January 14, 2014


"A well-proportioned mind is one which shows no particular bias: one of which we may safely say that it will never cause it's owner to be confined as a mad man, tortured as a heretic, or crucified as a blasphemer.

Also, on the other hand, that it will never cause him to be applauded as a prophet, revered as a priest, or exalted as a king."

-Thomas Hardy (Return of the Native)


As of late, I've been morbidly consumed with the here and now.

There is so much more to living than preoccupation with the present moment; however, it's difficult to convince oneself of such a thing when you find the present is providing you with constant trials and the (misleading) promise of instant gratification.

Its quite easy to write off something that hasn't happened as of yet as something that won't happen at all. As such, it's much harder to be ignorant towards that which is upon you.

Constantly worrying yourself and your deeds and your small little thoughts with nothing but that which the present presents to you can be crippling at best, even to those of us who have every true intention of avoiding misdirection. Intention and result are two different animals entirely; to compare what we mean to do and what we actually accomplish is a terrifying aspect, to say the very least.

I found the above Hardy quote scribbled on a crumpled torn notebook page in a stack of old school papers; presumably I referenced the quote in an expository essay when we dissected Hardy's novel in my high school AP Literature class.

I held on to this scrap for a socially insubstantial yet personally justifiable reason.

My name is Krystal Dawn, and I am a hoarder.

Now, mix in my innate tendency towards obsessive compulsive habits, and you may come to understand how it is that I've managed to develop bizarre rituals regarding the salvaging of such "sentimental" paper scraps as the aforementioned.

I simply can't help but to keep quotes and notes, random written observations, sketches, advertisements, printouts, magazine pages, the backs of cereal boxes, candy wrappers, stickers, buttons, etc. Unfortunately, I also have an instinctual need for order and organization, and have a deep dislike for wasted space. These ideals conflict; and so, at some point in my childhood I devised a compromise in order to satiate these two internal needs. I would use scissors to cut out the pieces of these various pages I wanted to keep, and throw out or recycle the undesired parts-- an act I unbelievably still perform today. Binders of page "pieces" and plastic baggies stuffed to the bursting point with paper cutouts inhabit the crevices and crannies of my personal living space.

In an attempt to comply with what is perceived as regular behavioral social norms, I purge my collection of bits and pieces every now and then, combing it over, piece by piece, eliminating that which no longer pertains to my interest. A handful or so of papers, wrappers and receipts are expelled; this particular scrap has consistently made the cut, as I connect to the quote on a deeper personal level than other objects.

Sometimes, (and I'm certain I'm not alone), I question the extent and stability of my own sanity.

Instead of bemoaning that I am not, and will never be "normal," I choose to revel in the fact that that which is my greatest weakness is also my most potent of strengths. My thoughts, reactions, perspective and behaviors may be unusual, quaint, or even a tad bizarre; but it is this fact that will allow me to excel in places where others have failed.


I've had little time to be online for quite some time now. October onward has been a catastrophic wave of things to do and things to be done, leading up to a part time job I held from late November to Christmas eve. Actually, my job continued even a tad longer, into the New year a week or so. I'm not complaining, however. Work is work. Money pays for stuff and things, that which makes the world turn and life move forward.

While I was working, I'd spend 8-10 hours working a physically demanding job and come home to eat, shower, sleep, then wake up early to do it all again. For the first time in my life, I truly understood why Friday is revered by most as the holy grail of all weekdays. TGIF became a prophetic promise; a single light that guided the weary and lost through the hazy uncertainty and shadowy struggle of Mondays and mornings.

Excuses, you say? Certainly.

I had comic book reviews lined up for the rest of October and was too bogged down and exhausted from the inside out to pull off the miraculous.

I hope that as the new year raises its haunches and stretches wide the arms of opportunity, I may find time to blog on a more regular schedule than I have as of late-- or blog at all, for that matter.


On a final side note, I want to point out how gratifying it is to make time during the hurried bustle of the day to just sit down and write. It's the sort of emotional release that I associate with charcoal drawing.

Is that odd?

 I always find that blending charcoal with a blending device never fails to lift the dark a bit more than I'd like, and so I often use my hands to blend the dust instead. There's something inexplicably beautiful about drawing an image with your own bare hands, like you're leaving more than an imprint, but a physical part of your self on the page.

Anyhow, writing is like that. In the back of my mind, I like to believe I'm writing a novel. Mostly I'm writing simply to entertain myself and to prove that I haven't lost my innate ability to imagine a world outside the one reality has imprisoned me to. I'm writing simply for the sake of doing so.

Wish me luck,
Krystal Dawn

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