I once fell for a beautiful writer.
She wrote such sweet letters that every sentence modeled itself after a sonnet, every promise bled out into a poem, every goodbye turned into some sort of tragic eulogy.
She wrote, and I listened.
I listened to her heartbeat in each of her handwritten words.
——-—- It Like My Lub dub.————-
was. head. each.
She wrote, and I would read.
I would read the airs of her breath on old folded pages of yellow pad paper.
Creases gently capturing
all her wayward
sighs and silent
She wrote, and I became infatuated.
I fell for her penmanship, the way she wrote
To My Dearest…
as if she were painting it on canvas, or folding it into a pastry, or carving it onto stone.
She wrote, and I’d get dizzy.
around my lines;
arms and they
their twisted a gentle circled kept
wrapped and like tornado and me
Her words circled around me — twisted, alive
held and like cyclone and feel
their twisted a small circled me
syllables and making
against my body,
She wrote, and I followed.
no matter where
she was or what
she was doing
My eyes would
always seem to
I once fell for a beautiful writer…
The only thing was, she was already in love. She was eternally devoted to every word she wrote; hopelessly engaged to all the lines she ever used; an undying mistress to all the pages and paragraphs and phrases that must of traveled through her rambling mind and released themselves through the tip of her pencil.
Nothing could tear her away from what she really loved.
Can’t figure out if I honestly just despise this place or if I’m trying to make the best of it.
Regardless, it truly makes you appreciate the things you had and the people you once took for granted.
I miss my old life.
I miss the old me.
Adventure numero dos!
It’s taboo to admit that you’re lonely. You can make jokes about it, of course. You can tell people that you spend most of your time with Netflix or that you haven’t left the house today and you might not even go outside tomorrow. Ha ha, funny. But rarely do you ever tell people about the true depths of your loneliness, about how you feel more and more alienated from your friends each passing day and you’re not sure how to fix it. It seems like everyone is just better at living than you are.
A part of you knew this was going to happen. Growing up, you just had this feeling that you wouldn’t transition well to adult life, that you’d fall right through the cracks. And look at you now. La di da, it’s happening.
Your mother, your father, your grandparents: they all look at you like you’re some prized jewel and they tell you over and over again just how lucky you are to be young and have your whole life ahead of you. “Getting old ain’t for sissies,” your father tells you wearily.
You wish they’d stop saying these things to you because all it does is fill you with guilt and panic. All it does is remind you of how much you’re not taking advantage of your youth.
You want to kiss all kinds of different people, you want to wake up in a stranger’s bed maybe once or twice just to see if it feels good to feel nothing, you want to have a group of friends that feels like a tribe, a bonafide family. You want to go from one place to the next constantly and have your weekends feel like one long epic day. You want to dance to stupid music in your stupid room and have a nice job that doesn’t get in the way of living your life too much. You want to be less scared, less anxious, and more willing. Because if you’re closed off now, you can only imagine what you’ll be like later.
Every day you vow to change some aspect of your life and every day you fail. At this point, you’re starting to question your own power as a human being. As of right now, your fears have you beat. They’re the ones that are holding your twenties hostage.
Stop thinking that everyone is having more sex than you, that everyone has more friends than you, that everyone out is having more fun than you. Not because it’s not true (it might be!) but because that kind of thinking leaves you frozen. You’ve already spent enough time feeling like you’re stuck, like you’re watching your life fall through you like a fast dissolve and you’re unable to hold on to anything.
I don’t know if you ever get better. I don’t know if a person can just wake up one day and decide to be an active participant in their life. I’d like to think so. I’d like to think that people get better each and every day but that’s not really true. People get worse and it’s their stories that end up getting forgotten because we can’t stand an unhappy ending. The sick have to get better. Our normalcy depends upon it.
You have to value yourself. You have to want great things for your life. This sort of shit doesn’t happen overnight but it can and will happen if you want it.
Do you want it bad enough? Does the fear of being filled with regret in your thirties trump your fear of living today?
We shall see.
Adventure is out there!
I always love listening to people talk about things they’re passionate about. The way they discreetly try to hide a smile when they talk about their dream job. Or the subtle confidence in their voice when they sing alongside their guitar. Or the way their eyes beam when they tell you how they first met their significant other.
It’s something that I wholeheartedly seek out and thoroughly enjoy, but I wouldn’t really know how to fully describe it in my own words. After all, that passion isn’t mine, I would simply be borrowing it. Hearing their stories and listening to their dreams, sometimes I wish I could be transferred into their world, to see their passions firsthand through their eyes and to feel what’s it like when they grasp what they love in their own hands.
The closest I’ve ever come to understanding someone else’s passion was last summer. I was lucky enough to be introduced to my best friend’s dream job—marine biology. Nicknamed “Aquaman”, he brought me along on one of his research expeditions into South Padre Island Bay, a side of SPI that most tourists and Spring Breakers don’t even know exist. There, we would be collecting sea grass samples and testing the alkalinity of the water, a pretty standard procedure according to the biologists in charge. While it doesn’t exactly sound exciting to those of us not in the field, to Aquaman this was the future he was patiently working for, so any small piece of that dream was more than enough to put a smile on his face.
I didn’t really get it at first. Jumping into cold, grimy waters with the smell of seagull droppings profusely violating your nostrils at 7:30 in the morning was never something I personally thought I could fall in love with, but my friend on the other hand was completely in his element. He even smiled when a splatter of seagull poop landed on his shoulder. It was like the bay belonged to him. Or perhaps more accurately, he belonged to the bay.
Over the course of the expedition, I learned some random facts, such as how the most common seagrass was shoal grass and how you could eat gracilaria straight out of the water. But I think the biggest thing I learned was understanding Aquaman’s passion the way he knew it, if at least temporarily.
I saw the ocean through his eyes. It was the excitement rousing up inside of me when a school of dolphins paraded alongside the airboat, something I thought could only happen watching National Geographic or Animal Planet. It was the child-like fascination of staring down at a jellyfish, wondering where the tides would take it, time moving as slow as the current that carried it off. It was seeing the mind-numbingly vast expanse of blues—every different shade, every different hue, every different saturation of that same color. Just blue, everywhere you looked.
I heard his lifelong dream through his ears. It was the obnoxious sound of an old jet propeller launching us across a muffled lagoon, even the sound of my own thoughts being drowned out by the insatiable roar of the engine. It was the sedative sounds of waves lapping up against the edges of the boat, like the ocean was trying to whisper a secret into my ear. It was the yin and yang of those two sounds—the batterings of an old boat and the soothing of the sea—that brought me a sense of both invigoration and peace, fluctuating one right after another.
I stood in the shallow waters using his legs. A lone pillar of the earth, an island abandoned to the sea. It was the strange fact that my legs stood on solid land, but the rest of my body seemed to be floating amidst the ocean. And then it was fear that shot through my feet and ran across my spine when he said, “Be careful, there’s sharks around this area”.
Maybe it was the tiny pieces of ocean that would gently crash against my face, allowing me to taste the savory mist with the tip of my tongue. Or touching the back of a stingray with my own hand. Or maybe I was just feeling high from too much pelican poop. But regardless, that day I learned more about my best friend than the entire time I had known him. I had become a second-hand admirer to marine biology, to the ocean and to everything that lives inside of it.
I was fortunate enough to see a piece of my best friend’s world that he passionately lives out everyday.
Time will come and you will meet someone who is going to know you more than anybody else could ever possibly imagine. Ultimately, that person will end up having the best understanding of you, sometimes, even more than your own self would ever dream of. One day, you’ll find that somebody who wouldn’t need a dictionary to uncover the meaning behind your words or soon, does not need an illustrated lexicon to disclose why you act a certain way.
Someday, that person simply just knows how you are and just who you are.
Eventually, that somebody will find out how many moles you have on your face, or how you got that scar three inches below your hip, or how terrible your driving skills are, or how disgustingly sweet you like your coffee in the morning. That person will know your scent, every inch, every surface and just about every fiber of your skin.
Ultimately, that man, that man will see your face through the layers of your foundation, and he will lay his eyes on you, bare, underneath all the coatings of your blush-on and eye shadow and eye liner. And that woman, eventually, will know that no matter how masculine you truly are, you posses a sensitive side. She will realize how much of a child you become when you have a fever, and how much your eyes light up with the sight of a big screen TV, or a motorcycle, or any new news about the NBA trades.
Sooner or later, you will meet someone who will show you how capable you are of understanding other’s feelings and emotions, someone who will test your patience time and time again and someone who knows exactly what to do or say when things aren’t going your way.
You will meet that person, eventually, the one who will stand beside you, with a smile, when you start to realize that one by one, all your dreams are coming true and all your hard work is starting to pay off, knowing that they are a huge part of your motivation and inspiration in the process. Time will come; you will meet that person that will see you through the good and the bad. And who is willing to fight with you through the ugly. The one who understand how imperfect you are, how much of a work in progress you are and how much room there is left for you to grow.
But despite everything, eventually, you will meet that someone. And that someone is going to love you. That someone is going to love all of you.
— Carmela David
Some people write about how great love is. Some write about how traumatic love can be. Then there are those who write about real love, the way it really is.
Things I’m really bad at: Treating my friends here in California like they’re my friends from home—distant, sporadic, and hard-to-reach.
I need to give them more credit. I need to try harder. They’re good people, and I never tell them that. I never act like it.
First step in not giving up is to actually try.
And I’m sure that it’s a lie. A misconception. A falsity that rivals Donald Trump’s hairpiece.
Who says we always have to be happy? That we always need to be in a perpetual state of bliss? I don’t know why it’s deemed socially unacceptable to be sad or to be depressed or melancholy or over-thinking or even misguided. Days like these, when the world outside your window looks stark and gray, when your speakers sing nothing but Radiohead and Coldplay and The Smiths, I think we should welcome these feelings of ineptitude. Of failure. Of simply not being happy. It gives you the chance to pick yourself apart, trying to figure out what just what makes you incomplete. It gives you a moment to deconstruct, to shake the very foundations you had gotten comfortable with and try to rebuild yourself from the ground up again. It gives you the opportunity to look at the world not through rose-tinted glasses, but through a perspective that’s real, that’s wholesome, that’s honest.
Life isn’t all just goddamn rainbows and butterflies and chocolate-covered strawberries. Maybe life is just like the seasons. Some days are as bright and as warm and as enticing as a summer day, while others may be cold and empty and so silent it makes your ears start ringing just to fill the void. Not that the winter of life is so bad, it’s just… misunderstood, I think. People naturally don’t know how to be unhappy. But if you give it time, it can be an art in itself.
There’s a certain, ironic beauty in discontentment. On these days when you feel like the world’s biggest loser, you slowly learn to take victories in small, insignificant moments. Like when you get the shower running the exact temperature you want on the first try. Or when you get all green lights on your way to work. Or when you lie down on freshly changed bed sheets. Suddenly, even these tiny pieces of satisfaction are enough to put a smile on your face, and you realize maybe the universe isn’t completely out to screw you over. And I’d like to think, with just a little bit of optimism, that eventually… eventually these tiny victories add up to something more, something better.
You don’t know what’s good until you’ve experienced the bad. You can’t fully appreciate happiness without ever having step foot in Melancholia. You can’t be the mother-effin’ Batman without being a damned orphan first. If you’re sad, be sad, and don’t try to convince yourself otherwise. Once you wallow around in misery for awhile, you’ll understand just how truly important it is to hold on to happiness once you find it again.