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And kid, you’ve got to love yourself. You’ve got wake up at four in the morning, brew black coffee, and stare at the birds drowning in the darkness of the dawn. You’ve got to sit next to the man at the train station who’s reading your favorite book and start a conversation. You’ve got to come home after a bad day and burn your skin from a shower. Then you’ve got to wash all your sheets until they smell of lemon detergent you bought for four dollars at the local grocery store. You’ve got to stop taking everything so goddam personally. You are not the moon kissing the black sky. You’ve got to compliment someones crooked brows at an art fair and tell them that their eyes remind you of green swimming pools in mid July. You’ve got to stop letting yourself get upset about things that won’t matter in two years. Sleep in on Saturday mornings and wake yourself up early on Sunday. You’ve got to stop worrying about what you’re going to tell her when she finds out. You’ve got to stop over thinking why he stopped caring about you over six months ago. You’ve got to stop asking everyone for their opinions. Fuck it. Love yourself, kiddo. You’ve got to love yourself.

unknown (via awelltraveledwoman)

I use to hate the term, ‘kiddo’, before meeting someone who said it with the utmost sincerity. I read this in their voice and it made a few tears fall. 

(via alphavulpecula)

(via birthanddeathofthesun)

Revisiting old writings:

Bats flutter aimlessly through a pitch black cave.
as the world moves, so does the full moon to cast it’s light
A fog so thick, not even the owls can blink.
eyes are peeled monitoring their prey.
darkness fills the root of a tree extending to it’s weak branches,
cold and bushy it sways. it waits.
and while the snakes,
worms,
rabbits and rats kill, there is a feast.
A commotion of communication in the dismal emptiness
And my heart…
damp, done and ghostly.
as I sit in the tree and wait.
the bird does not sing, not anymore.
with it’s beak it picks at my rib cage, hoping to crack the skeletal.
a feeling so unique, but all too familiar.
the feathers inside, cushion the hurt I swallow.
And with my heart clenched in my teeth,
sadness trickles slowly to my feet.
Doesn’t matter how I’m alive, or even why.
My white eyes tell no more secrets, the wind has swept away.
The vultures will come soon, as I’m left to dry.
‘Til then, I’m hoping,
broken by each note of silence, wallowing in the winter nightfall
waiting.

Chance playing Cupid

I met a stranger by the beach. Somehow, we began to strike up a conversation about painting and well, it turns out she’s a painter. I was really impressed. The only painters I knew where cousins to English literature majors - writers, who were essentially, introverted dreamers.
She did not study to paint. She had studied at USC, a business program.
I learned all of this as we went for a walk and grabbed tea. I shared her my stories, but I was far more interested in hers.
She had the cutest freckles on her hand. I’d notice them whenever she’d laugh and place her hand softly on my arm. There was something about her so refined, elegant and mature, but also fun and easy. It could’ve been the beautiful backdrop of ocean waves rising and crashing or the palm trees that swayed from brisk wind that also made her hair move lightly - all of this romanticizing around me in the moment.
After a good two hours of walking and talking, it was time for us to go our separate ways. We exchanged contact and ended the encounter with a hug and then another.
It was all so unexpected, yet in retrospect I’m beyond thrilled at how chance brought us together…

I want to see her again. I can’t help thinking “What if - what if?” But I’ve also grown used to appreciating a special moment, by closing the book after the chapter ends.

But what if the story isn’t finished yet? Maybe chance will speak again.

Summer’s wish

As we place our hands into the sidewalks wet cement.
with our index fingers, lets draw hearts over our imprints.
an image that says “young love” in the air, I smell it’s scent.
hopes that a summers bliss won’t diminish, from the sealed lips of a first kiss.

I still been drinking on the low
Mobbin’ on the low
Fuckin’ on the low
Smokin’ on the low
I still been plotting on the low
Scheming on the low
The furthest thing from perfect
Like everyone I know