filled with hope, hope filled, hopeful

I wanted to say something to you.

Something like

 "Hello there,

good day isn't it,

beautiful day isn't it,

would you be mine, be mine all the time?"

You are beautiful and wonderful and surprising and new.

And I am hopeful for no reason.

But sometimes that is the best reason.

words words words

All I want is for someone to listen, someone to hear, someone to know, someone to understand.

Those someones give the words

meaning.

rainbow dreamer

Dear secret painters, hidden writers, pretend illustrators, imaginary artists everywhere!

This is your call. This is your reminder.

You love the feeling of the wood between your fingers, the colors falling onto the page.  You love the scent of the paint, smearing it onto the canvas, blending and stirring. You love the way the words ring out after you've written them, the way they send shivers up your spine.

Go out, go forth, create!

The world is filled with destruction, with hatred, with malice,

it is up to us to overcome it.

To build over it, to shut it down

by bringing the beautiful up.

Create! Today is the day.

Create something beautiful!

numb

She wanted to run away. 

The feeling of hot cement under her cracked feet, the feeling of sand between her toes, the wet morning grass stretching beneath her strides.

She needed to leave.

She couldn't remember the feeling when she was here. 

But she could still it, a ghost, hovering in front of her. 

It trembled and shivered, gleamed and glittered, but when she extended her hand outward it would twitch away. 

She wanted to go back to the feeling, bathe in it, soak in it until her skin shone again. Cover herself until she remembered how to breathe. Until her heart began to beat again.

But it teased her, whispering that it was not that easy.

She had to bring it back, she had to live it back, she had to remember how she had let go and stepped forward and trusted and fell all over again.

She had to live it all over again.

She couldn't run, or hide. For it would run faster,  hide better.

She had to stop reaching for the ghost,

and create a new feeling.

what's so amazing that keeps us stargazing

She would stare up at the stars each night before bed.  Examine each one closely, looking for the unique twinkle, the strange sparkle, the magic that was different for each.

Then she would close her eyes. 

Listen to the silence. 

To the sound of the universe ripping apart and the sound of the bees humming around, trying to keep the order.

Einstein had said that if bees were to go extinct, humans would follow in four years.

That's high school.

That's a few breaths, a few twitches of the eye, nothing more.

That's how connected we are.

She thought of her yoga teacher, the sound of the room breathing energy, creating light.

She thought about the first sound in the universe, the electric calm that filled the space.

Omm..Omm..Omm..

The sound of the honey bees.

"yes, i think we've met before"

It's about the love, not the lover.

It's about the feeling, the truth, the part of you that cringes when you remember.

It's letting go and starting anew,

but not starting over.

There's a grand world out there, a crazy world of beautiful people

just waiting to love and be loved.

So let your heart light shine on,

let it glow and flicker and tremble and reflect and shimmer.

Admire the shadows cast,

because they are as much a part of the beauty as the light.



some kind of wonderful

There was something beautiful and strange in vulnerability, she decided. In the moment when it felt as though every occurance in the world, every tiny interaction and experience was drilling into your skin, the feeling when you believed you were the entirety of mankind- Atlas bearing the world on his shoulders.

The peculiar blossoming pressure in the gap between your spine and shoulderbones, a weight where wings should grow.

There was a relationship to be had in self-reflection, in those times of existence when consciousness was filtered and drained through a lense beyond ones own, a lense of the intermost soul.

She knew her own emptiness, the bones in her that were still blank slates, awaiting their fate to be etched in by time.  She decided she was glad she didn't know what the words would be. 

The faint echos of the music that would trickle into her future was playing somewhere, softly.

She let a finger fall into her reflection, sending out tiny ripples that fluttered and shook the image. 

Just like that, she thought, it all could change. 

When the pieces floated back her image shone like she had never seen,

 the sun had slipped into the right place in the midst of the chaos.

a world to believe in

trust in the world

There are more beautiful people in the world than there are bad people. You don't hear about them on the news, their faces aren't pasted on the fronts of magazines, but they are there. Maybe you know one. And now imagine, that that one person knows one more.  And one more. And on and on it goes.

Sometimes the beautiful in people is hard to find. In those people, remember that they are probably struggling with something invisible, intangible, indistinguishable to you or I, but to them it is a constant fight. They are using all their beautiful in that fight at that moment, so you can't see it. But it's there.

I remember one year I met a boy who was angry all the time. My most vivid memory was when he went into a fit because a group of us were playing cards and he was delt a bad hand. When we asked him to calm down, he screamed as though he was dying.  It was a hidious, horrific sound-the kind of blaring noise that twists your insides and makes your heart afraid to beat.  He knocked over a jar and the glass shattered everywhere.  He kept screaming.

Three years ago he began coming out to people, telling us he was gay.  Today he is one of the sweetest people I know.  He explained to us what had happened with his old rage one day, telling us that the screaming was his struggle. It was a fight he could never win, because he was competing against himself. Trying to change himself.

Half of him constantly winning, half of him constantly losing.

Beautiful people are everywhere.  They are your companions as you walk down the street, they are the man serving you your coffee, they are the person holding the door.  Be a beautiful person.  Do something more for these people today.  Smile a bit bigger, give away some spare change, call an old friend and remind them you love them.

Believe in the world. It is a beautiful place, abundant with beautiful people.

tough love

She was beautiful in a way most wouldn't understand. They could see her symetrical face, they could observe the graceful indents of her waist, the arch of her back and curve of her hand, but that all meant nothing because they couldn't see her.  It was as though she lived in the awkward pause of existence between being and not, as though the society was her sea and she was constantly struggling to come up for air.  She could accomadate this world, but not live comfortably within its bounds.

Perhaps it was because she was too harsh.  People couldn't understand her honestly, couldn't take in her bitter flavor, couldn't swallow her words that seemed to be drenched in alcohol and lit on fire. Her casual conversation was most people's 3 am drunk phone calls to a detested ex-husband.

But she didn't know how else to exist.  How else to be human, how else to survive. It was her honesty that made her beautiful, she decided.,  When she looked in the mirror she knew exactly who she was looking at.  Her sculpted arms, the sharp dash of her collarbone-there was never a question.  Looking in the mirror gave her answers.

But she was the only one who would ask the questions.  She filled her life with wants and needs, lists of goals to fufill and clothing to buy.  She stoked her closet with corsets and lace, with dresses that fell upon her hips like waterfalls, and heels that punctured the earth mercilessly.  But they did nothing for her. Everybody looked, but nobody cared. And eventually she stopped caring too. And forgot why she had begun collecting in the first place.

Collecting things because she couldn't collect people. 

 And all she ever really wanted was to be loved. And for somebody to say so.

But nobody dared to say those words

to a person they couldn't really see.

i love people

I want to meet the world.

I think everybody is just so incredibly beautiful.

I can't help but love everybody. I can't help but see the good in them. 

And I think everybody can see that good.

But there are people who walk their entire lives without knowing the good inside them.

There are people who walk their entire lives unloved

because nobody's told them otherwise.

Tell them. Speak up.

There are people out there that need to hear your voice.

They need to hear what you already know.

That they are beautiful.

brave new world

 "But I don't want comfort.

I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness.

I want sin."

"In fact," said Mustapha Mond, "you're claiming the right to be unhappy."

"All right then," said the Savage defiantly,

"I'm claiming the right to be unhappy."

-Brave New World

 I had to read this book for summer reading, and I loved it. Those were my favorite lines.

Because honestly, what good is comfort if you never get to feel freely?

 I think everything is beautiful.

The rush is beautiful...and the fall. Because when we fall, we get to stumble up again.

We get to take the hands of the people who love us.

We get to realize how strong we are.

 

Look around you.

Life happens because of feelings.

The true actions are done because of how a person feels.

It's what makes us incredibly, grotesquely, miraculously human.

 We can pretend that our uncontrollable feelings are our faults, our downfall. We can try to lose ourselves in the silicone labrynth of technology, drown ourselves in paperwork and dollar bills. We can take medication until we forget who we are. We can diagnose and catalogue and graph and map and disect and try to find the heart strings to pull so we never have to cry. We can kill so we don't have to think.

Or we can take ourselves as messy and imperfect.

We can take ourselves as feel-ers, as life live-ers, as truth-ers.

"All good things are wild and free"

-Thoreau

change

The lights vibrated, pulsated, floated through the air like independent particles with their own mind.  The girl opened her mouth and let her ribcage fly out, felt her muscles twist and shake and tremble with a feeling beyond rage. The feeling of edge. The state of existance just beyond an emotion.

The microphone in her hand, she was armed. Words flew like diamonds, shattering on the ground, slicing into people's faces and legs, cutting them raw.

This is your wake up! She shouted.

This is it! Now what will you do?  Tell me, what do you want to do!

"Everybody here lives in fear. I want you to open up beyond that! Yes, it's uncomfortable,

Yes it hurts, so feel it! Feel that!"

Her voice lowered to a trembling whisper, a sound that crawled through the dingy basement, brushing against the people inside.

"Can you break yourself?" She asked.

"Can you break yourself so that you can put yourself back together in a new way?

Will you? Will you try it?

Because that's the only way to change, really,

that's the only way to change."