My eyes squint as they water.  A black tear of mascara runs down my cheek.  It takes a steady hand to apply felt tip mascara.  I go over the top lid of my eye once more creating the most pristine etch of calligraphy above my big brown eyes, more carefully as to not poke my eye out this time.  Before I move on to the palette of metallic autumn foliage tones of loose powder shadows, I gaze in the mirror probing for a sign of imperfection of the charcoal black eyeliner I had just applied.  I cannot go a day without applying some type of makeup to my eyes.  The eyes are said to be the “Gateway to the Soul” and they are always my focal point when talking with someone, so its important to me to appear attractive and approachable whenever possible.  I begin applying the facial primer to my eyes glancing at my options of brushes I have to use but always finding myself using the same one.  Believe it or not, it is actually the same brush my mother used for herself when I was a little girl.  When I was around 7 or 8 years old, I would go into the downstairs bathroom where my mother kept all of her toiletries and I would stand on the toilet to reach over and get into her makeup on the top shelf.  It was all packed it a cute little blue makeup case with a floral design and a zipper that wouldn’t close because it was full of tons of makeup to make her pretty.  There was that one particular eye shadow brush, unfortunately, made with raccoon fur that always appealed to me.  It has a gold metal finish with bristles that soak the powdered shadow as if I were ready to paint a canvas.  Moments later as I return the brush to its designated compartment of my makeup case, I realize that’s exactly what I had just done – painted a canvas.

The shutter of my Nikon snaps simultaneously with the blinding flash.  I take several frames as my friend walks down the beach, inching toward the clouds of sea foam with her baby girl hand-in-hand.  As a former agency represented model, I came to really love and appreciate photography.  This time it feels good to be on the other end of the camera.  I received it as a gift for Christmas a few years back from a very special person to me.  As it remains, today, it is still in the same mint condition as when I first opened it with the manufacturer stickers still intact.  I usually take it with me everywhere because there are always moments when you wish you could remember something or relive it.  Our eyes are like cameras; Every blink of the eye is a separate frame telling a story of your life.  Your memory is the image that was developed.  But the photo a camera can take is like the flash drive of our memories.  Nothing speaks more words or captures a moment, like a photo can.

Emotionally inclined, I flip through the stations from my steering wheel button.  The annoyed stare from my fiancé fixes on me, reminding me how indecisive I can be at times.  I love all genre of music.  Music is like a snowflake; it’s beautiful, but at the same time, up close, there are so many intricate little patterns.  Much like the tone or rhythm a musician can produce.  Today in particular, I am in search of something morbid.  It is the sixth anniversary of my Dad’s passing and that type of music comforts the way I feel since I am so suppressed.  “From Where You Are”, by Lifehouse is when I stop scanning through the channels.  Even though the song is almost over, the remnants of my thoughts linger as my eyes begin to water.  Whenever I hear a song that reminds me of my Dad, I try to make it a point to always switch up the lyrics and put my own silly twist to it, just as he did.

A blank scroll of paper lies below my right hand as I violently write.  My emotions begin to fill up the paper like an overflowing bucket of water.  The ink penetrates the paper like a regretful tattoo.  The needle point stitches the paper with profanity.  Whenever I am really upset, My vulgar verses are administered through the 17cm pen, saying things I could never.  Writing when I am angry serves as sort of a therapy.  Recently, I was upset with my fiancé and decided to write him a letter to avoid an argument.  The letter turned into a five page list of complaints.  At the end of my letter I read it over.  Every “T” and “I” is crossed and dotted, embedded in the paper like braille.  My cursive is scripted as if I were a doctor.  Finally, my therapy session is over.  I crumble the paper as if I am spring cleaning and toss it in the trash.  Suddenly, I feel a sense of relief comes over me.  The burden of my stale aggression has been lifted and my anger subsides.

Writing in an college English course is far different from when I was in high school in 2005.  I was never really into English.  Never did well in it either.  I remember I would skip out on a class just because I did not want to present a paper to my classmates.  I never felt comfortable sharing something as personal as my thought process with anyone.  The class blog allows me to write freely without having to worry about what the person on the other side is thinking of me.  At the same time, most importantly, the blog conveniently allows me to learn off of my peers.  With access to other students blogs, I have read many essays and I am inspired by the way some of my fellow students write.  I don’t think my brain could allow me to think of some of the things they put in words.  This course blog, also my first blog ever, has also inspired me to start my own personal blog.