Chapters

There are those who want giant castles to build their homes in, with all their grandeur and gold. There are those who want freedom to roam and discover life as they see fit. Then there are those who can't see past tomorrow. Home. It's the idea of it, really. At this age, at this point, I've never felt more out of place, more far from the idea of it. Home doesn't feel like home anymore, school doesn't feel like home. I'm slowly phasing out of this phase, and it's never felt so strange.

What can you give to life that hasn't been given? What do you want from life? I've been thinking about it recently, about what I want, about what I want to give back. I don't need fame, I don't need acclaim. I'd rather live surrounded by the few I love most.

It's funny how there are women who run from age, who try to delay its arrival at whatever means necessary. I think I'm looking forward to it. I want those little wrinkles around my eyes, that silvery white head of hair. These little things are precious, evidence of years of laughter, wisdom that comes with years of experience.

Life comes in chapters.

You finish one, you move on to the next.

Twenty One.

I bought a grown up wallet and grown up heels in preparation for today.

Life is busy, and straining,
but oh-so-exciting.
:)

Medium Rare

It's weird, how fast time passes when you feel like everything is finally moving along. And then there's that one moment that brings it all to a crashing halt. The heart is a strange thing. I have this theory, that the heart is a soft, raw piece of soul that you're born with. When you're young, it's super soft, and as you get older and innocence fades, your heart gradually toughens up. The more hurt, the more pain, and the tougher that once-soft piece of soul becomes.

I'm at the point where it's all tough all the way around, but there's that small center piece that's still soft. Think of it as..medium rare.

Dear God, please don't overcook my heart.

The Pretentiousness of Being a Lady

Today's topic: guys vs. girls. Do guys have it easier? Or do girls get away with more? Then there's that whole "girls get special treatment" argument. Snicker. (sad but true) All joking aside, I was meant to be a boy. My parents were going to name me Isaac. Then...out popped I.

Thus, I never quite accepted the idea of being a lady. Mom forced me into frilly dresses by elementary school, and to her despair I ruined them all. Then came the ugly days. The "damn what happened to your face" days. Being a girl is hard, not gonna lie. You know what they say...if the fence needs to be painted, paint it? Well. This fence needs to be painted.

Which leads me to confess.

Sometimes I'd rather be a boy.

Till Death do us Part

Recently, I've been thinking about death and what comes after. Not heaven per se; I can't even begin to imagine the lovely splendor of it. What I mean is, what comes after for the rest of us after a loved one has passed? I have yet to experience the lost of a beloved, and even so, I feel that it would break my heart.

It isn't so much the morbidness of it, don't get me wrong. Rather lately I feel different toward the ones who surround me, and I can't help but think about how much time I have left with them.

Untitled

For some, it is simpler to erase,
to set aside things that once were
that no longer will be,
without further thought or time.

Others, who stare at the remaining pieces,
those who think upon time
Where time furthers thought
and thought again
Perhaps never quite simple,
but simple enough.

Which one of these is not like the other?
Neither one,
nor the other
share either or.

Of sadness, of memory, of pain?
Each and such are dispersed
for some and the other,
equally mounted and heaped over
Until they are intertwined as one again.

Forgotten?
Never, loss is loss,
For what means is it to gain?

For some, for others
neither way exceeds the other
But in the end, to mend,
To carry on, in what way they best can.

Tuesday.

There is something precious about the translation of thought into words, words onto paper. Perhaps too much time is spent on the first, when in truth one should prefer the latter. A sudden distaste for usage of the term "I" now, tis strange how hard it is to quit using something so commonplace. Nevertheless, the attempt to stop cannot hurt, can it? Eyes dry, lips pressed. Thoughts arrive and depart, and arrive and depart again. Eyes perhaps not so dry now, the curve of the lips now gone. Ah but it comes back, eventually.

Monday.

It's strange to think about how long it's been since I've last written. I post photographs up all the time, but words are so much more harder to put out nowadays. They reveal so much more, and it's..difficult I suppose, what with bustling around with the mundane repetitions of life.

Life is, how would you say.
Busy as ever.