Renaissance

anglesIsn’t it funny how in the aura of writing and typing haunting thoughts and raving emotions, one can feel so in sync with what they express, but then when one revisits the words they have written, these same musings seem so foreign and unjust.

I wonder if this reflects me somehow.

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bippity boppity boo

I’m terrible with flirting and dating and everything to do with attraction and sexuality and I totally blame it on my up-bringing like 10,000%.

Also, I’m supposed to be studying for this huge mid-term tomorrow as well as finishing some work due in like five hours, but despite these things, I feel that this is more important. Actually, I’m just a huge procrastinator.

My best friend recently cut all of her hair off and is all liberated about it and all and I’m so proud of her I could scream.

This same girl convinced me to leave my number for this waiter. WTF? I know.

The setting: dimly lit café on a beautiful spring day; total hipster, alternative scene.

The motive: scoring a date with a guy who is totally potentially a gazillion years older than me but it’s totes alright because I’m legal.

What happened: I left a sticky note with a stupid hat doodle wearing a mustache that was all in pink ink and my number.

The outcome: no comment.

Lets just say that movies are not real life which is why they are movies and not real life.

But COME ON UNIVERSE.

Can I have one movie moment? Maybe two?

Can I have a Breakfast at Tiffany’s back of the taxi awakening?

Can I be Ms. Aaron Samuels?

Can I please just have one magic carpet ride with Aladdin?

Is that too much to ask?

 

 

 

 

 

the cosmos

what if we really are the universe. what if all the galaxies are actually fallen loved ones. what if what we see glimmer in the night sky are the dead. what if when we pass on, we become clusters of stars and planets. what if our souls are miraculously encased in vulnerable flesh and once we are released from this life, our energy tears through the concept of time and crushes the notion of order and we explode into universes. what if the heavens are really different heavens. each galaxy made up of souls finally set free into our true forms.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

d.h.

We stain cigarettes and coffee cups with harsh lipstick. We play our music loud while sitting in the same spot we usually do at the same time we usually meet. We compliment strangers who could care less and argue about ethics and religion then laugh about that one time about that one thing. We skip class to eat at cafes and when we’re in class, we plug in headphones to drown out the muck but still seem to communicate with each other. We play music and procrastinate. We do things we shouldn’t and say things we shouldn’t. We run around on dark winter nights but we don’t feel it.  We do things we don’t want to and do things we do. We challenge each other and give up on each other only to turn back to one another once more. We eat things we don’t want and dream like there is no impossible. We fall in love with drummers in bands who we’ve spoken to approximately five times.

Well, one of us at least. One of us falls in love with drummers in bands with girlfriends.

We collect numbers like trading cards and make mistakes like they’re air and we’re drowning. We say we’ve given up but we keep trying. We’re haunted by exes and taunted with loneliness. We’re bored and we’re busy. We want love and we want freedom. We want to be our own and each others.

We are depressed. We are insecure. We are prideful. We are loud.

We judge. We cry. We argue. We sing.

We are love. We are lost. We are we.

nov. 18, 2015

A girl in dark, grey and black monochrome colors sits in the library at a boxed framed study table with a window-view. This particular seating arrangement was not her first pick. She wanted to reign in a dark study room of her own where she could be lulled by both the shadows and drone of the artificial sounds of the 1975. Sadly, other people had the same idea.

Now, the view is quite lovely in a sense. It is also quite drab. The grass is a revolting mixed shade of brown and green, sort of in between. The girl thinks that the plants should choose to embrace the fall and let go of their spring green. The indecisiveness of it all only reminds her of her own way of decision-making. It is as if the puke-like color of the plants on campus reflect her disgust for the lot of it.

She wonders if the sound of her eating crunchy granola can be heard across the entire floor of the library. She wonders if she ate her PB&J sandwich, would the smell get caught in a person’s nostrils who’s allergic to peanuts and cause them to break out in hives or worse, collapse or something. Then maybe the police would come to search and find the perpetrator and she’d be sitting at the stupid seat she never wanted with “peanutbutter killer” written all over her face.

She wonders why she is so alone and so sad. She wonders if its all in her head. Maybe once her doctors give her the happy pill, she will feel like how girls who walk around with their significant others feel. What is it that makes her so sad? Why is it that her resting face is a frown and her moon eyes are the shade of murky night? Ever since she was a child she has been told that she has big, round eyes full of sadness. Why is it that she always looks like she is about to cry?

The girl lifts her head occasionally to view the rows and rows of empty seats. She sits in the deepest corner of the library floor. Is one really alone? “Of course, not,” she thinks. This makes her think of people in comas and if they are stuck in their dark minds. She thinks of that one documentary she watched that was about people who had returned from death. She wonders if the stories are true. She wonders if the people who come back from the dead or are released from comas make up stories so people will not be afraid that all they saw was darkness.

Seems awfully too nice for humans though.

Maybe, it is a selfish act. Or, it could be an act of humanity.

There is a very fine line between selfish act and humanity isn’t there?

She thinks that maybe people are afraid to approach her because her sadness could infect them like an influenza. Her favorite part of one the 1975 songs is “gotta love it when you love yourself” because it makes her smile every time Matty sings it. She does not remember the name of the song though.  She laughs.

 

head vs. heart