split

I looked around and found the dichotomy that is me.
Hanging on the hooks behind my door are my two favorite jackets... one is a black leather jacket with zippers all over. It's tough, and soft, and worn. It's my badass jacket. The other jacket might not even be a jacket at all. It is a patchwork of random fabrics, falling just above my knees. It closes with a single ribbon under the bust, and it came from a hippie thrift shop in san francisco.

Thus: the dichotomy of me.

I find that I am a walking contradiction. On one hand, I crave change and action and extremes. I want to skydive and live as a gypsy and run away from convention. On the other hand, I sit lazily on my couch, watching movies and writing poetry.
I want to be a musician; I don't know how to play an instrument. I want to travel the whole world; I don't save up money to go anywhere.

And though this may be frustrating to those who know and love me, I have to say...
...I still love both of those jackets.

sometimes you feel like a nut...

Last night I felt myself lose grip on my emotions, and I spiralled into madness. I felt like screaming, like running away, like throwing away all the good things in my life. I slipped steeply into self-distruction and sabotage.
I apologize, to everyone I may have taken this out on. Namely you, my love. You didn't deserve that.
Thankfully I woke up this morning with a kind of... acceptance. So what if I have gone completely insane. So be it. I still have to get up and brush my teeth and wash the dishes, no matter how nuts I think I am, if i can just gravitate towards normalcy I think I will be okay.

bored, waiting

I dont know how much longer I can wait for something big to happen.
Maybe I'm selfish and think only of myself. Maybe I'm greedy and don't see the big things that have already happened to me.
But I need something crazy and reckless in my life, or I get bored.
I am sooooo bored with my life right now.

snap, crackle, pop

I woke up today under a mountain of bubble wrap.
It's true. Last night my friends and I liberated a few bags of industrial bubble wrap from the dumpster behind a craft store. It fills the living room, taking over all available floor space so that whenever someone wants to go from point a to point b, they must be unafraid to stomp upon a thousand plastic bubbles. And I, drunkenly and without hesitation, decided i would sleep upon this mound of bubbles and nest within it.
Thus, upon waking, I was nearly submerged.

It made my day.

fairy tale

His was a heart of gold, held deep within his chest. He could have sold it a hundred times, bit by bit or all at once, but he never did. Not for food, nor for shelter. This man was secretive with his heart, and no one who passed the young vagabond on the street would have known the treasure within.
He traveled the roads with a carefree spirit, always humming to the flowers or making toys out of sticks and string. Whenever he passed a child, he handed them out, no charge ma’am. Sometimes he was gifted with good food or wine, and sometimes he was meanly booted from the towns he was resting in.
The Vagabond never stayed too long in one place, searching instead for the simple change a good walk around the world can bring. He learned to sleep in forests and atop bluffs. He found the churches, and the brothels, and the ferry boats that ran overnight. He learned to dress like the inhabitants of wherever he was, adopting turbans in the middle east, and going shirtless with the Amhara people of Ethiopia. In Paris his black attire was fashionable, and he was well taken care of there.
He made his own way by selling knickknacks he made himself. Sometimes he made something so useful or pretty that he could stay in one town for a month or two, teaching a youngster his technique. But he always moved on.
There were hard months for The Vagabond, the cold winter months in Ireland, when there was nowhere really to go but the Churches. Churches were fine and all for one night, but he couldn’t quite stomach their lectures and morals and strange dogmatic rituals. It was a warm enough bed in the rain, but after the rain stopped he always managed his goodbyes.
Never once did he sell his golden heart.

it feels like...

How does it feel to be loved? he asks.

I wanted to melt into his arms and fold into his chest and never breathe again. How does it feel? It feels like flying, or falling from a great height. It feels like surrender and peace and drowning; it feels like the sun is always shining and the grass is always green and the birds are always singing just for me.

I can't quite be grateful enough to God for him. I need to bow my head to the four directions every ten minutes, just to keep my heart from overspilling with love and thanks. There is not enough room in this ever-expanding universe for how much love there is in me: for him, for God, for the birds and the sun and the feeling of falling.

And here I go, back into reality, to dip my toes in the honey light of life. I am so blessed.