I Wish I'd Never (Cover)

I go to this song on nights when I need to calm myself down. Zee Avi can do no wrong.

Double Whammy.

Woke up from a nap on Monday with my first surprise of the year and lingerie themed cupcakes! Too bad I can't upload the video. Add a bad jazz track and a vignette to that baby and BOOM you've got yourself home-made softcore porn. Give me a chance to turn 21 first before I land myself a reality show.

 

 

I was blindfolded for the second one. By the end of it all I had massive amounts of cream on my face and in my tresses. 

Come to think of it, my birthday celebrations this year were highly suggestive, if you catch my drift. Ehem.

Photograph.

Source: womenreading.tumblr.com

Have you ever had a fleeting moment where you looked at a something and idealized everything that it symbolizes? Even though I identify a large part of myself with my book collection, I've never been one to romanticize the act of reading. Bookworms are not elitists, though many try to convince you otherwise. It's a preference. It's a gravitation towards a structured world of words. You either like it or you don't and you're still human either way. At least, that's how I see it.

I try not to associate fulfillment with materialistic possessions, either. So I was really taken aback when I looked at this picture -which isn't all that special once you start to dissect it pixel by pixel- and started to feel a sharp ache.

In that split second, I wanted the wicket chair covered in a Navajo inspired blanket. I wanted the russet brick house with a lancet arched entrance and a willow tree weeping beautiful olive-coloured leaves on my lawn. I can already imagine myself crazily reenacting 'Singing in the Rain' around that lamp post. I can already see the kind of books I'd read there.

I know all too well the dangers of methodically planning out a future. No matter how much you try to hold the reins, things never turn out the way you want them to. It might be the New Year goggles -it could be this need to fill a void that I've kept under wraps for the last 12 months- but my pictured future (if there is even a picture at all) looks a lot like this one.


Good night, 2011.

2011

It wasn't just my year, it was theirs. It was ours.

A Scattered Thought.

When my kids ask me where they came from, I'll remind them that they are made of stars. Before they fall into their serene slumber, they'll hear stories of how parts of them were cherry-picked from supernovas & neutrino speckled gasses; that their life began in meticulous fusions similar to the creations of heavenly bodies resting higher than the cookie jars on our shelves.

I will never let them feel insignificant.

I'd like to believe that our hands are made of recycled planets. Perhaps there were other life forms inhibiting those stars before their cruel explosions. Having alien substances interlaced in our genome would explain quite a number of things.
If this were true, maybe you'd find me a little less odd. Maybe the thought of holding my hand will finally cross your mind.

Hearts will never be practical, Tin Man.

If I keep trying to convince myself that you aren't real, maybe I'll finally stop imagining what it'd be like to have you around. Shouldn't letting go be easy when you're not holding on to anything?

Somehow it feels like I'm floating in a state of limbo. I'm tired of looking for traces of you (whoever you are...) in days, places, words, silhouettes; tired of feeling helpless the minute I do. I should know better than to rely on something as indefinite as chance.

I guess it's my fault for parading my heart's contents every chance I get. I can't help it. Patience has never been my strong point.

You're Okay