Apr 29, 2014

love harder than any pain you've ever felt.

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It is impossible to say why we love something or someone. We can come up with reasons, if we have to, but the important part happens in the dark, beyond our control. We just know when it is there. 
And when it goes away. 
// John Ajvide //
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| the things you needed to know about her were these:
a). she was the moon. only a quarter of her pale face revealed the myriads of starry thoughts {hopeless of being formed into constellations} that streaked across her nocturnal mind. 

b). the rest of her was an ocean, ebbing with tides of words and thoughts and dreams and other worlds. always waiting readily to slip out like sharp shards of sunlight across the crannied walls. always at bay to spill over. 
her eyes dipped into other worlds where the only compliment she'd genuinely receive, is that you loved how she thought, not how she looked. (it gave her hope that there was some beauty amidst the tangled mess of her mind). 

c). because that other three fourths were her own monster - were her ghosts. it was a constant battlefield.  

d). her mind was the chaos where the ocean tossed a stormy sky. 
she was a paradox. the screaming wind soothed her best on lonely nights. the love she craved was what she ran from. "to the moon and back" was too short of a distance for everlasting love. she was good at making friends, yet bad at keeping them. and behind her carelessness and translucency, was someone always too afraid of loosing anyone she ever decided was worth loving. 

e). that other three fourths terrified her half to death more than anybody would ever know. 
because one night, her poetry would permanently stain her fingertips black. one day, her words might tumble out ungracefully and sear scars on her palms - or worse yet, on you. one day, she would reveal the scream that had been nurtured in the silence - the plea to be brave. one day she would paint the mountains with echoes, reverberating how much and how deeply she loved. one day that ocean would tumble and crash. every drop of salt water would spill over. 

| as the years waned on, she was made worn by people changing at every fluctuation - every wisp o' the wind...
she was tired of growing accustomed to that silent little ache in her lungs 
during the frightful time she had in seeking people {instead of waiting to be found, that is} 
- and in the end, having to re-learn how to let people go all over again.

but if there's if there was anything you could have told her - anything that could have calmed that raging ocean in her would be this: 
tell her to keep loving. to never give up. to love fiercely, openly, and bravely.
because in the end, that was the only remedy for love. 
and while it may take a bitter palm-full of saltwater courage to love once,
it took a raging ocean 
to love again. 

i have such a difficult time, as i crave to write so much about love and friendship and aliveness and loneliness and bravery alike - and about how much people mean to me. 
but mostly about how every time i turn around, i feel like i've chased them off. 
and all the prose and stringing of words that somehow tumble in my head never can fully describe any of these emotions well enough to keep people from leaving. 

so here's a tribute - a tip of the hat - to the introverts and extroverts alike. the tongue-biters & the wallflowers. the tender-hearted who were never received the applause they deserved by simply being there. the ones who give without expecting. the unrequited lovers. the broken hearted who were lucky enough to have loved at one point. and the vivacious, optimistic chasers of light. the ones who are only hiding behind their insecurities and the unmissable passionate lovers of people and life alike.

you are all created by an Almighty God who loves you deeper than the currents and tides and oceans that rage inside of you. and only because He first loved us, are we capable of loving others harder than any pain we may have felt before. 
here's a mixtape for you. 
resonating with: this and this and this

Apr 22, 2014

"i have written you down. now, you will live forever."

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I can't say the words, 
so I wrote you into my verse 
now you'll live through the ages...
I have written you down. now, you will live forever. 

// poet || bastille || 

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she'd never tell you why she liked the word
b r a v e
  (the connotation evoked the feeling she desperately wanted: 
                                         a l i v e n e s s).

she'd never tell you why she always wore
b l u e
 (it reminded her of the ocean whose tides ebbed and flowed and
                r   a   g   e   d
                                    inside h e r) .

she’d never tell you why her disposition was 
n o c t u r n a l 
 (the moon always made her feel a little less lonely
  knowing there were a few certain people loving her to that distance
                                                           & b a c k).

she'd never tell you why her soul craved to write in
                 f r e e  ||  v e r s e
   (she knew that's how memories would never have the opportunity to escape
    and that you would never ever be able to 
                                                                        l e a v e).
++ entries from these past few weeks, containing words on english dances, day excursions, pensive moods, bit of mail, quotes, & thoughts on love and life. 
postscript // say "au revoir" to lottie. starting may 1st, I'm beginning my summer journal. :)

Apr 18, 2014

there is a story in this / edition 1 / métro de paris.

:: metro de paris :: 
Postcards From Far Away by Coldplay on Grooveshark
"Il s’agit est le vôtre, mademoiselle?” 
Now accustomed to the rattling of the metro, so engrossed was she in trying to untangle the enigma of her map, the spontaneous comment easily startled her. It took her a few moments to calm her wildly beating heart. 
"Oui?" repeated the young man who sat in the seat ahead of her, holding out her mobile. “Il est tombé sur le plancher,” pronounced he, in a pristine French accent, pointing to the tiled metro floor underneath her seat. 
"Thank yo - I mean - merci beaucoup,” her limited french sounded ungraceful compared to his. She could feel the heat creep up her cheeks as she took her iPhone from his hand. 
“Oui. Mon Français est très mauvais. Désole.” Embarrassed, she mentally scolded herself, as she stumbled awkwardly over the apology.  
"Au mauvais. Mon Anglais est mauvais!” When he laughed, not only did his lips curl into a playful smile, but his eyes smiled at her. 
J’ai compris que!” She meticulously formed her words, focusing more on the smoothness rather than the pronunciation. In doing so, she slaughtered the accent, but managed to timidly smile back.
"Très bien!” he beamed. She would have liked to have seen him smile like that all the time. 
He began to rise, while the flying metro slowly lurched to a stop. He smiled widely again, his eyes sparkled mischievously. “Il s’agit de mon arrêt. Je souhaite seulement que j’aurais pu avoir le plaisir de vous connaître plus. Enchantee, mademoiselle. Au revoir." 
She frantically tried to jog her memory for a translation of the few words she happened to recognize, but the only thing she understood was the abrupt “goodbye.” Without a even chance for her to reply, he melted into the toppling crowd filing out the sliding doors.
She was in a daze. For a second there, she wondered, if the passing moment had been a reverie - if her nonsensical poet-side had spun the story up, as a way to distract her from untangling the dizzying mess of blue and red routes on the metro map upon her lap. Paris was not called the “City of Love” for nothing, she mused under her breath. Shaking her head out of her dreams, she returned to the task of tracing the blue line with her index finger through the metropolitan labyrinth.
Monceau to BellevilleBelleville to Hotel de Ville...
Her mobile, suddenly vibrated, interrupting her thoughts. The reminder made her heart skip a beat into a tangled mess of maddening confusion. 
It read: “11:23 A.M. Tip: Translator is good. And you are beautiful.
She heard someone clearing his voice, and glanced up with wild eyes to see a familiar face beaming at her impishly from across the row.
there is a story in this: is a collaboration between myself and the ever-astounding, forever lovely, incredibly talented, and one of my dearest friends 
miss mikailah of wander/wonder. the focus is to take stills from this board, to motivate us to set aside time to spin stories amidst our busy lives, and to unearth the pinches of fiction currently squeezing our hearts. read the mikailah's breath-taking compositions: EDITION I & II on her lovely blog.
postscript // i wrote a few lines of my "signature" rambling, i-don't-know-why-you-continue-to-read-my-silly free verse for my beyond amazing, world-traveling "Pond" here  
 send my dear Amelia some love, whydontcha? 
*note: I also have literally zero knowledge of the French language {another thing to add to my ever-lengthening list}, and all French phrases above I owe to the life-saving Bing Translator.  
*disclaimer: image found via pinterest and is credited to: eleazar on flicker

Apr 12, 2014

the girl on fire.

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x. open your heart wide enough, and you would reap pain. 
ix. she learned not to be vulnerable in loving people. 
viii. then, out of nowhere, here you came. 
vii. the defenses surrounding her crumbled to dust. 
vi. you built a flame in her. 
v. she gave you her trust. 
iv. this is her heart. 
iii. look at her. 
ii. she's on
i. fire. 
a poem made up of ten lines.
poems within themselves.
same number of words per line.
one || two || three 
*inspired by the phenomenal movie catching fire.