"I’ve recently started to fall in love with myself, and since then, I’ve fallen in love with everything else."
After that, he wasn’t sure what to do. He felt a feeling of insecurity, and yet boundless. The best way to put it would be anxious. He felt anxious for what waited out there for him. The world he once knew, he knew he would never know again. From that moment, his pages were blank. Now, this does not mean he tossed the old pages out the window to land in the flames. All this meant was he had no place to go, and no place he couldn’t.
Some say he became a nomad. Others say a troubadour. He held tight to the cliché of “not all who wander are lost.” He like to think the words ‘wander’ and ‘wonder’ interchangeable. He questioned everything. He explored anything. He was f r e e. He had his wits about him, don’t get me wrong. But what he had, that most people did not have, was faith. Faith in the one who watched over him, and faith that he’d find her someday.
Yes, I said her. No no, don’t stop reading. This is not some sappy romance tale that I’m telling you. He just had faith that she was out there. He knew that someday, she would show up right in front of him. And she would know where to find him. She had the same spirit as he did. Free. Oh, she was beautiful, colorful. You know they met once? yes. At a street vender, on the boardwalk not too far from where we are now. He saw this mess of color, and honey brown hair. They exchanged eye contact, and she bought him a leather bracelet. That was all. That was all they ever spoke. But he knew. He knew they’d meet again.
Ah, faith. It is a beautiful thing. He was full of it. To the brim in fact. He had the world open to him. Anxiously awaiting what would happen next, he walked. He walked until he found the nearest city bus stop. He had enough money, he knew he’d be fine. He had enough money, and he had faith. And sometimes, what more do you need? Maybe a little sunshine I suppose. But then again, rain can wash a slate clean open for creativity. Oh hell. You know what I’m saying.
And, so he left. And here I am.
(Source: iamlunalune)
Eat. Pray. Love.
Eat. Pray. Love.
No, not the book, or the movie
That’s what I am going to do,
Or start doing,
Or just do better.
I need to consume things that only help,
Not hurt my body.
Things that my body needs,
Things that my body wants.
I need to better my body,
better my mind,
better my life.
I need to dig deeper into the Word.
I need to re connect with Him.
I have slowly found the path,
I just need to man up and take
The road that should be traveled.
Love.
I need to find love.
And maybe not find love so to say,
But be bold, take risks, man up and just be me.
Love will find me.
I think.
I hope.
I need to love my sisters more too.
I just need more love in my life.
I will make life changes,
And it starts tonight.
Your face to the palm of my hand.
I want you to love me again.
But thinking about it,
I feel like in a way you still do.
If you didn’t care at all, you would have deleted my number when she told you to in the first place.
You wouldn’t have continued to talk to me,
Even though we live across the country from each other.
Even though you kissed me when you were drunk,
The touch of my hand to your face sobered up your heart so quickly.
Mine was about to rip out of my chest cavity and directly into the palm of your rough,
Warm, strong, compassionate hands.
You called me again.
My heart dropped.
I want you to love me again.
I want to love you again.
I still have your sweatshirt, your tshirt.
You still have my letters, my pictures.
We still have our memories, slowly making new ones.
You still make me laugh.
You like that I still listen to your stories.
Your face is a familiar place that I’d like to stay for a while.
I feel comfortable, and normal, when I’m with you.
I want to be with you.
I want you to love me again.
Oh how he lingers,
There so far away.
But it is as if I could reach out and touch him.
He seems so real.
Yet softly he stands there
Illuminating the place with laughter and light
Beaconing to all that see him
To come closer,
To touch,
To be touched.
Oh, how I wish I was brave enough
To surpass my greater judgement,
And run to him as if he was my safe haven.
Haven, that in which he lays his cheek
So softly on the shoulder of the stars behind him,
The stars in which I will never be.
Beautiful, is the life he lives.
But why he comes out, only and night
Those who see him will never know.
But I,
Yes, I see the truth behind the stars
And the glimmer that he leaves beneath him when he walks.
I know he is afraid.
Afraid of meeting someone he knows he can never love.
Or maybe it is remembering.
Remembering a love from many years too long ago.
To ghastly cry out in passionate professions of my own desire
Would only result in a failing grand gesture for all to see.
So I sit,
I stare,
I remember,
I crave
What it was like to fall in love the man on the moon.
Perfection.
If you really get down to it, my boyfriend’s alter ego is a thug, and mine is a nerd. Opposites really do attract.
Nepal.
I want to be there for you.
I want to hold you.
I want you to know that I’m there.
I am there.
Maybe not my body,
But my heart is with you.
My heart cries for you
The way my eyes fear to show
For the amount of ever hiding questions
Beneath each glisten of liquid that falls
Off of the tip of a long, makeuped, eyelash.
You’re in pain.
You won’t admit it,
At least not to me.
Maybe to the doctors,
But you have to
You want to be strong
For me.
But I want to be there for you.
It is so hard to know that you are so far away from me,
Constantly suffering,
And there’s no one there to help you.
Well, the doctors of course,
But no one there to help you like I can.
No one to bring you pictures,
To hold your hand when you’re in pain.
No one to tell you “It’s going to be okay.”
Even when I am so afraid that it won’t be.
I am so afraid that it won’t be okay.
I am so afraid that it won’t be.
I love my mom so much.
“You are meeting boys, and boys are temporary. Men are forever and you aren’t
meeting them yet.”
J. Rimbey
I am sitting in near darkness between early and late evening on a Wednesday. My body aches from being still for so long and this couch suddenly feels like a slab of stone beneath my hips. I pick up a paperback that I’ve read a hundred times, read only a paragraph, then close the yellowed pages. Not tonight. At least, not this book. I rise to choose another book - a worn hardback that creaks when I open it. I love this one; the pages have that soft worn tear on the side instead of the harsh cut. Part of the spine is separated, and it feels delicate and fragile in my hands. I smile at its olive green cover and my fingers circle a small oddly-shaped stain whose founder is long forgotten.
I open the page to begin reading and I think of how many times I’ve been here before. I think of how many different stages of my life have seen this novel. High school, when I was the center of the universe. College, where I longed to belong more than anything. Graduation, when it was the only thing that felt the same. A year into an internship, where I’d never felt more alone. And now. Now.
I close the book to touch it’s linen green cover. I lift it to my face, putting the top end near the bottom of my nose. This movement, a sign of respect to the art inside, always comes at least twice when I am reading this book: at the beginning and the end. I close my eyes, breathe in the scent, and tap my fingers on the cover.
“I am ready for you again,” I think to myself.
This novel has been one of the constants in my life. Admitting that might be sad to say, but most all is lost from high school until now. It gives me hope to think that the things we love on a level deeper than affection will remain. That they will not shake out like everything else. That we can have joy found in moments alone with fictional old friends. So as I prepare to once again meet Henry and Clare, goosebumps cover my body, and I am thankful that I am graced with this tiny bit of peace, this proof of love.
(Source: rimbey1)
"No, this is good. This is what we try to write, what we try to convey. Emotion. And you are conveying it."
Bunheads
A picture is worth a thousand words.
He looked at her sternly, but with passion behind his eyes. “Why do you say that?”
And as she lifted her sullen head, her sweet eyes glimmered back at him as she said, “I make everything in my life seem so much more amazing, or beautiful, or meaningful than it really is. And at the end of the day, i’m just a silly little suburban girl.”
He wanted to say something. Something that could heal her heart, and answer his questions. But, again, he was at a loss. This girl troubled him. Although this was only the second time he had actually seen her, and this second encounter again being at the corner of 9th and Lexington, he felt compelled to speak with her, if only to see if she remembered him.
He remembered her. She had hair that nearly reached the small of her back. It was the color of the most rich and pure Spanish chocolate. You could tell it was natural, all knotted and wavy, reaching all the way down her spine. Her smile was sweet, inclosed around baby-pink full lips. She had the smallest dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks. But the real stinger amongst her memorable features was the emeralds that served as her eyes. They looked at him, as if a mirror was in front of him. He felt as if when she looked at him, she looked right into his heart, and what he had been though. Touched, he wanted to know more about her.
Sitting on the ground, with her back against a street lamp, she sat up more straight. “I think I’ve seen you before.” There was a questioning tone behind her voice, almost a quiver. “You took my picture.”
“Yes. Yes, I did.” He wanted to crawl in a whole. So, she did remember him. He had hoped that she did, but for some reason, embarrassment got ahold of him.
“Well, do you have it?”
“Have what?”
“The picture. I want to see it.” Quite matter of factly, she stood up from her street lamp seat. She was tall for a girl, reaching maybe about five feet, eight inches. Her skin was as golden as the sun. Oh, how he was intrigued by her. Silently, yet flustering, he opened his bag, and handed her a print.
“Well, my my.” Without looking up from the photograph, she says to him, “I’m glad to know that I sparked such a man like yourself, to make me into a photographic art. You see, art is not only what hangs in galleries, and artists are not only those who paint.I believe that everyone has a bit of an artist in them. Whether dancing, drawing, singing, acting, writing, painting, playing an instrument, or simply the way someone smiles; everone is an artist. Now, I can’t speak for myself so much as my form of art is the kind that speaks for itself. But, I’ll let you figure that one out, Mr. Photographer.”
And with that, the girl with the emerald eyes turned, and walked up 9th street, with no destination in mind. She just walked. And as she walked, he photographed, until she was out of sight.
“Angel of Music, speak. I listen. In the night, there was music in my mind. My soul began to soar.”
I can’t turn off Phantom. That show brings back too many great and upsetting memories all at once. I actually deeply miss it, and have a large emotional connection to that show. I have emotional connections with a lot of things, but the theater? The theater has captured me in a way that no one, except the theater will or could quite ever understand.
I remember, opening night, he wouldn’t come. He went out with his ex girlfriend instead. That was one of the largest daggers I think I have ever taken. To be honest, that was almost as bad as being cheated on; and I’m 100% serious. That broke a large piece of my heart. I worked for four months, with bleeding feet, tear dried eyes, and so much sweat and pain, and he couldn’t even come for one show. But that’s what theater is.
It’s heart break. And work, and blood, and tons of sweat, and passion. Mounds of passion. More passion than that of the great romance of Romeo and Juliette. Theater is a piece of you. As the curtain falls on each finale cast bow, and the roars of applause, there is a small yet largely significant piece of your heart that stays, almost as a footprint, on that stage. So, for eight or nine shows, your heart breaks eight or nine times. Eight or nine heartbreaks is emotionally and physically exhausting.
And it is in no way your normal heartbreak. This is the kind of heartbreak that rips you to shreds so small that there is no way that you can ever feel whole again when you think of that show, that cast, those long hell-filled week. Each time that show is mentioned, your heart will cry out for what you long for.
You see, relationships can be mended and overcome. But the theater, ah the theater. Once a show is done, it’s done. You will never have that same cast, that same theater, those same costumes. It will never happen again. But it is the most exhilarating and phenomenal feeling to be a part of that show, that cast, that theater, to wear those costumes. It’s a once in a lifetime chance. How can you dare pass that up?
It changes you, the theater. The things you see are the most magnificently stunning train wrecks you will ever encounter. You watch people deliberately sabotage others, right in front of your face, glowing in the shaudenfraudia of people’s pain and downfall. You watch friendships fall apart, and some spark from the single strike of the previous set.
You see people starve themselves.
You see people injure themselves.
You can physically watch people lie from behind their very eyes, dying for the role of someone else. Dying for it. Thriving for it. Given the chance, would do anything for it.
a n y t h i n g.
But, behind all the bad things, the final inhale, swelling your lungs to their highest capacity, knowing you performed to your highest extent, is a satisfaction that can only be experianced. I cannot tell you what that is like. You must find out for yourself.
And so I return to my opening statement, I cannot turn this show off. It brings back too many flooding memories that I would kill to relive. The music of the night follows me in my dreams, inside my mind tonight.
- Is that crazy?
- Love is crazy.
It would be nice
Can I have someone to hold my hand,
and tell me that I make them happy?
Because darling,
Even when I’m with you,
I don’t feel anything.
I love it when you kiss me,
and your warm skin is on mine,
and I can fall asleep wrapped so tightly and safely in your arms.
But, I don’t feel anything.
I want to feel something.
I want to feel wanted.
I want the song by Hunter Hayes just once to be my life.
I thought that I had that,
At one time.
But, I was wrong.
And that’s okay, I’ve moved on from that, I have.
But now, I want to feel something.
I want to look into that one man’s eyes,
And know that he’s looking at me the same way.
It’d be nice, ya know?
It’d be nice.
Yeah we used to go break in, to the hotel
Glimmer and we’d swim
Running from the cops in our black bikini tops
Screaming ‘Get us whilst we’re hot,
Get us whilst we’re hot!”
Come on, take a shot.
This is what makes us girls
We all look for heaven and we put love first
Something that we’d die for
It’s our curse.
Don’t cry about it
Don’t cry about it
This is what makes us girls
We don’t stick together cause we put love first
Don’t cry about it
Don’t cry about it
Its all gonna happen
The prettiest in crowd that you had ever seen.
Ribbons in our hair and our eyes gleamed green.
A freshman generation of degenerate beauty queens
