PROVOCATIVITY

Whispering on a whim.

Nearly silent admittance.

Nurturing falsely.

Nursing new species.

Quiet honesty.

penchant/strive

I’m an emotional nomad, succumbing to tides and writhing beneath the undercurrent. I won’t take back one phrase I mustered, I wont submit one either.

The sweetest pleasure from the simplest things can be taken when one fully understands that independence brings you the truest form of happiness. When you find upon sitting alone in a dark, open space with only your thoughts to keep you company that that is exactly where your best conversations take place.

I’m no longer breathing within the constraints of 

I am far too nostalgic for my own good. I’ve said it countless time.

What I look for is the romance in nostalgia. I suppose it’s some sort of “the grass is always greener on the other side” complex. With time in the deep, dark, cavities of my cerebral cortex what I’m fond of has a steady glow, what I involuntarily choose to neglect dims. As the clock and the calendar make their way around the ugly dims further until it’s almost completely blacked out and the pretty little glowing memories stick out like the brightest stars in my mind.  This is my own curse. Maybe therapy is a good choice…

I was triggered to write after reading my old livejournal (Ha.) , on this nostalgic kick I’ve been on. But damn, did I have a way with words. I’m now motivated to exercise my previous talent and build it back up and beyond where it used to be. Cryptically of course. Speaking cryptically is the most honest way of explaining my thought process, I know that that is completely backwards as is the logarithms of the thoughts bringing me to that conclusion.

“The air still holds each of my decisions, one by one I’m either letting the balloon strings go, untying them from their tree branches, or finding a ladder and popping them. Every once in a while I’ll slowly tug them down and jot a few notes down on them, before I let them go in the wind.”

The seventeen year old me said it well. I’ll meet my self somewhere in-between where I was and who I’ve become.

Un lavoro d’amore.

The labor of love.

If this were audible, it would of course be with a sigh. Sighing is about as far as I get these days. Sighing, yawning, maybe clearing my throat. I’m cold; despite the current temperatures that reach into the high nineties lately. So here lies my solution- writing. Or blogging I should say.

I used to write. I used to write a good deal. I’m pretty sure I was damn good at it too. I can recall exactly when I quit. I fell in love momentarily. Silly seventeen year old girl with eyes only for things that bring her in, down, and over her head. I stand here three years later still trying to pick up the pieces of all things I’ve done wrong in the past four, five, eight years. I’ve accomplished a lot. I’ve quit a lot. I haven’t fully started everything. But mostly I often forget that I am only twenty years old, and have all the time in the world to accomplish more, pick up where I’ve left off, and start what I’d like to start. I bestow this incredibly pressure upon my shoulders, relentlessly, to be a prodigy of sorts. To be so well established by the day following the previous day of each and every day. (Today.) But, I’m giving up.

Today, I stand, 5’1”(nearly 2”!) in the most ravishing city in the world, with a handful of people that I truly love, opportunities galore, awaiting a heart breaking/rendering conversation that is moments away, a friend to knock on my door, and an ex-love to share a drink with later on, weighing the labor of love.