these that cradled my heart between its gnarled fingers and twisted. Longing. It's a sickness. Love. I don't know what it is, but it makes me vulnerable. Naked. Warm and wanted. I hated it; I yearned for it. It didn't matter what went on during the day, what kind of smiles or stress, whether they yelled or laughed. It was the night that brought him to me. Hwoarang…he'd changed something in me. Words had become useless. Words were my weapon, yet now they had become obsolete. Love and pain are one and the same. They leave you in a state of awe; no amount of words can ever be sufficient.

Be more verbal, they say. It's embarrassing sometimes, to be verbal. Sometimes it comes out wrong. Then again, nothing ever comes out right except "Shit, I'm still disappointed." Hm.

"What are you thinking? What's on your mind?"

Be careful; retreat, Julia, retreat. My mind wins again. Jesus fucking Christ, just fuck logic. Fuck it—I can't. What's ironic is that I am ruled by emotions; I can get carried away if I'm not careful. It's always logic that saves me in the end, thrusts me back into reality; but what is reality? I've the mind of realist but the heart of a dreamer; or is it the other way around?

Maybe it is unhealthy to keep so silent, but that's why I was given a brush and a pen. Take those away and I am nothing; I'm gone. An artist without a medium becomes dangerous. But maybe I'm already gone. My mind still functions but my heart is dancing alone in the rain somewhere, bleeding and bruised, but still dancing like a fool. Dancing like a fool, pumping life and feeling within that lonely indigo gloom. Tell me, when do you know when to listen to your heart? When do you know when to listen to your mind? When and how do you choose?

Sagacious. Intelligent. Mature beyond your years. Really? Is that all? I am admired for my mind, and maybe that's all I really want you to see. I am admired for that image, for those goody-two-shoes, as that Native American nerd hidden behind her glasses and novels and found walking between the trees. Leave me the hell alone—wait, I changed my mind. Look at me. Look at me, damn it.

And what do I want you to see?

"Walk with your heart, not with your feet," my mother once told me. And what if you don't know what that means? What if your mind is editing everything now as your heart speaks?

"You're a waste of space, and you never open up. Write something worthwhile for a change."

Worthwhile. Worthwhile. Aren't I worthwhile? It doesn't matter what anyone says; I and I alone can define my worth. And am I not desirable? Am I not worthy of this space, this time? I don't know. I guess. Yes, I am. Shit.

"I swear to you, I will never hurt you. I'll always be there for you."

I know Hwoarang means it. That's one thing my heart knows.

"You know, you don't have to write all the time. What are you writing about anyway? Sex? Having sex with boys?"

Why yes, indeed, all the time, Father, all the time. Can't you tell by what I'm writing now? Ha, ha, ha. Yes, my life's dream is to get a good, hard fuck from a boy.

I was standing in the dark in that dream, oddly detached, screaming for something, for something...wake up. Snap out of it. It's only a dream. In reality all is silent.

You know what? Loneliness is the loudest fucking noise in the world. I better find something else to listen to before I go deaf. Maybe The Gathering, maybe his voice, maybe my heart. Psh, listen to my heart; it's overrated. What does that mean anyway? Some cliché, right? "Always follow your heart, blah blah blah" bullshit. Sometimes it doesn't work out so great. I just better do something before these pens run out of ink, before my heart decides to scream forever in that dark, silent prison of dream.