Broken Strings and Shattered Dreams: Part 1

September 1878

The sky was dark and cloudy and rain flooded the streets of Paris, France. But a figure in a dark cloak, hat and white mask didn't think a thing about it. He didn't flinch at the loud thunder or the flashes of lightning in the sky. He soon came upon a huge building. The Palais Garnier or otherwise known as the Paris Opera House. Around to the side there was a grate with the screws halfway undone. The figure held a basket close against his chest, as his cloak billowed in the wind. Kneeling down to finish unscrewing the four screws, he suddenly heard an interesting sound. It was a howl. He looked around. He stepped to where the busy streets were. No one seemed to hear the loud howling. So the figure went to discover where the howling was coming from. There was no one there in the alley-like area, but the man himself. He went around to where empty, broken and dirty crates and baskets were littered, along with trash and empty whiskey bottles. He lifted each and every crate up and to his shock and horror, under the lowest crate was a bundle of rags. Gently removing the top rag, the man gasped and dropped the cloth. Whatever was under the rags was howling and moving. He lifted the rag and to his utter horror, there was a baby. The baby was pale and skinny. When the rag was lifted from the baby's face, the young one stopped crying. Lifting the baby out, the man studied the infant. He or she had to have been there for at least a couple hours or so. There was no note or any message from anyone. Not knowing what to do, the man paced with the baby in his arms. He was so preoccupied, that he didn't noticed the way that the baby started to gurgle happily. All of a sudden the man heard shouting. It came nearer as he quickly dove to where the grate was. He undid the screws and slid inside with the baby, before pulling the grate back in place. He walked away with the bundle of rags in his arms. When he reached the lake, he placed the baby gently in the gondola and took the stick to cross to the other side of the lake. When he tied to boat up, he picked up the baby and his basket, and headed down the maze of tunnels and secret doors until he came to his living quarters. It was nothing much. Three rooms was what his home consisted of. The first room was his bedroom where there was a small black coffin, the second room was the kitchen and the main room contained a table, two chairs, his precious organ and some random dressers everywhere. Candelabras with their soft glow made this man's home complete. 

The first thing that the man did was dump everything in his basket out and then he set the baby in the place of his parcels in the basket, before disappearing to find some milk. He didn't take the baby for the fear of drawing attention to himself. When he reached the kitchen in the opera house, he immediately went in search of milk. He found that and a bottle and disappeared once again. He returned to see the baby gurgling in the basket. The man stoked the fire in the fireplace and popped off the cap of the milk. With his hands he dumped a good amount of the cold milk into one of the two pots hanging above the first, and with his skillful foot, he scooted the baby nearer to the fire so the baby could warm up and rocked the infant back and forth. When he dipped his bony finger into the milk, he nodded with satisfaction and poured it into the bottle. He then took off his cloak and hung it up, before picking the baby up and feeding the infant the warm milk. Not long after, the baby was asleep. Though the man knew nothing about babies or how to take care of them, the man learned along the way. He soon discovered it was a baby girl. She was a small little one, with soft green eyes and little wisps of brown hair. Her skin was pink and soft, and her hands and feet were tiny and delicate. The man fed, bathed, changed and rocked the baby every day for about six months. 

Phantom Phan-fiction Announcement

Hey everyone! Today, I am in need of some advice for something. But I need to tell you the "back story" of it first. Just a while ago, I got back onto my account on what is now my sister's laptop. I pretty much took my school hard drive and put it all on the stick before transferring it all to what is now me and my sister's laptop. I've been reading over my old stories and all my files. I threw out my entire series just because I hate it now (like, I wrote it two/three years ago) and I decided to reread my Phantom Phan-fiction. And, to be honest, I was disappointed that I stopped writing it. I have been writing it on fanfiction.net but it hasn't been updated in forever. And I don't feel like going through all the trouble of doing blah, blah, blah for it and all that (besides I can't upload it (my story) on my phone either). So I was wondering how many people would continue to read it on here.

I would probably start from the beginning on here and I would update it once every one/two/maybe even three weeks on here. I would just want to know how many people would read it, or if you guys would even be interested remotely.

Here is a synopsis and the cover:

*Discretion: This photo was found on Pinterest, I added the words to it*

Sixteen Brigitte always knew about her past. Abandoned on the street, she was taken in by a ballerina named Antoinette. Or so she thought. Her real saviour was Erik, a man with a cruel past and no future. When they meet and piece the pieces back together, can there be a future for them? Or will there be more Broken Strings and Shattered Dreams? (This was the summary that I used for fanfiction.net)

Let me know if/how many of you all would be interested in reading this!

A Little More Food For Thought

Leaving Your Mark on the World

There are a lot of people in this world. Some are okay with being mediocre. Others strive to be the best they can be. Those people who are striving, working, running to be what all they can be are usually the people who think the most. I am one of those people. I am the one who wants to be remembered. I am the one who wants to leave their mark on the world. I am the one who wants to be seen. I am the one who is stopped by insecurities, by fear, by doubt, by that little voice in my head telling me that I can't do it, by everyone's voice telling me no, no, no. I've been kept in a box, chained up, and one of these days I'll find the key and break free. And you better bet that this world will remember ME.

An Open Letter to My Future Son

Dear future son,

There are but little bits of advice I can give you to ease your journey through life

They are to make you brave

They are to make you strong

They are to make you fearless

Dear future son,

Of course words will be daggers

They will tear you up inside

And if you allow it

They'll have the power to destroy you

Don't give it that power

Dear future son,

Of course fights will be wars

They will hurt you physically, emotionally, mentally

And if you allow it

They'll have the authority to break the greatest bonds

Don't give it that authority

Dear future son,

Of course tears are broken mirror shards

They will portray you as weak and broken

And if you allow it

They'll have the puppet strings to control you

Don't give it that control

Dear future son, 

Of course Anger will be fire

It can burn you everywhere inside and out

And if you allow it

It'll have the chance to deprive your heart of love

Don't give it that chance

Dear future son,

Of course happiness will be rain

It can make a flood or save the day

And if you allow it

It'll have the opportunity to make everything okay

DO give it that opportunity

Ode to Fear

Fear is a clenched fist

He has a deadly aim

But whose blood is on his fists?

It cripples and cuts us down like a lumberjack

Hours we spend falling on our knees

And why can we not rise?

You’ll never leave us alone

Our minds take in your poison with no extra thought

You needn’t even disguise it as something good to drink

You pounce with power

We feel your grip wash over us like waves on the sand

But your undertow takes us to places we’ve never been

Spiral out of control, already

You’ve made a maze of my mind already

Why would you stop to clean it up?

Attack with your sword

Stab me through the head

Would you even hesitate?

Feed us with your friend Doubt

It’s somewhat the same as you

There isn’t a soul on this earth that you haven’t visited yet

Chain us to a rock and throw us out to sea; leave us alone

Drowning in the cool waves is better than living with you inside my head

There isn’t a better way to die than to be surrounded by the waves

Fear leave! Doubt leave!

I’ve cleaned my mind; it’s an open grassy park

Did you think I wouldn’t bother to rid my mind of your twisted mazes?

Hope is a new feeling; Reassurance is as well

But we like the feeling

Why would we ever give it away?

We wouldn’t

Kept in the dark

I’ve been kept in the dark

Away from everyone

I’ve heard the screams, the shouts, the cries

But no one could hear mine

I close my eyes to brace myself

Against the hourglass of time

But I watch as the sky falls down

All around myself

I’ve shook hands with the sunrise for she was cruel to me

Accountable she was not

I was glad when she went away

For that is when I became alive

I touch the water like I touch a snake

Afraid of it biting my hand

I was glad when the water was gone

For then I wouldn’t drown

When we were wrong we would watch the truth die

Abiding by the falseness of everyone’s lies

We were glad when the hourglass ended

For then we would suffer no more

I’ve been kept in the dark

With nothing but my thoughts

Who would have guessed that thinking could be deadly

I assure you, I did not

To Move a Mountain

What does it mean to 'move a mountain? Some think in literal terms of a real mountain, standing all tall and proud. Most say it's impossible to move mountains. Others tell their children that they will. So what does it mean to 'move a mountain?'

To move a mountain, first and foremost, you have to have courage. You have to look at that mountain no different than you once looked at the next sofa to get over the lava which was the floor. You have to determine that nothing is going to stop you; no one and nothing is going to stand in your way. And by all means, you must have that adrenaline rush when you decide to take that leap of faith.

To move a mountain, you must be strong. Not in the physical sense, of course, but in the emotional and mental sense. You must bear the most trying people. Other's words and actions cannot phase you. You have the power, the authority, the choice to ignore it all.

To move a mountain, you must have perseverance. The same perseverance you had when you conquered the monkey bars at school. Though your hands were moist with sweat and your arms were burning hot, you had the mindset of a warrior, determined to finish his mission.

To move a mountain you must have attitude. No, child, you don't have to be arrogant or prideful. But you must be confident and be proud of yourself, just like when you got up in front of the crowd and performed for the first time. Stand up for yourself just like that mountain stands all tall and proud.

To move a mountain you must have faith. Faith is something that can be demonstrated or found. It's something you can feel deep inside of yourself. Faith is believing that you can do anything, no matter how far fetched or how impossible it may seem.

Moving a mountain is no easy task, little one. It will try your very soul and tear away at all that is left in your dying heart. But you have the courage, that adrenaline, that strength, that perseverance, that attitude, that faith. You have all that you will ever need to move a mountain.

So by all means, do those things, little one, and watch that mountain move.

Why I Write Poetry

Why do I write poetry, you ask? Aren't they just empty words? Aren't they just another human's soul being poured out on paper? Don't I know that no one cares?

Well, you should know that I don't write poetry just for people. I write poetry because it's the antidote to my wilder mind. It's the drug that eases my breaking heart. It's the rain that saves the crops. It's the music to my listening ears. Poetry has become an outlet for me. When I write poetry it's the only thing (because a person wouldn't) that let's me be me freely. I don't have to hold anything back. I'm not confined to what people think I should be, or what people think that I should write. This is me; I am the one who has ink mixing with her blood in her veins.

Why is your poetry so morbid?? Why are you so morbid, you may ask?

Who wouldn't be morbid? It's almost like being mad. As Alice from Alice and Wonderland says, "You're mad. Off your head. Bonkers. But I'll tell you a secret, all the best people are." Though my mind is morbid, writing it down gets it off of my head. It keeps me from doing awful things I'll come to regret. Writing poetry and cleaning my morbid mind is a way of taking out what is inside and putting it out there for everyone to see. I write what I feel because I lack the speaking capability and the words to say what I really feel. Writing what people think is morbid is my saving grace some days. Some days it calms my beating, broken, breaking heart so much that I no longer have the need or the want to be angry. What you can morbid is what I call beautiful. That's why being morbid isn't so bad.

Aren't you afraid of being judged?

Of course I've afraid of being judged! I am judged. You are judged. We all are judged. So why should we be afraid? Ha ha! Why, what would happen when I all would stop being afraid? Would it make things better? Or in fact, would it make it worse? It's better to have your misunderstood people than to have a utopia where everything is perfect, but you really don't think. I think, I think it is better this way.

This is why I write poetry.