Talking

I talk to myself. I rant and rave and vent to the air around me. But once I talk, my words are lost. So I decided to use my microphone to dictate them here, to you, dear reader, in case you cared enough to read them. This is me. Word for word.

We underestimate the need for venting, for talking. It helps us to sort our thoughts, to let go of them. Say something. Outloud. Right now. Anything. Cast it into the air, and watch it fade away. It feels good, doesn't it?

Recently, I find myself more often than not, dropping everything to listen to someone. To try to comfort someone, to help them, to take as much as I can off their mind. And for awhile, I was jealous. Jealous that nobody asked to listen to me. But then I realized, I didn't need to talk. I needed to untangle my thoughts for myself, before I could put them into words.

I have words, dear reader. And here, I can talk, if you care to listen.
Talk, reader. I implore you, I beg you. Talk, vent, scream. As loudly as you can. Even if it's completely meaningless. Untangle your thoughts, weave them together, and let them go. Do not be encumbered or bothered by them.

Open your mouth, open your heart, dear reader.

New Website!

Hello there! Thanks for reading OrganizedChaos.
I have a new official website for theater, http://www.reaganhenke.com, feel free to visit it!
Any posts or updates related to theater will be linked there.
However, seeing as everything will still be able to be found on OrganizedChaos, it doesn't affect you much.
But hey, it's cool, right?

With love,
Reagan

Memory

Flipping through the flimsy pages, the comics suddenly catch my eye. Black and white, a simple cartoon of a man cracking walnuts, and I'm suddenly flooded with a memory I can't name. A memory, but not enough of a memory to have words, and a description. A feeling. Warm. Happy. Like I've been reminded of something, a story, a picture, I saw when I was much younger. But the more I focus on the picture, the quicker the feeling fades away, and I scramble to grab onto a scene, a word, anything. Closing my eyes, I allow the fleeting, half developed slips of thought to collect, like water in a puddle, and as gently as I can, trying not to spill, I pour it into words.

Checkers, anyone?

It doesn't matter how long I wait. He is never going to sign on.

We would Skype each other every day after school.
We'd challenge each other to hangman, sending secret messages in the hidden clues, we'd play tic-tac-toe, all star bowling, everything mini-games had to offer.
But my favorite was checkers. Checkers, we could play for hours.
Skype checkers forced you to jump one another, so we'd dash around the board, avoiding the other color. The checkers grew legs and eyes, and walked themselves wherever you clicked. I'd laugh out loud when my pieces smiled at me.

But the best part?
The best part. The best part was that he always let me win.

I wonder if he knows I sign on every day, hoping that maybe, we could play. But it doesn't matter how long I wait. He is never going to sign on, but I'm still waiting.
Checkers, anyone?