Auburn

Auburn is my mother,

Maple leaves a mark from home. 

I snuggle in her gentle arms

As she whispers, “You are strong”. 

 

Auburn is an oak tree,

Sturdy and robust. 

Beneath I write some cheesy song,

About the object of my lust. 

 

Auburn colours romance,

But not a one brand new. 

It’s comforting and worn,

Like your favourite pair of shoes. 

 

Auburn was my father,

Rising with the sun for work. 

His briefcase packed with boring things,

 Now I wish I’d cared to look. 

 

Auburn were her lips when she cackled wild and free.

Auburn burnt the paper as she singed a joint for me.

 

Auburn were her eyes,

Right before I closed them. 

I’d imagined they’d be milky,

Like a fish I’d just unfrozen.

A crude thought I know…

But how was I to have known? 

She’d be as lovely as the day we met,

Hospital bed, her throne. 

 

I sit here blonde and ashy.

She liked me auburn haired. 

Fiery”, she told me,

Like she knew me,

Like she cared. 

 

Auburn was my heart, As it broke not it two but three.

And auburn were my fingers, 

Next to hers blue… 

Leaving me. 

 

You are my home

Borderline Love

Source: theincompletechronicleI learnt far too late in life that the way we individually experience romantic love is not necessarily how anyone else feels it. Discovering this legitimately confused and shocked me. It has changed the way I now view my past relationships, and has made me much more cautious moving forward with future ones. In truth, I really should have figured it out sooner. I understood that the way we experience other emotions varies dramatically, but for some reason I hadn’t quite gotten there with love. I always believed that the level of intensity I felt while falling, or in love, was naturally reciprocal. That if my heart lights up like a thousands suns when you walk in a room, and longs so painfully for you when you walk away, surely something so intense cannot be felt alone? But the more I’m learning about my emotions and mental health, the more convinced I become that in fact, nobody has ever loved me at the intensity that I have loved them. And that’s not coming out of modesty or self-deprecation. I say that from a place of discovery, that perhaps my version of love is not quite healthy, and is certainly not the norm.

Image result for sexy french depressionAs someone with maladaptive personality traits I tend to experience the world at a much higher emotional intensity than the average bear. I used to call the way I romanticised, obsessed, and wallowed in heartache; passionate. I would think of myself as some kind of sexy, fiery Latina (think Salma Hayek), whose temper just enhances her charm. Whereas in actual fact I think I’m more of the psychotic, murders-you-in-your-sleep type; Erika Christensen in ‘Swimfan’ style (circa 2002. That’s as up to date as my references get).  However, in order to grow I believe I need to be more honest with myself. Ew.

T shirt for MoriartyI’ve heard other people with Borderline Personality Disorder describe their experience of living with the condition as feeling as though they are walking around with third degree burns. This isn’t in relation to physical pain, but rather that they feel emotionally raw, sensitive, wounded, and exposed 24/7. This I can relate to. I rarely experience a healthy balance of emotions. I don’t experience sadness; I skip ahead to debilitating despair. Anger becomes a storm of uncontrollable rage and aggression. Happiness is overtaken by euphoric mania, and love…love becomes an all-consuming obsession.

Afternoon Imagination

Having lived with the condition of “love”, and the disease of addiction, I can honestly say that for me, there is no more powerful drug on planet earth than love. I am a hard-core addict when it comes to falling in love. And just like drug addiction, it is so deliciously moreish, but quickly becomes painful, messy, and completely overpowering. When in love, I have no self-control. I can’t function effectively in daily life, I can’t concentrate for long periods, and I am rarely content. It is simultaneously way too much, and never enough. It’s truly a horrible mess, but fuck me, is it good.

Yummy❣️ @SssyGrlyI acknowledge that perhaps I do not know what “true love” is, and sadly, perhaps I will never know the calm, peaceful version of love that I see those around me enjoy. This thought truly devastates me. But whenever that crosses my mind I just come back to the knowledge that we all experience love differently, both personally and throughout different periods of our lives. I believe that young children who experience, what we adults like to diminish by calling “puppy love”, to be their true experience of love. I believe unrequited love to be just as real as reciprocal love. And I believe that my obsessive, intense, and often difficult experience of love to be valid, if uncommon.

After all it’s just a word. Love. A word we have attached meaning to based on the amount of Hollywood rom-com’s we have watched, or the way in which our parents showed love, or how it felt the first time you heard that one Jewel song that broke you into a million pieces. It’s just one tiny, little, insignificant, life-changing, ball-breaking, mother fucker of a word.

quote

Love is patient, love is kind…”, is never going to be my mantra. If I am to be brutally honest with myself, I’m more like Lennie from ‘Of Mice and Men’ (another topical reference for you). Suffocating and smothering, stuck to you like a barnacle, in the hopes that the tighter I cling on, the more you will love me back. Unfortunately, like  Lennie and his overwhelming love for his adorable little puppies, who’s little necks were not quite strong enough for his overpowering love and affection; my love ultimately creates more heartache than it’s worth.

İlk görüşte Aşk olması halinde camı kırın

Love has always felt this way to me. From crushes I clung onto with painful longing for six years throughout high school, to men whom I would fall in love at first glance with from across the bar, to long-distance relationships that crossed land and sea. Whether or not someone became significant in my life, it has always begun at lightning speed and hit me like a tonne of bricks. I fall hard and fast. To quote Rhianna, “I’m 0-60 in 3.5”. I don’t know, it’s some kind of fast car metaphor. Just go with it!

#shopbirdbee #birdbeedetroit www.shopbirdbee.com

Falling in love with my ex was an unbearably agonising, intensely beautiful, irresistibly mesmerising experience. He was the only person I have ever loved that started as a comforting whisper, rather than a glass shattering SCREECH! Possibly because deep down I knew he wasn’t right for me, or perhaps because it was the most “real” experience of love I’ve had to date, and good things take time. Who’s to say? In any case, falling took a little longer but eventually crept up on me, hitting 10 X harder than ever before. The Kerouac-esk roman candles erupted inside of my heart, brain, and body simultaneously and, shit, I was in love.

#wallpaper #tom #tomandjerry #vintage #edit #filter #iphone #love #eyes #cartoon #fade #cute #sad #meme #mood

Back when I was young, and cared what impression I made on people, I was much better at pretending I wasn’t psychotic. I could stare wistfully at the man of my affections with love in my eyes, and hide the excruciating urge to wrap my arms and legs around him, forcing him to wear me everywhere like a human backpack. My ex and I were as close as two people could physically and emotionally be, but I was still craving more. Always more. It really was like an addict chasing after that first blissful high. I remember constantly wanting to be closer to him. Needing to be closer. Our bodies intertwined, skin to skin, so closely I could feel his heartbeat. Completely open to each other with full vulnerability, completely and utterly absorbed in our individual experience of love, and yet, all I could think about was how sad it was that this was as close as it would ever be. I could feel the love bursting from every cell of my body, but it wasn’t enough because we were still individuals. I genuinely lamented the fact we weren’t puddles of water that could just melt into one another and become inextricably merged forever. That’s truly mental isn’t it? It’s ridiculous seeing your emotions played out in words, because you undoubtedly sound like an angsty teenager writing def poetry, but that is honestly how I felt. I wonder if I’ll ever feel like that again. Part of me so badly hopes I do, but the other half of me is more content without the blurred lines of loving and needing someone in such an extreme way.

With you alwaysNow that I have been single for almost three years, I can reliably say I am a much more content, balanced version of myself when I am alone. I wish I could resign myself to a life of solitude. Purely celebrating friendships (which inexplicably I’m not bad at maintaining), connecting to people through writing and music, laughing with strangers, and occasionally having wild and/or simple casual sex. But I can’t. For better or worse (till death do us part), I believe in love. I adore love. J’adore l’amour! The more I write, the more I find myself exploring the different layers, colours, and textures of love. I find it so endlessly fascinating, and equal parts euphoria inducing and excruciatingly painful.

I believe that the meaning of life (if we simply must have one), is to love and be loved. To that I can hear my psych in my head saying earnestly, “Yes, to love oneself.”. Of course my adult brain knows she is right, that my life would be so much gentler if I put as much energy into loving myself as I do others. However, that is a life-times worth of work, so why not explore the world of lovely, fascinating, crazy, beautiful characters, as a parallel passion project? Falling in love and ultimately breaking my own heart, repetitively… until I die. On second thought maybe I… be right back, *calls therapist*. Help.

Jealousy Quotes : QUOTATION – Image : Quotes Of the day – Description La jalousie / Jealousy (2013) Sharing is Power – Don’t forget to share this quote !At the end of the day our lives are just stories. It’s just art being played out in real time, and that is both stunningly beautiful, and heartbreakingly tragic. At least that is how my dissociative brain views the world. It is almost like looking down a camera lens, and back at your own life (think ‘The Truman Show’). So as pretentious as I know this sounds, it really is how a lot of borderlines or DID’s (dissociative identity disorder) experience life. This in itself can be a catalyst for intense behaviour and acting out. As a child I remember always feeling like I needed to “put on a good show!”, without ever knowing who I was performing for or why. I suspect I was trying to make sense of the dissociative ‘camera in my head’. I think that is partly why I love, and generally feel with such intensity. I struggle to be comfortable within the natural experience of love, because for the most part, love is quiet. It is peaceful and calm, which is beautiful, but doesn’t really ‘play’ well on screen. I do wonder if growing up feeling that strong sense of performance in daily life has effected me more than I know. That’s not to say any acting out is a conscious choice. The anxiety triggered by the fear of abandonment is a major driver for volatility in love. I’m just musing.

LanaQuote is a tumblr blog dedicated to Lana Del Rey. We specially post Lana Del Rey's quotes and...I am trying to learn to find comfort in the more serene parts of relationship, but as someone who has endured a lifetime of being guided by emotions, and believed that the more extreme the reaction, the more intense the love, this is a work in progress.

Anyway, how hard can it be? Love. After all, it’s just a simple, four letter, harmless, little word…

 

 

 

“Gramma” – Lizzie Grant, AKA Lana Del Rey

Gramma said she’ll leave the lights on for me
Gramma said the flags are waving for me
Gramma said that somewhere out there there’s a good man
Waiting for me

A.M.E.R.I.C.A.
All I wanna do is play
See the city every day
Pretty party nation

Tell me that you think I’m good
Happy that I make you glad

‘Cause I don’t wanna think I’m bad, Gramma
I don’t wanna think I’m bad

Gramma said she’ll leave the lights on for me
Gramma said the flags are waving for me
Gramma said that somewhere out there there’s a good man
Waiting for me

T.R.O.U.B.L.E.
Trouble’s what feels good to me
Crazy as since I was three
Now I’m out to get you

But I’d have bet that lately, Ma
And I’m in love with everyone
And I don’t wanna think I’m wrong
Just for feeling pretty

Gramma said she’ll leave the lights on for me
Gramma said the flags are waving for me
Gramma said that somewhere out there there’s a good man
Waiting for me

I wanna be the whole world’s girl, gramma
I wanna be the whole world’s girl
I wanna be the whole world’s girl, gramma

Tell me, do you think that’s wrong?

Don’t cry, honey, crazy girl
Don’t you know you are the world?
Every time you feel unsure
Try to remember what you are

 

The Invisible People

 

I like people who have survived or are surviving. I like people who are open with their vulnerabilities, “failures”, and desperation. I like those that despite the protective layers of armour they have built up around them, their heart still bursts free of their chest like a child that has yet to be hurt. Because when you have been forced to survive against all odds, you truly understand the value of even the smallest expressions of love. It’s not that you will always be able to offer it. In fact, in times of survival, when your tap is completely run dry, sometimes all you can do is take from others. The times I’ve been in survival mode have been some of the most selfish and needy of my life. But that is when you learn the value of a kind face, or a helpful gesture. When you feel completely alone in the world it means everything for someone to see you and not overt their eyes, despite how ugly survival may make you. And I’ve been real ugly.

 I call us, ‘the invisible people’. We are the people society either shuns intentionally or simply forgets. The elderly; tucked quietly away in homes. The epitome of “out of sight, out of mind.”. The homeless; who are almost the polar opposite. They are in your face at the station where you get off for work, they interrupt your night out asking for money so that they might eat, or god forbid, spend it on drugs to feel good for a few minutes. These people are not hidden, but they are not seen. I’m not sure which is worse. I get along with criminals and people who live on the fringe of society. It’s so easy to demonise something we don’t understand but if you have really had to survive. I mean, fight for your own life, or that of your families’, not just for a day, but day in, day out, year after year; it’s much easier to have compassion for those that ‘break the rules’ in order to survive. People with chronic or long-term illnesses are similar to the elderly. Friends will come and offer support at first, but as they start to realise that you are not getting better, and this is a life-long adjustment, it becomes boring. It’s human nature to shy away from situations that make us feel helpless, and being with a chronically sick person usually highlights that helplessness in us. But it means that many of us with chronic illness become more and more isolated, depressed and of course, invisible.

 The final semester of my degree (2016) was probably the worst time of my life. I almost didn’t return, and in hindsight it was probably too soon to be back. The short version is this; my relationship of 7-years had ended hideously, against my choosing. I’d watched my best friend deteriorate rapidly from brain cancer and subsequently pass away. And my father had died unexpectedly in the Middle East, from circumstances I still find suspicious. This was all in the space of about 5 months. I think that would be enough to make anyone snap but add to that my crippling co-dependency, co-morbid mental and physical illnesses, and the fact that I was now living alone for the first time in my entire life; I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I cried so much I didn’t even know where the tears were coming from anymore. The breaking of my heart was a physical searing in my chest, and convulsive gripping in my gut, that I was convinced would kill me. I truly believed I would die of a broken heart, and I am now sure that is possible. Every second I was awake I either had a drink in my hand, a line up my nose, or a pill down my throat. On a “good” day, all three. But I didn’t want to be awake. I wanted to sleep through the grief and wake up when it was done…or just never wake up. Either way, I honestly didn’t care. I was not coping, but despite myself I was going to survive.

stoned-in-parisAnd survive I did… by any means. The means of which I chose was drugs and alcohol. Never one to do anything by halves, I did not hold back. Due to an extensive spinal surgery I had in my early 20’s, I had a fairly regular supply of grade-A opiates on hand at any one time. It was a small problem, but manageable, right up until life wasn’t. And therein lies the Cliff’s Notes version of many a drug addict before me. Recreational drug use + ugly bump in life (maybe throw in a mental health issue as well, just for that extra oomph), = full blown addiction in rapid speed. RDU+UB=A². Look dad, I mathed!

Now I'm fucking falling apart and can't fucking breatheWithin three months I went from almost completely weening myself off the opiate pain killers, to getting withdrawal sweats if I didn’t shove something into my nose, mouth or eyeballs in the space of half an hour. Okay, I wasn’t quite at eyeball level. See, there is always further to fall kids! Of course I don’t endorse this as a survival method, but it cannot be denied that without drugs, I wouldn’t be here to tell the tale. Yes, they fucked up my life and health in many ways that will never return to their previous state, but in terms of short-term survival, many days they were the only reason I woke up. Wake up, rack up, snort line, survive (not a bad song lyric actually. Although if you ask 90’s Eminem it probably already is one). This little process would repeat until the day was done or I mercifully passed out. Passing out was the preferred option because then I would get a break from crying, aching, and life-ing.

Freaks • 1932God, I was just so sad. I can’t describe the grief. There aren’t enough sad words in the English language to explain that kind of heartache. Broken. Shattered. Empty. Anguished. Despaired. Tortured. Grief-stricken. Lonely. So fucking lonely. Lost. Agonised. Tormented. Alone. Desperate. Pained. Suicidal.
Put them all together and we are inching closer. I’ve never felt like that before. It was depression, but this was no ordinary depression. This was, end-it-all depression, and it lasted a long time at that intensity. Two and a half years long. So as ugly as I was, and as ugly as the drugs made me, I am grateful for them. They are just one tiny part of my recovery puzzle, but they aided in saving my life.

ViomilaOne of the reasons I resonate so strongly with vagrants, loonies, junkies, and criminals (all said with multitudes of love and affection), is because the only difference I see between myself and them is that I had a supportive family who had the funds, will, and patience to aid in my healing. That is not to be underestimated. There was a moment when my brother dropped everything and drove me to the mental hospital (or as I like to call it; the loonie bin). My insurance didn’t cover my stay there and I had to decide if I wanted to pay the $2500 for a short one week stay, or go spend that same amount of money on street drugs. Two things happened here; 1. If I had been alone I would’ve left, given up on myself and bought the drugs, but I had my brother there to encourage me to better myself. 2. I had the savings in my bank account to pay for the stay. That is a luxury not afforded to many. I may have been a fucking heartbroken, suicidal, junkie, but in that moment, there was no denying I was lucky.

Ladies don't kill, they merely just...interrogate and take away the non-gentleman's breath.

It’s accepted knowledge that people with mental illness are far more likely to develop drug abuse issues, end up involved in crime, in prisons, or living on the streets. Well, I’ve almost got as many mental illnesses as I do fingers, and I was quickly becoming a full blown addict. I was also full of rage, and I was suicidal; meaning I didn’t give a toss about the consequences of my actions. That’s a dangerous combination that could’ve easily lead me to make a seriously misguided decision and ruin the rest of my life.

That's not very nice, now is it?
The grief in me was surfacing as rage. I didn’t know I could be so angry. It was like there was a flame alight inside of me, charring and scolding me from the inside out. I didn’t understand how everyone was walking around so contently while I was on fire in front of them. How could they leave me to burn alive like this! Couldn’t they see I needed their help? I hated them for not seeing it. For not seeing me. My mind was full of violence toward myself and others. But, even though I had given up on everyone, there were still enough people and structures in place that hadn’t yet given up on me.

All-DarksMy psychologist talked me out of ruining my own life on a weekly basis, I had a psychiatrist monitoring my medication, a GP I trusted, and a warm, comforting home to go back to with a loving, if exhausted, family. My mum and brother are my heroes, and I will never forget the last correspondence I ever received from my father. I’d emailed him in the Middle East to let him know I was in the psycho ward (a place I actually remember fondly; a story for another day perhaps). I was unsure how he would respond but he simply replied, “If you had a broken ankle you would be in hospital to mend that too. You are doing the right thing.”. My dad wasn’t always the best with words growing up, but those are some pretty great ones to go out on. Thanks dad.

I was one of the lucky ones. A lot of the people I met who were living on the street could not say the same.

I could no longer relate to anyone at my university. These chipper, healthy, studious, young woman who had goals and dreams to be successful health practitioners (nutritionists) and practiced what they preached. I wore a white coat in the clinic that mocked me as I smoked cigarettes around the back by the bins, and downed my 10th cup of coffee of the day. I was a fucking fraud. My only goal was to get to the end of each day so I could go to the train station liquor store, drink cask wine on the ride home, pass out, and start again in the morning. I related to the men and woman sleeping rough outside the station. We’d smoke together, talk shit and share my lunch. After my dad died I even started filling the pockets of his old jackets with snacks or sanitary products, and handing them out to people in need on cold mornings. I guess I hoped that if I showed someone a small token of love, that maybe it would come back to me. I knew how much I needed it and I didn’t want anyone else to feel as invisible and worthless as I did.

Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt season 3There was a selfish element to it, of course. I saw them, they saw me. It was nice. They saw good in me at a time in my life where everyone else thought I was misguided, pathetic and dark. These connections were incredibly important to me. These people who I saw for a quick cigarette in the morning before rushing off to class, were my friends. They were the people I connected to and I looked forward to seeing each day. They didn’t worry about me like the rest of the world. They had their own shit to worry about. But we appreciated each other in the moment and that was enough. That time in my life was horribly depressing and I’m so relieved to say I have finally turned a corner on it. However, it really helped me learn to be less judgmental, and that every single person has something worthwhile to offer if you are willing to be open to receiving.

… Even that one schizophrenic dude who I was having a perfectly pleasant chat with, until he started earnestly describing how he had just tried to steal a gun from a policeman because the invisible aliens were coming to capture him. I mean they could’ve been, what do I know? They were invisible after all! Ah, what a rare treat he was.*

Image result for e coronaI’m by no means perfectly healed. I didn’t “see the light” and transform myself into a content, clean-living, angelic specimen. LOL! The grief is at a manageable level most of the time now, but of course I still get debilitating waves where I feel my heart crushing in my chest. I still live with chronic mental and physical illness, which naturally brings me down (or up if I’m on a manic swing!). I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m not special by any means. Which is great news, because it means that anyone can survive. There was no grit or determination involved. I had nothing left to “fight” with. It was pure endurance. I endured life for as long as it took to survive, and from this place of survival I am now able to work on building a life where I can thrive. I wish I had more advice, as I had desperately wished someone had had for me, but all I can do is leave you with one more quote from my late father, “Just put one foot in front of the other.”. What he meant by this was that as long as we keep moving, no matter how slowly, we will end up somewhere else. Somewhere in the direction of where we want our lives to go. With that I’m learning to enjoy the process over the end goal, and I’ve walked myself out of hell on earth. I am not special. I just survived.

Image result for just keep swimming

*No policeman were harmed in the making of this blog.

 

Nostalgia – ‘That’ Guy

This time last year I was getting ready for my trip to Spain. Missin' it like crazy! :(

Definition of nostalgia. 1: the state of being homesick: homesickness. 2: a wistful or excessively sentimental yearning for return to or of some past period or irrecoverable condition also: something that evokes nostalgia. – Merriam Webster

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

imagem descoberto por 'gabi. Descubra (e salve!) suas próprias imagens e vídeos no We Heart ItA few days ago I had a dream. It was one of those dreams that is felt so viscerally that even upon waking you just can’t shake it. In fact, this particular dream stayed with me all day like a weight on my chest. Now, I am a dreamer by nature. I dream a lot. I have terrible nightmares, beautiful daydreams, and strange fantasies. For better or worse, the majority of my life is spent in my head. But even some of the most gruesome nightmares, or heart wrenching dreams about loved ones passed, haven’t stung me like this.

In concept it was simple; I saw my ex and he told me he loved me. I remember maybe a minute of it, but the sheer intensity, the connection, the detail, that’s what shook me.

i love youI held his strong, comforting arms as he pulled me close. I felt the bristles of his untrimmed facial hair brush my cheek as I burrowed into the crook of his neck. I could smell him. His smell. I had forgotten how sweet, yet earthy it was. Like him; gentle, but grounded. When I looked at him, his blue eyes swallowed me up like pools of water. I could see his every freckle and the deepening crinkles around his eyes. I could see his sadness and his fatigue, but in the way that only I would be able to notice. He was stoic and calm on the outside, as always. I could feel his fingers grip me tightly, keeping me safe and reminding me I am his, but still allowing me space to move and be free. Knowing he could never tame me, and that trying would be futile. He wore his own clothes. His real clothes. Not make believe things I had concocted in my mind. The smell. My heart was aching with a sense of foreboding. Maybe knowing deep down that I was going to wake up. And then he spoke. He said my name. The way only he could say it. The way that reminds you that you belong to someone in the best possible way. The way where you can hear they have said it, let it roll around their mouths and truly felt it thousands of times. It’s not even a name anymore, it’s just you. He gripped my face with his slightly weathered hands, freckled on the backs, with soft palms, and lightly calloused fingers. Hands that have never been raised to me, and only ever brought me pleasure. Hands that know more of my body than I know myself. And he just said, “I love you.”. That’s all he said, over and over. Torturously he repeated, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”. Each time he said it with more certainty, desperate to convince me of the truth behind the words, and with my eyes closed in my nostalgic dreamland, I believed him.

See you tonight.

In truth, he could’ve been saying anything. What he was saying was brutal, but what really stuck with me the whole day was simply hearing the sound of his voice. Three years. That’s how long it has been since I’ve heard that voice. Yet, in the depths of my subconscious, I still know its every nuance. The recreation was faultless. Every infliction and change in intonation that, despite the words being said, would tell me everything about how he is (…was) feeling. Every pause. Every breath between words. The warmth, the timbre, the depth. It was perfect. I was jealous of the words for being inside his mouth. For being part of him. And of all the things he could have said, he chose to say my name. Mine. I felt special before realising my mistake. I’m just a sleepy girl in a room repeating her own name to herself, trying to get it just right. I wonder what my name sounds like from his lips today. I’m sure he wouldn’t even know. I wonder…but I don’t want to know.

The not knowing of the others thoughts leads self to create false world with hopes that never becomeThey say a separation is as painful as a death. For me, this has been true. There are too many significant voices out there that I can never hear again. Voices that have spoken to me before I was even born (my father), and voices of those who have kept me alive with their strength, despite their lives coming to an end. And then there is ‘him’. His voice is still floating around out there somewhere. Saying other peoples’ names with conviction. Avoiding mine. But just like the voice of my father, I will never hear it again. And in his case, I really don’t want to.

Lana Del Rey #LDR #art #This_is_What_Makes_Us_Girls ♡♡♡Nostalgia; a word that paints such a delicate and romantic scene, but in actual fact, is quite cruel. Nostalgia takes (or creates) a beautiful memory and inserts a sense of longing, that by its very nature is unattainable. It is reaching out for something you loved and never being able to touch it again. The nostalgia of my dream created an idealised version of someone who has never existed. The ultimate dream-man, if you will. Whereas in my waking life, this person is demonised as a form of self-preservation. I must make him the baddie in my story or ill never wake up. Why would I if ‘dream-man’ is just a snooze button away? But the truth is that somewhere between these two creations lies some version of the truth. Not a demon, nor a dream. Just a guy doing the best he can. Not someone who could have saved me, or had the presumed power to destroy and break me. Just a guy who entered my heart when I wasn’t quite ready, and overstayed his welcome. Just a guy. 

 

LOL!! Not All The Time But It Happens.. This Girl Talks A Lot Of Shit :)