I'm not trying to sound like a teen here
(although technically I still have a year left of it),
but people could be so damn frustrating, sometimes.
and unfortunately, I happen to be one of them.

not that you asked.

I'm inside my cozy 'negrito' aka my mini black Ford Focus, parked in front of my usual chill spot Starbucks. My black and white baby doll shoes are off, I could feel some crumbs on the sole of my feet (I really need to stop eating drive-thru food in here), my windows are rolled down, there's a noisy motorcycle a few parking spots away from me, my lap-top is starting to feel warm atop my legs, and I'm currently listening to a jam called "Waste" by a band (which I hope you've heard of by now) called 'Foster The People'. They're gonna be in concert at a local-ish theater in a few months, I think I might just have to metro my way to and fro. (oh yes, I just said "to and fro".) Well, I feel absolutely ashamed and guilty of not spending as much time as I feel I should (and genuinely want to) on here. Actually, now that I think of it, I haven't really written much anywhere. Not in my journals, notebooks, work-receipts. Gah! I know, I must stop!
I vow to give more of me to the things I love, and blogging + writing = my two true loves. Speaking of love, how ironic is it that a song called "Love" just started playing right now? Very, right. Speaking of, since we've now shifted on that topic, I've yet to find any "love" compatibility with another. BUT, yes, the big BUT--I'm not worrying about it. As incredible as having a lover may be, I've come to this sort of acceptance that romance just isn't in my cards, at least not at this point and time in my life. Along with this acceptance, I've also concluded a theory. Perhaps, it is possible to be romantically and passionately involved with 'objects', just as it is with humans. So, it's safe to say, I'm absolutely taken. I'm in love with music, and literature, words, dreams, my aspirations, and nature. I always have been. Feelings I've had for certain people have faded, sad to say, but true. Relationships I've had, and friendships--they've lessened, some even to the point of disappearance. This unfortunately is a part of life, it happens--chances are these sort of things will always happen. but I don't fear sorrowfulness, for truly in my heart I believe that God put these 'objects' in life to help complete those hearts who don't necessarily have another heart to rely on. Music is my second heartbeat, poetry is my best friend, nature is my hope, notebooks are my listeners, and my dreams are my reminders to keep moving forward. I may find it someday. That fleshed "soulmate" may appear out of the blue when I least expect it, and I'll be absolutely grateful and appreciative when that day happens--but as for now, I'm still a full-hearted gal. and I'm trying my best, and loving every single little minute of my ever-fleeting relationshiped (if that's even a word?) life.

"To see the world in a grain of sand, and to see heaven in a wild flower, hold infinity in the palm of your hands, and eternity in an hour."

- William Blake. 

PRESS PLAY > >

His name is Tim, and there's something about him--

this rarity, delightful rarity.

Something so undeniably interesting about him.

The kind of interesting that arouses me to fantasize about how wonderful a conversation with him might be. 

With that put aside, this song has nothing to do with my fleeting thoughts of Tim.
 It's just beautiful, and entrancing.

I hope you like it, too.

"You

 provoked

 me

to

be


lonely.

Words are geographical."

There's nothing

I dislike more than having a blank sheet of paper in front of me,

and having not the slightest idea what to write.

There's an English alphabet composed of 20 letters.

A Spanish alphabet composed of 27,

and a French alphabet composed of 26.

The worded possibilities are endless, yet I don't know what to w r i t e.

Lack of inspiration is rather over-whelming. Pretty terrifying, aussi.

PRESS PLAY > >

Bonjour there lovely bloggers! Well, like I've previously stated before, I am in firm belief that not many people come across my worded ramblings. If anything, none might ever come across reading this post--but regardless, I have to be honest, I use this whole blog spot as a sort of personal interweb journal. It's a mini personal time-capsule I'll be able to look back upon someday. Of course, I have actual journals--many, in fact. but, heck. Why not have more than one thought capturing connection? So, I haven't posted much here in a while, and it's mainly--nope, it's A L L due to the fact that I am in lack of an internet connection at home. Hard economic times come with their consequences. Okay, things aren't that bad, but if little things such as saving some cash from canceling a monthly Time Warner Internet bill can help, it's only reasonable to do so. Straying away from the whole economic bull-shit topic; I'm actually at a library right now. Yes, my first young adult visit to a public library. And by first young adult visit, I mean--I drove here in my own car, legally--with the driving license I finally received in the mail this past week. It's my day off from work, and the library is one of the few ideal places that comes to mind in terms of relaxation and entertainment. It feels good, that bit taste of independence. I'm growing, and the more I grow, the more I'll be able to do stuff on my own. That's a no-brainer of course. It's all a bit nerve-wrecking to me sometimes. Most times, actually. There are mornings where I wake up, and I have to remind myself to breath. It is all coming and going so fast--life. It's like this swift chaotic blur. Once upon a time I was this child eating macaroni kid cuisine dinners while lying down on the living-room carpet, watching back-to-back episodes of Lizzie McGuire. and now I'm this young woman who graduated high school a year ago, goes to college, pays for her own gas, and has no idea how to follow her list of impossible dreams. The carpet from the living-room has been replaced with tile, Disney Channel no longer airs Lizzie McGuire, and this past Sunday I seen the first sign of actual aging on my dad--a bald spot is forming on the back of his head full of hair, and I really don't know how that should make me feel. I mean, I don't exactly feel crappy or anything, but I feel sort of stuck. That's not even a fitting word for what I feel, actually. It's pretty damn indescribable. All these thoughts and emotions run in-and-through me, and the most I can do about them is just sit here at this lovely silent library and type.
Type away, as if that could somehow change something.
 I wonder, what will life be like tomorrow? The next day?

Forty-one years and twenty-nine days from now?
 and will I still feel this anxious?

Time will tell. Time tells all---
and that's what keeps me on the edge.

2: 27 A M.

Sometimes, all I want to do is run.

Get the breath knocked right outta me, and feel.

Feel the linger of life breeze through the air--

across my knotted hair, upon my ivory skin.

It's about thirty past two,

it's morning but it's dark,

and I can't sleep.

I w a n t t o  r  u  n.

All I really ask for,

is someone interesting, intriguing--
is that really too much to ask?
Are my desires sincerely too vague?
I want conversations about nothing,
about the meanings behind e v e r y t h i n g.
I want to sit in silence upon a hill that overlooks half of the city,
with a h u m a n who see's beauty in branches and stones.
A  h u m a n.
Is there any human out there who can appreciate my silly mind?
Who can ignore my manic heart?
If There's a human out there, s o m e w h e r e,
who will bother to read between my lines--

Where art thou?

Where art thou now?

Please, come soon. 

(and the whole 'art thou' thing is just a touch of exaggeration, by the way. C'mon, no one talks like that anymore. If Shakes were still around, he probably wouldn't either.)

x  o  x   o .

PRESS PLAY > >

This song makes me want to fall in love, only to get heart broken.

It's so devastatingly--b e a u t i f u l.

I want to do it all.

E v e r y t h i n g.
I want to direct a film that will reach out to the troublesome for generations to come.

I want to write a book that will be held in the heart of an anonymous for years after my death.

I want to learn to paint, and set my thoughts out on a canvas.
I want to climb the second highest mountain in the world.
I want to play a set of seven acoustic songs
under a starry night at a city park,
a set that will reach relation to the twelve listeners there.
I want to fall in love with a stranger for a night, just a night,
and proceed with normality the next day.
I want to take a midnight train ride, just myself, my journal,
a blue-ink pen, a Polaroid 600--
and flee to Chicago's Newberry.
I want to cry inside the waters of the ocean, so I can literally swim in my own tears.
I want to go to Paris, and eat a bowl of spaghetti.
I want to go to Geneva, and for a few seconds,
view life through Laura Marling's manic eyes.
I want to dance endlessly for three nights straight, in the middle of a deserted forest with all my friends.
I want to have the best conversation of my life with the person I'd least expect to.
I want to-- I want to stop wanting so much.
it'll eventually drive me sane.

Do you ever feel this way, too?

Citation du jour:

"But hurry, let's entwine ourselves as one, 

our mouth broken, our soul bitten by love, 

so time discovers us safely destroyed."
— Federico García Lorca

Me gustan.

c h a n g e.

I slept on the opposite side of my bed last night, 

to prove myself that I'm not afraid of change.

Came the start of another morning,

I felt accomplished to still be alive. Better yet, alive and rested.

Ironically it seems, that as I stood up--my bed fell apart, literally. 

A few inches away from my feet, in front of my face, 

the delicate wooden covert took its last toll and collapsed.

All I'm left with now is a box spring and a mattress, 

but man oh man does it feel good. 

I survived the crashing start of a changing day, 

and that dear listener, feels good.

m e m o i r s.

I want to capture it.
I want to capture it all.
I want to capture it all in black and white.
Your smile, the slightly visible violet creases under your eyes.
Our first time interlocking fingers
during that summer evening walk in 92'.
The city, its streetlights, the pond in Griffith park.
That time you accidentally spilled your hot tea on my woven sweater. 
The knots in your hair before getting out of bed.
The steam of our starting mornings---
coffee pot on the stove, traveling train outside our kitchen window...
Our third midnight phone-call conversation.
The rush of being young and in-run, not thinking about love--
I want to capture it, in black and white.
The moments when everything was new,
when every little thing felt exciting.
I want to capture us, our hours full of static and color,
and save them in my memory of black and white.

PRESS PLAY > >

The more I listen to this song, the more I fall in love it ♥

The video is amazing ---
And Yannis? Well, he's a fucking beauty.
F o a l s  is just all around a m a z i n g.

"So I walked through to the haze

And a million dirty waves
Now I see you lying there
Like a lilo, losing air...air
Black rocks on the shoreline surf
Still that summer I cannot bear
And I wipe the sand from my eyes--


It's the Spanish Sahara, the place that you'd wanna
leave the horror...
Forget the horror here
Forget the horror here
Leave it all down here...


It's future rust and then it's future dust--

Now the waves, they drag you down,

Carry you to broken ground.
Though I'll find you in the sand,
Wipe you clean with dirty hands.
So god damn this boiling space--
It's the Spanish Sahara, the place that you'd wanna
leave the horror...


Forget the horror here
Forget the horror here
Leave it all down here
It's future rust and it's future dust--

I'm the fury in your head

I'm the fury in your bed

I'm the g h o s t in the back of your head,

Cause I am...

I'm the fury in your head

I'm the fury in your bed

I'm the ghost in the back of your head,

Cause I am."

Note to self:

I want a man to wrap me up in his arms like this, s o m e d a y.

t i m e .

It seems as if a year passes by in forty seconds.

I want to see forty seconds pass by in a year, for a change.

Journal.

I bought a new Journal last night. It was on sale at Borders.
but the "$5.99" sticker on its front cover isn't the reason why I did so.
I swear, I felt this sort of magnetism pull me towards it.
It's as if, it's already coated with my synthetic words.
It's there. My words, thoughts, captured youth--
all I need to do is decode it. Unravel it.

Like some sort of obscured time-capsule.

An answer.

"Well, I like dried cranberries (I'm actually eating some as I type this), the smell of books, the sound of rain,

I very much enjoy going to old thrift-stores--

I like making up stories of whom the items there used to belong to. 

I like freckles, I think they're beautiful. and the color blue-- 

stamps and postcards, vinyl and type-writers,

the way ice-cream feels when it melts in my mouth. 

I like a lot of things. 

I like it when people ask me to tell them about the things I like."

And he never wrote back, after that...