The Latest

Oct 17, 2014

Stop / Go / Red / Green

You weren’t my world, but I wanted you to be. All fast beats, deep dreams, steady heart, and wandering feet. But you aren’t a world, or even a state, or a dream.

You’re an intersection. You’re steady and changing. Stop. Go. Here you are. Then you’re gone.

Our lives intersected like a heartbeat, blood sweeping through veins, then away. Necessary, temporary, steady. An intersection of light, of life, of two beating breathing beings.

Stop. There you were. Steady. Deep. Intrigue.

Go. Gone. Away. Like a dream. A heartbeat.

Stop. There you were. Red like a light. Like a heart. Like a beat. Like freedom.

Go. Gone. Green like my heart. Green like the wilderness. Like the horizon. Like light and freedom.

And you’re off. Into the world that isn’t you. But that hides you like dreams hide memories.

And I’m on my feet in the intersection where our souls met like twin heartbeats. Red. Green. Red. Green. Lights change like a steady beat. Freedom.

Oct 16, 2014 / 2 notes

All that’s left of summer is messy hair and calloused feet and I’m hoping warmer days don’t leave behind a messy life and a calloused heart, as well.


“Because sending a letter is the next best thing to showing up personally at someone’s door. Ink from your pen touches the stationary, your fingers touch the paper, your saliva seals the envelope, your scent graces the paper. Something tangible from your world travels through machines and hands, and deposits itself in another’s mailbox; their world. Your letter is then carried inside as an invited guest. The paper that was sitting on your desk, now sits on another’s. The recipient handles the paper that you handled. Letters create a connection that modern and impersonal forms of communication will never replace.”
Oct 11, 2014 / 250,373 notes

“Because sending a letter is the next best thing to showing up personally at someone’s door. Ink from your pen touches the stationary, your fingers touch the paper, your saliva seals the envelope, your scent graces the paper. Something tangible from your world travels through machines and hands, and deposits itself in another’s mailbox; their world. Your letter is then carried inside as an invited guest. The paper that was sitting on your desk, now sits on another’s. The recipient handles the paper that you handled. Letters create a connection that modern and impersonal forms of communication will never replace.”

(via kvtes)

I’m learning to love the skies I’m under.
Iowa // 10.1.14
Oct 11, 2014

I’m learning to love the skies I’m under.

Iowa // 10.1.14

Oct 11, 2014 / 1 note

That Season

The summer ended and fall is fleeing.
My co-workers keep leaving.
The boy who I liked moved on.
So did the boy who liked me.
I’m behind on work.
The cat may be sick.
My nose piercing may be infected.
My teal hair is already fading.
My plans for LA are falling apart.
I don’t sleep enough.
I feel like my life is slipping out of my grasp and I know that’s the way it’s supposed to end up—out of my grasp—but the way it’s wrenched out feels more like breaking. My grasp is broken and sometimes it feels like my heart is, too. Most days I feel like crying, but most days I can’t because I have to work and grocery shop and do laundry and there’s no time for tears. Adulting is often synonymous with busyness and it may be destroying my soul. I don’t know how to slow down or let go and maybe I’m just falling apart. It’s that season. I need a slow one, a rest one, but I don’t have time for the rest and we’re all running out of time and running and falling and waking up with skinned knees and broken hearts, wondering how it’s already winter. Maybe it’s time to slow down.

g
Oct 9, 2014 / 244 notes

g

Oct 7, 2014 / 2 notes

Somehow it’s midnight again and I’m thinking about the particular sort of heartache that isn’t loss of what is, but is loss of what could have been. Reality isn’t crushed, only dreams.

So here I am, laying shards of hopes to rest, listening to John Mayer and trying to be present and trying not to cry. Mostly I’m tired, I think.

Mostly I wish I could be as content as I strive to be. It’s strange to strive for a resting place. A heart harbor. Perhaps that’s the safety we all long for amidst adventure and brokenness and loss.

There was a boy who liked me, but it turns out he only liked what I could have been. And I’m not who he hoped. I’m bolder, more audacious, less safe. His hopes of who I could be are gone, and I’ve lost hope in who I thought he was. We’re both lost with lessened hopes, but he seems to have found a new hope and a new direction, and I’m forced to realize that I hoped more than I’d admit.

My hopes were in a perhaps rather than a harbor, and bold hearts need a destination.

Sep 22, 2014 / 3,844 notes
Sep 17, 2014 / 1 note

23 years, 2 people, and 19 wishes

I wish I could say I remember how you smelled.

I wish I could say I buried my face into your sweater and whispered, “Stay,” just too quiet for you to hear.

I wish I could say I remember your laugh.

I wish I remembered better.

I wish you weren’t gone.

I wish that our time wasn’t so short.

I wish I had said something more than just wishing you well.

I wish I’d said, “I wish we’d meet again.”

I wish you’d never have to leave.

I wish I didn’t feel like this.

I wish I hadn’t been so nonchalant.

I wish I wasn’t scared to care.

I wish I didn’t care so much, and that I cared more.

I wish I knew if you did.

I wish I could hear your voice.

I wish I could ask you.

I wish you weren’t 2000 miles away.

I wish I knew how our story will go.

But that wouldn’t be an adventure would it?

And that’s the thing with us: we’re adventurers.

That makes us who we are.

And I wouldn’t ever wish that away.

I wish you’d read this.

And I’m scared that you will.

That crossroads is so beautiful to me. What is your armor? What is your cause? What are you fighting for, and what are you fighting against? Those sorts of things are what keep the grey from settling in.
Debby Ryan
Sep 16, 2014 / 7 notes