tripping

Even if you fall on your face, you're still moving forward.  -Victor Kiam-




All this time I thought I was tripping... who would have guessed it's actually considered progress.

Grey

but when the sun hits your eyes through your window 
there will be nothing you can do.

confession

There's been a lot going on in my life that I don't feel comfortable talking about openly on my blog due to the fact that so many people who really know me read it. I've taken refuge in another blog, one that is cloaked in secrecy.

“I am a happy camper so I guess I’m doing something right. Happiness is like a butterfly; the more you chase it, the more it will elude you, but if you turn your attention to other things, it will come and sit softly on your shoulder.”
― Henry David Thoreau

Calling You Out

“Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren't having any of those. ”
― Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

The Bitter Truth

People disappoint you.
It's sad.
But it's the truth.
I just wish my judgement was better.
I evidently do not trust the right people...

Overhaul

I've made the conscious decision that I am tired of feeling broken all the time. So I am instigating an overhaul of my life. 6 months is what I am going to give myself. I'll be 27 in 6 months. The focus: everything. Appearance. Career. Spirit. Focus. My creativity. 6 months from now I'll stand a different woman. A better woman.

Mark. My. Words.

Fact or Fiction

Ernest Hemingway once wrote, "All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know."

Five years ago when I locked up my muse, put away my pens and burned the pages I'd spent years bleeding into it was because I had reached a point in my writing where all I could write was the truth. That rawness, the pure nakedness that brutal honesty provides scared me.

So I ran. I changed my identity. I silenced my voice. I hid the uniqueness that I had spent my entire life developing because I was afraid.

Now, five years late I sit and stare at empty pages craving the release of the truth.I want to feel special. I want to feel complete in the only way I have ever known how. By fully embracing that which I love. But, I feel like I am completely incapable of writing it, because in writing it I have to accept it. The truth is a hard, cold place. It provides no warmth, no comfort, no hope.

I know that until I can write one true sentence, the truest sentence I know like Hemingway suggests, I'm doomed. Breathing, but a shell of who I am meant to be.

I just need to find my truth.