“Your mother was born in December,
on the one sunny day that winter gave up.
She had warm summer eyes that flickered like fireflies,
when she stared at the world.”
Author: GennaClaire
the trapeze swinger, iron and wine
“And then they went on to say that the Pearly Gates
Had some eloquent graffiti.
Like ‘We’ll meet again’ and ‘Fuck the man’
And ‘Tell my mother not to worry.’”
(Image source: http://www.etsy.com/shop/Ketzelphotography)
revelation
All the things that used to scare me (like broccoli and old people and elevator conversations and mistakes and being alone) don’t anymore.
I think this means I’m a grown up.
please remember me, tim mcgraw
“A new wind is going to find your sail.
That’s where your journey starts.”
everything to me
I used to believe that one person could be my world, my everything. That my whole existence could be perfectly wrapped around someone else. I used to believe this was an acceptable way of thinking. Healthy. Normal. Noble, even.
It was only when I moved away and started anew and went down a path completely alone that I realized how wrong I was.
I had spent far, far, far too long with someone, believing he was everything. When he or I or both of us faltered and our relationship winced and buckled, we held on. Clinging desperately to the lackluster, so afraid to lose it all. Afraid to be left with nothing.
How unfair it is to allow someone else, anyone else to be everything. When in fact, we are our own everything. We exist completely on our own – our beings fully separated from anyone else. With our own thoughts and feelings and breaths and dreams. Our own ambitions and hopes and desires.
I’m glad I chose to move away. Went down this unknown path alone. I’m glad I got far enough away from you to realize you were not my everything. And we were not anything at all.
Just two scared kids, clinging to the lackluster. No idea how to let go.
new journal
There are so many things to consider when selecting a new journal. The look of the cover. The number of pages. The feel of the paper. The distance between the lines. And whether or not they call to you to write in them.
But most importantly, the weight of each individual page. Are they substantial enough to hold all the words that will inevitably come, looking for a place to stay?
what happens next
That’s what I’m scared of. What happens next.
After infatuation and butterflies and obsession and absolute perfection. After intimacy and closeness and comfort and trust. After white dresses and first dances and honeymoon suites. After nesting and settling down and routines and consistency.
I’m scared of what happens next after that.
When all the things you once loved slowly start to wear you down. And you barely speak at all. Where you’re suddenly in a place of knowing one another completely and not knowing each other at all.
And the walls begin to build around you, between you, on top of you. Until you feel so trapped, it’s almost impossible to breathe.
Because you know, what happens after that. What’s coming next. We don’t even know where else to go anymore. The end is the only destination we have for this journey. And so our butterflies turn to moths, and float onward toward the end’s sullen glow.
Then we’ll shed the tears and sign the papers and be cordial and alone.
Maybe if I never do the ring or the dress or the veil or the dance, maybe then we’ll never get to what’s next. And we can stay as we are forever.
That would be just fine with me.
(Image source: High on Skinny on Tumblr)
words are like magic
(Source: tylerknott, Typewriter Series #41 by Tyler Knott Gregson)
the gift of words
Sometimes I’m told I am gifted with words. But I see them coming together in sentences and structures and jargon and poems and prose and think – No, no no. It’s the words that are gifted.
They are the music. I cannot help but sing along.
mother of mine
My mom has a gypsy spirit. And an infatuation with the Virgin Mary. She can talk to angels. And she is my favorite writer. No one even comes close.
Growing up, she drew hearts in my peanut butter sandwiches. And let me follow her around when I was scared by thunderstorms. On nights when I couldn’t sleep, she gave me a glass of warm milk with vanilla, then sat with me until my eyelids began to grow heavy again.
She is an artist. A dreamer. A friend.
She believed in me. Loved me. Made me.
I am forever grateful and proud to be hers.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you.
(This painting is one of the many my mother did of her angels.)
writeamuck 