white winter hymnal

The snow that cascaded out my window yesterday morning had me feeling wild, untamed. Every fiber in my being yearned to be exploring this newly acquired frosty wonderland where snow angels and arctic foxes ran free. It was if I had been put under a spell, able to explore the land of my dreams for one blissful day. Let’s go find Mr. Tumnus, I proclaimed to my sister as we pulled on our winter jackets sleeve by sleeve and set foot on our first snowy adventure in years.


The lamppost in the woods. We found it, and knew that Narnia had come alive.

Tilly didn't know what to think of the phenomena, a mix of curiosity and terror. Nevertheless, we named her princess of all the forest creatures and she reigned over her barbaric subjects with glee.

I adore these mittens. They remind me of a story that was read to me so long ago about a tiny girl who dropped one of her own favorite mittens in the snow. This would have been very distressing, except that on Christmas night a little field mouse crawled into her mitten and was able to escape the bitter cold. I recall liking the tale, but but feeling sad that the little girl never found out what a service she had done for the mouse.

Porthos, the polar bear. He used to be real, but tragically the White Witch turned him to stone.

I live in the real Stars Hollow. Except there is no disgruntled café owner to fall in love with, to my immense disappointment.

Little orca whales swam by, riding on ferocious winter gales.

Frostbitten and satisfied with our adventures through the wardrobe, my sister and I retreated to the coziness and warmth of the local coffee place. Rich scents of cinnamon and clove wafted up to our nostrils and transported us to some European haunt. Contently, we sipped our hot cocoa as we watched the few remaining flakes descend from the sky. It was Mother Nature’s early Christmas present to us, and we had enjoyed every minute.

wuthering heights

I’ve always admired fiery women. Why is that determination and ambition, traits that we praise in men, are found to be so repulsive in the gentler sex? Maybe that’s why I love Vivien Leigh so, she wasn’t afraid to go out and conquer her aspirations. She truly was a real life Catherine Earnshaw, Scarlett O’Hara. Tempestuous tantrums, doomed love affair, and all. And the face of an angel. I could stare at her portrait for all eternity and still be stunned by the beauty it captured. Perhaps we will meet in Wonderland someday, finding ourselves journeying on the same imaginary train. Here take this, she’ll say as she hands me a note sealed with wax. Could you please give it to my Larry?

all pictures courtesy of the lovely kendra at viv&larry{dot}com

wintry reverie

There is something about knowing that Christmastime is drawing closer that makes everything infinitely better. It is as if the sparkling lights and roaring fires have magic over all the monstrosities present in your life. There is nothing as restorative as huddling under blankets and near vents with stacks of beloved books. Escaping winter’s bite with steaming cups of cocoa. I’ve been drinking ungodly amounts of cocoa lately and all of it in festive Holiday mugs. All whilst desecrating the virgin pages of my journal with sketches of mermaids and sonnets that shall never be finished. I am a solitary creature, and even more so when nighttime begins to fall earlier than it did the day before. During these interludes, I am utterly content to be surrounded by nothing but my music, my literature, and dozens of creative ventures that are crying to be conquered.

This Christmas season I dedicate myself to be a Narnian wholly. I shall intently pray for snow, bundle up for all occasions, light too many candles, and befriend pleasant strangers. In fact, I made a new acquaintance the other night when I went to see a play by myself. He told me all sorts of things I never would have known by just looking at him. I will try to not just look from this moment on.

What are your favorite Christmas movies? Mine are Little Women, A Muppet Christmas Carol, Elf, White Christmas, and The Lion, the Witch, and The Wardrobe. I’m sure I am forgetting some. This truly is the most darling time of year.

clair de lune

When the time becomes four parallel lines, I make a point to close my eyes and make a wish. It may be nothing more than a hopeless pagan ritual, but the release of all my irrational yearnings is nothing short of liberating. Last evening, as I drove under the foggy November sky, I saw the clock turn into dual elevens and I swiftly wished for the moon. It had looked perfectly luminescent from where I sat, a beacon of light in the starless void. As I drifted off to sleep later in the night, either by fate or the hand of God, I dreamt that my futile wish had come true.

I was sitting on the rooftop with braided hair and an ivory nightdress when the unexpected happened. Two angels, equal in both beauty and reverence, flew in from space with my grand present folded into their wings. Please tell us, they whispered in unison. What will you do with our friend, the moon, now that she is yours to keep? I thought about this for some time as they looked on. Well, I began. I suppose it would be awfully selfish to keep such a sacred gift to myself.

So I ordered them to cut the moon in two and I gave a half to you. A token for you to remember me by, I wrote in cursive scrawl on the accompanying card. The angels were so moved by my romantic little notion that they decided to take the gesture even further. They murmured an enchantment over my newly acquired satellite in hushed tones, and then turned to me in explanation when they were finished.

Whenever you speak softly into your piece of moon, they told me. He will hear it.
And the same for him? I asked.
The same for him.

I wept and kissed the feet of the two celestial messengers. They had cast a spell so tender that I was sure the constellations themselves were stirred by it. Inside, I too leapt for joy at the thought of communing with you through our lunar halves. How would it be possible for you not to love me now that I offered such a virtuous union?

In my waking life, do not be surprised if you catch me glancing up wistfully towards the moon. I’m simply mourning the departure of a dream so heavenly that it couldn’t last in the mind of one so tragically bound to earth.

the skull and its defender

Ran into your father today.

It made me think about all those memories ago when you were the stranger nestled in my shoulder. They all said, “If I were you, I wouldn’t trust him” but I did anyway. You pierced through bone and marrow and shot shivers down my spine. I’d like to think I did the same to you. I often imagined that when our blue eyes met and harmonized it brought a smile to God’s face. But I was young, and spent the rest of the time staring at my ankles. And you got scared or maybe bored, stopped reciting all that sappy prose you thought I’d find romantic. Still, I fantasized about our children. If I got chilly in dreamland, you were always there to extend some make-believe body heat.

“Daughter, you’ll grow thin on these backwards glances and restless grins,” the vicar said with true affect. “A love poem is the same as a death ballad, you’ll kill yourself from deep within.”

I agreed, and promised to kick the habit. Except nostalgia was a harder drug than I expected, and I found no rehabilitation center that would cure me. This little bird named The Recollection of You flew into my mind's eye and made quite the nest. All my better qualities infiltrated the area with bow and quiver to try and kill the creature but he remained. That is to say, you remain. After all these changing seasons, and slow weeks that turn to years, there are still shadows of you that send my heart into a bittersweet palpation without proper warning.

The grey clouds migrate in the same direction, as if they were a flock of Beluga whales caught in the sky. They move on. Time continues. The young grow old, and the old pass away. Yet I am stuck in a moment that never ends. The only thing that reassures me of my own existence is the sweet inhale and exhale of breath.

Your father told me to stop by and say hello sometime, but I don’t think I’ll be able to bring myself to. I would hate for you to find me so unchanged, and so in remembrance.

if you want to move on

pilgrim's progress

"The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep."

I’m persevering through this steady, upward climb. It’s a straight and narrow path, with more twists and obstacles than I’ve come prepared for. “You’re being set apart,” my guides say with weighed assurance. “Reaching the next peak is never an easy journey.” I nod in strained agreement, but find the ascension into greatness a bit more than I can handle. Former allies meet me on my way with gritted teeth that expose jagged grins and acidic words. When did friends become adversaries? Is this change of character recently acquired, or was I swayed long ago by attractive masks they wore?

On this course, my focus must never be pulled from the trail before me. Distractions tantalize me from my peripheral vision, and I stumble every time I turn my head to stare. I’m a weary traveler, and each step takes more determination than the one before it. The end feels no closer than it did ten miles before, and alternate paths flash at me like gaudy neon lights on the Vegas strip. How does one not get sidetracked on such a single-minded mission? Especially when the aligning forestry offers up both gratification and liberation from this longsuffering I endure.

Yet, despite their initial tantalization, I am not so enticed by these temptations. I have an assignment to complete, and a mountain to conquer. I promised my maker I would not waste time peering over my shoulder. I will not stop to lick my wounds, or drift around in my current surroundings. It is upwards and onwards, until I can no longer sense the burning in my thighs that escalating hikes are so notorious for.

I do not trek without aid, but sometimes I am lonely. Won’t you be my walking stick?

too much of water hast thou

"We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown."

When I was small, I didn’t believe that people drowned. I thought they were merely escaping to some deep aquatic world hidden under the layers of sand. I’ve always gravitated toward the sea, and the sweet ecstasy it brings. There is no greater transcendence than a pair of lungs full of salty air and waves that nip at your ankles and toes. When I close my eyes and hear the gulls cry in the distance, I can almost picture the make believe sea town of my childhood. As I allow my imagination to roam free, I can faintly envision Ophelia and Virginia calling me to their underwater playground. They would have me retreat into the watery depths and be reborn into a mermaid.

So you see, when I ask you to take me to the sea it is only because you have touched me to the very core. You call me adorable and playfully stroke my chin. “What pretty hands you have,” you say in that tender, lulling tone. And when I am upset, “being flustered only makes you cuter,” is uttered from those lips. These words of yours are the oldest trick in the book, but they are winning me over all the same. Take me to the ocean and I’m yours.

I’m afraid that the sea could persuade me to do anything. It could convince me to throw myself into its waters. It could convince me to throw myself into your arms.

i pray the lord my soul to keep

I have been put under a spell.

I boast neither vanity nor false pretenses about my looks. Some girls are blessed with being extraordinarily pretty or striking, and I am not one of them. I have made peace with this. I’d rather be considered attractive for what lies beneath skin and bone.

Yet, in the small window of time before slumber, I am no longer the plain faced, short limbed creature that walks the Earth by day. I become reborn, my skin glowing from a fresh washing and my usually unremarkable figure being hugged by nightclothes. The invisibility of eyelashes and cheek hue only adds to the mystique. Before my very eyes, I have turned into a woman completely foreign to me. Yet she is familiar and safe.

I watch this stranger braid her hair in front of the bedroom mirror. She is some resurrection of Isolde, of Titania. Her nimble fingers entrance me, and her long tresses ripple down her back as if they were the current of a river. Someone could learn to love this apparition of the night.

The ritual finishes and the girl dives into her undefiled bed sheets. She shivers under their coolness, yet they are a chill that can only bring serenity. In one last habbit before sleep, she turns off the light and curls up under the blankets like a child in the womb.

In one of life’s many ironic tragedies, the few minutes that I am beautiful are also the ones that I am completely alone.

dysphoria/euphoria

There is an expanding pond of blood on the kitchen counter. On second look, it is the cough syrup you knocked over in your delirium. Your psyche is swimming with mirages and hallucinated conversations.

Do you hate me?
Why?
I was just wondering.
Oh.
Well, do you?
Yes.

“Tiffany, are you ok?” they ask. “Tiffany, you better go get some sleep. Let us clean up that mess”. They shove you Nyquil and vapor rub before you stumble down the stairs like a drunkard. Eyes shut, you begin to swim in a channel of medicated dreams. Now delivered from a swelling throat and coated lungs, a different kind of purgatory stands before you. The ghosts of the night hover around your bedside and whisper distant, feverish memories into your ear.

Why do you hate me?
I don't know.
Really?
No.
Please tell me.
You are loud, and needy, and you never remember what day of the week it is.
That is silly.
Also, you love me when I can't love you back. I hate that.
I'm sorry. I don't know how to stop.

You toss and turn through these nocturnal visions. You long to bolt upright, but the fumes in your brain refuse to let your eyelids do anything but remain tightly shut. Then, as quick as a change of thought allows, you are no longer suffocated by the nightmarish torture. You are transported into the loveliest wonderland imaginable. Waltzing around in blue frocks with white ribbons, chasing rabbits down holes, and playing croquet with the queen. You have been frozen into a painting, a concerto. You soak in the sweetness.

Do I disgust you?
No.
I don’t? That’s funny I always thought I did.
I think you’re perfect, let’s go for a walk.

When you awake, you cry to dream again.

tie me to the end

never neverland

These things you want him to know but can’t say. Plans you make and tactics you rehearse because you are afraid to stand still. Voices in your head, as clear as Joan of Arc’s own saints, leading you in every wrong direction achievable until you are dizzy with hesitancy

Reverie. Music so beautiful that each tendon and vein longs to weep. Peeling back the layers of defenses and fronts until there is nothing but a wisp of a girl. A lost, confused girl who does not know where she fits in the world. If you are not a child, and not an adult, than what are you? You are a transition, a cocoon, an ellipsis. Chasing every melody and finding sanctuary in the transcendence that only symphonies can bring.

There is a secret, hazy midnight dream that holds you back from reincarnation. And you cling. You cling and you hold on to the threads of what cannot and should not be. You plea and cry and appeal. If you don’t love me, dear, let me go.

There are days for explicitness, and days to be cryptic. Seasons in which you must cause a scene, and others where you disappear. You don’t mind sitting in the corner anymore. In fact, the world of imaginings is preferable.

lux lisbon

Those of us with constant inner dialogue tend to rarely get a good night's rest. We awake the next morning, haggard and aching, clinging to the delicious dreams we are destined to forget in a few hours time. Our lives are ruled by sensibility and a silent narration that turns the most mundane transaction into a thing of theatrics and bittersweet beauty. We mourn for our commonplace existence, but we are secretly too pleased with ourselves to feel more than a little sad. We are selfish creatures, all of us who prefer our own imaginings to actuality.

I keep on saying “I’ll start changing tomorrow” or “I’ll be a better person next week” when, in my heart of hearts, I know all too well that I will keep going on exactly as I have been. I write down an impressive list of goals that are guaranteed to never leap off the page and become an accomplishment. I’ve come to realize this technique will only work if you are courageous enough to bolt all the windows and doors behind you. The cold, unfeeling leap of faith is proving too great a feat for spineless little me.

If only these fellows knew how often I spend my evenings contemplating the irregularities of their behavior. One minute acting like an old friend, the next seemingly attracted to me, and then, as quick as a change from Dr Jekyll to Mr Hyde, they are condescending and ignoring! At these moments, I’m sure they hate everything about me. I pray for a bit of normalcy, and try to banish all my quirks. Alas, they are too fond of me to ever leave.

Shall I justify my eccentricities by explaining that I have been listening to heavy doses of Rachmaninoff and Debussy, reading too much Shakespeare and Chekhov? Clair de Lune and the art of longing must be old lovers, and Ophelia was the bedroom where they began their affair. My mind is so fixated on the past, on the make believe, on small gestures from yesteryear that only I would have the childishness to remember.

In my model of the universe, past, present, and future exist side by side. I’d like to think they are holding hands with one another. Time is fluid, and perhaps we are all swimming upstream.

half sick of shadows

Do you ever feel like a monster in need of a cage? My anger manifests in both passive-aggressive remarks and full-scale demonstrations of rage. I break pencils and hurl innocent pillows against the room when no one is watching. Ink stains on the bed sheets and a trembling hand that scribbles out half-legible phrases. Every so often, striving to be a better person in a civilized world seems like a hopeless endeavor. I want to raise my arms to the heavens and scream, “I can’t do this anymore, take me away”.

You make plans for the future, you pick someone to love, and you stare optimistically into the black nothingness of the future. You grow old. Do the details really matter? In retrospect, the particulars will become fuzzy and then fizzle out all together anyways. I look over these college applications and weep over my indecision. I lay awake at night, sleep no longer an instinct, and meditate the contents of imaginary love letters. I’m beginning to think I’m doing this whole life wrong. We agonize over our happiness until there is no hope for it at all. I must settle down and let the choices make themselves.

I wonder if I’m always this agonizingly incoherent. Even after praise and acknowledgment, I still fear I am nothing short of annoying. How does the rest of humanity walk around so self assured? Here I sit, cryptic and uncertain.

"How do you make God laugh?"
"Make plans."

Perhaps these writings would make more sense if I gave you an adjoining soundtrack to listen to while reading. The way my mind skips from verse, to chorus, to chord progression. The way I rest my hand to my cheek, letting out a frustrated sigh. There are lyrics that rest underneath this page, as I am unable to verbalize the internal changing of the tide without a nudge of musical encouragement.

I’m scared to make plans. Scared to get what I want, afraid it won’t be as good as I’ve dreamt it. Scared the catharsis I wait for will never come.

craving your validation

I hate not expressing what is vexing me for fear that I'm a complete freak. Things always seem to fall into focus after you've thrown them out into the black hole of cyberspace. Lately, I've been feeling disconnected and unusually out of touch. Quirkiness may be a virtue in theory, but I feel all my nervous ticks have been making the rifts in my friendships even more obvious. How do you let go of a friendship amicably? Shaking hands on the fact that you have nothing more in common seems a bit obtuse. I have forgotten what it is like to be understood and listened to. Being removed has become the normal.


I dream of this person who listens to Simon & Garfunkel records and wishes on 11:11 with me. Who doesn't laugh at my daydreams and will wake up early to drive out to the ocean. An enigma of an individual who instinctively knows what song I'll like and how much I love to be kissed on the forehead. Kindred spirits, soul mates, whatever you choose to call them. I need one.


Every word that is typed onto the screen is marked with a little hesitation. I hate sounding vulnerable, pathetic, and, most of all, desperate. I'm not going to pretend that I'm not painfully self aware and conscious of what you are thinking of me at all times. A flaw that is so non-congruent with the rest of my personality, it is almost comical.


I sleep to dream. Deep in slumber, I have all the conversations I'm too afraid to initiate in reality. I tell some people I love them, others I miss them, and, to a select few, how gracefully I hide my disdain. Suddenly, I'm conquering my wanderlust and far off aspirations. I fight for one more hour of euphoria before I awake.

This will all be forgotten in the morning. After all, tomorrow is another day.

lady lazarus

A dreadful realization. At first, you are voraciously furious and enraged. Your equilibrium has been capsized and the following pain is nothing short of acute. An inhuman rage is transfused into your blood and you are urged to lash out maliciously, spitefully, vengefully. Your thoughts flash past at lightning speed. You are utterly tormented with rage. Something unfair has happened and there is nothing you can do about it.


Numbing follows. Your brutal high comes crashing down and you are left with a sinking feeling of despair. You body is physically in agony. Hot tears run down your face and greet your lips with a salty reception. The weight on your chest grows heavier with each exhale. You are as pathetic as you are lonely.

You reach for the phone. How strange that there is only one person you want to call. Yet, even as you reach for the number in haste, you cannot persuade yourself to do the dialing. There really is no way for you to speak coherently, to breathe words.


Emoting seems to be a small death in itself.


Detachment. In a few days, you will have shaken off this ordeal. The sadistic butterflies will have stopped swarming around in your stomach. You will forget how much it hurts to keep it all stuffed inside.

if you have big ideas you have to use big words to express them, haven't you?

My mom makes a carrot cake and the aroma wafts through the kitchen. I sit and drink a strong cup of English Breakfast tea. A cracked open window brings in a faint breeze and the sound of falling rain. I wear my favorite worn-in boots and a long, willowy cardigan.

In every way imaginable, it feels like autumn.

The summer seems to be dying at last and I, in turn, am becoming myself again. I have this ever growing sense of excitement because there are so many things to look forward to! Fall shopping, redecorating my room, the return of school, a new season of Pushing Daisies, and a long list of books that need to be read. Applications to be turned in. Paychecks to be collected. New resolutions to be fulfilled. I'm a bit of an oddity and keep my self improvement goals until the beginning of the school year. I can't seem to muster any motivation in the dead of winter.

Anyways, I don't think I can share all of my idealistic, happy resolutions. It always seemed like bad luck to exclaim that sort of thing to the world. I guess it is safe to say that I am planning in writing in my real life paper journal every day. I can't let blogging keep me from my inarticulate scribbles. I want to write more. I need to finalize my college list. I must beg my parents to let me go somewhere exotic, to travel abroad. I need to reread all of my favorite childhood books before I start turning into a big, bad adult. Reacquaint myself with Anne Shirley (who so adorably stated the subject line to this entry), Jo March, Wendy Darling, and the whole lot of them.

Also, the wardrobe to Narnia is placidly sitting in my kitchen. Perhaps, I'll post pictures later. First, I must go explore its interior.

the sunday of our discontent

I’ve been thinking a lot about moving very far away. I used to think I could only live in the city because I loved the sophistication, the independence, and the constant activity. The buzz, the commotion, the excitement in a metropolis is almost tangible, it tantalizes every sense. However, I’ve come to realize that it isn’t so much that I need to be in the city and more that I loathe American suburbia with every molecule of my being. The never ending miles of Albertsons, McDonalds, Wal Mart, and strip malls never ceases to give one the feeling of a rock in the gut. I remember being almost physically sick for the entirety of the time I read Fast Food Nation because I was so disgusted with the realization that I lived in this hell hole of festering greed and sameness.

I’d like to move to a bustling city, but I would be equally happy in the middle of nowhere. I’d like to be cut off from all modernization. There is something so Walden-esque, so romantic about being surrounded completely by nature. I love the outdoors, I love those havens that haven’t been exploited and destroyed by the food chains and mini marts. This is why I’ve decided I must move to Ireland, Wales, or some other haunt in the European countryside. I want to be surrounded by sea, trees, and landscape for miles.

I’m not going to lie. Lately, I have been lazy, indulgent, and void of any self discipline. I hate that. I don’t want to hate myself. I need to work through this. There isn’t a painting to jump into or a magical train platform located at 9 ¾. This sounds so silly, I’m almost ashamed to admit it, but in the back of my mind there has always been the small spark of hope that these things actually existed. That there were other worlds waiting, the worlds found in books, for those that believed.

I hope all my longing for leaving my current state doesn’t sound self-centered or whiny. I am thankful for things, even if I don’t show it as best I could. I’m thankful for books, music, history, the sound of waves, sunsets, my sister’s piano playing, and for my own desire for adventure…and so much more. The world is full of beauty, you just have to look for it.

i don't do too much talking these days

i have measured out my life in coffee spoons

I fluctuate between loving and hating my family. Today I mostly love them. When my sister isn’t being stubborn or purposefully irritating, she can actually be quite hilarious. We can quotes movies and do impressions together for hours. I need to work harder at consciously getting along with her. We are each other’s strongest allies when we aren’t busy bickering. Honestly, my mom hates it when we both side against her on something.

Oh, my mother. When will I ever learn to get along with her? Sometimes I wonder if are personalities are too contrasting for it to be possible.

I am feeling so much better today, almost liberated. The sun finally came out, but a faint breeze kept the weather from being utterly unbearable. I love sitting on the deck and reading when that sort of miracle occurs. I finished I Capture the Castle yesterday and it was very different from what I expected but I loved it, nonetheless. Finishing books the day you buy them is such a nasty habit though! I always chastise myself from barreling through them the way I do, but I don’t have enough self control to keep myself away from the beckoning pages. I have a whole theory about this that I was planning to share here, but I do believe I will save it for another day.

It doesn’t take a lot to make me happy. I bought Clueless for the whole sum of five dollars and was positively elated. I’ll most likely watch it tonight with chocolate and two cans of Diet Coke. You can’t watch a movie like that without indulging in at least a few guilty pleasures. I have two new books to read too, and for the first time in weeks it feels like I’m regaining some control and composure back. Maybe all the lists I’m making on my listography (check it out, by the way) are getting me back into the swing of setting goals.

It’s not like all the bad stuff went away, I’m just choosing to ignore it for right now.

did you ever want to be overrun by bandits?

I don’t know how to coherently collect my thoughts anymore. Everything I’m planning to say sounds fine in my head, but the minute it gets written out it becomes disorienting and rather depressing. Can someone get word vertigo? I guess so, because I’m experiencing it at this very moment.

I’m developing some sort of avoidant personality disorder. I’m pretty sure all my friends hate me. I wish I could assure them that once Fall hits, I’ll be normal again. Summer has never treated me like this before.

Everything has been too hectic and loud lately. I went down to Pike Place around a week ago and it was swarming with tourists. I’d never seen it so busy. If I was in my normal state of mind, I probably would have thought the chaos was exciting.

If I was in my normal state of mind…

part of the beauty of falling in love with you is the fear you won't fall

I need school to start. I need this “break” to be over with. This tortuous, never-ending break.

Without a million things to do, my mind starts wandering. I start reliving past summers. I start wishing things would happen that could never possibly happen. Now I remember why I’ve always kept myself so busy.

“I want to know you," he whines.
"What?" "Know you. I want to know you." Pleading.
"What does that mean? Know me?" I ask him. "Know me? No one ever knows anyone. Ever. You will never know me."

I’m sick of myself, and sick of everyone else, and I just need to leave the country for a couple of years. I don’t want to be Felicity, I want to be Sabrina.

I don’t want to ever feel like the odd one out again. Is that even possible?

In the morning through the window shade
When the light pressed up against your shoulder blade
I could see what you were reading

Oh the glory that the lord has made
And the complications you could do without
When I kissed you on the mouth

It’s amazing how a song, a smell, a taste can bring back a whole flood of memories. Images that you had crammed in the smallest compartment of your brain, determined to never remember again. Then it all comes flooding back and suddenly it is like you are there. You feel every sensation just as it happened. And, now matter how much it hurts, you can't stop looking back. It's worth all the pain to relive those days when you were so blissfully...unaware.

I should stop blogging late at night.

please don't confront me with my failures, i had not forgotten them

Life is what you make it. I'm finally beginning to realize that every moment of your day requires ceaseless will power. Being lazy is so much more than sitting on your coach with a bag of potato chips. Sometimes I don't apply myself because I'm embarrassed that my total, absolute effort isn't as good as it should be. It feels so much easier to do something half way because you don't have to come to terms with what you are or aren't capable of.

I've always shied away from telling people my dreams and aspirations. I get so worried that I'll be laughed at, or that people will think that I'm not good enough. I'm absolutely jealous of anyone who can fully admit to the world what they want. In fact, I even feel nervous for other people when they start admitting their ambitions aloud.

Nobody knows anybody else fully. Ever. But I'm scared people don't know who I am even a little. I don't know when or why I started this, but I automatically put on a front the minute I meet someone. It's this weird, unwanted bad habit. I'm so afraid that my entire personality is a lie.

How do you find out who you really are? I feel like I'm changing and transforming all the time, and I just want to be set in stone.

i can tap dance. you wanna see me tap dance?

I can't believe it is almost August already. I'm having such a love/hate relationship with summer right now. On one hand, I'm enjoying the sun, chilling with friends, and lying around watching movies. I completely forgot how much I loved Garden State, 10 Things I Hate About You, and The Patriot. And yes, those are just the films I watched today. I really miss Heath Ledger. Maybe it was just an emotional day, but during the scene in 10 Things where him and Julia Stiles slow dance at the prom I completely lost it. I have this problem, you see. I feel everybody else's pain like it is my own. An infomercial could probably make me cry.

Anyway, as much as I love that the livin' is easy, I can't help but feel a little useless. I need to start looking for a part-time job, or pick up gardening, or find anything to do. I'm awaiting the start of school with excitement. Call me crazy, but as much as I complain about it, I need higher education in my life. I have this unexplainable desire to write term papers and start studying for midterms.

Then there is the fact that I really have no idea who I am, because I've always been defined by what I did and I'm not really doing anything right now. I'm just so sick of shows, and musical theatre, and competing for something that I'm not even sure I want. I'm at a crossroads, and it's so painful. I keep on looking back, and trying to grasp for anything that might resemble who I should I be.

And, top it all off, I'm covered in mosquito bites. Talk about conflicting feelings.

stuck in summer

Summer Loves:

• She & Him
• Rewatching old episodes of The Office
• Granola
• Eastern Washington
• Walking, opposed to driving

Summer No's:

• People flaking out
• Waking up to construction workers and tile-less floors
• Being jobless
• Wanting last summer back
• Having no motivation

Eh, are the pros really outweighing the cons here?