Iced Green Milk Tea...I mean Green Tea? Iced. Please =)

Sit Down, and write.

-----

On weekends, I usually go over to this coffee shop (yes I keep talking about them lately, I seem to always be at one, outside of one. Literally, they've become my second home). It's hard to think of a place that can provide me the solace I seek. It's hunger. For what? I am not sure.

-----

I come in, and every time I'm flustered as I take out my wallet. Every time, it happens: searching my backpack for my wallet, leaving a book at home, losing material things all the time (the reason why I cannot own expensive things). Strands of hair are always inching to come closer to my eyes, ruining my vision, giving me a blurry view of the  person I hand over the one dollar fifty. Green tea, please, but sometimes, hot green tea latte - either, or. It never changes. I never bother. Their drinks leave something to be desired. I always feel like a smooch if I just casually walk in to steal their internet, but dammit, sometimes I wish I would. The tea is not even good.

Once I hand over the money, I plop my bag on the floor, my books on the table, and start my screen. I tap my foot incessantly, creating a beat that jars with the casual conversation of the place, with the awful Christmas songs they've put on lately. I usually stay there until I can no longer bear the cold - because of course we've become so attached to air conditioners, we cannot stand any temperature above 75 degrees. It's almost like we want to insulate ourselves from nature - the wind. It's ok folks, a little sweating won't do you harm. Besides, we are  meant to perspire, it lets the bad things go. I always wan to tell them, but they'd scoff at me. Instead, we waste precious energy, even wearing a sweater while at it.

The routine never drastically changes.

It was summer, and the air was stifling. I was flustered, but less so than usual. The lull of summer drew me inside, as I usually sat in the outdoor patio sitting outside. My damp skin didn't complain, remember it's ok to let bad things go?

"An iced green tea please with one pump of sweetener."

 My voice always projects out of my control. My voice can be extremely loud, and barely audible. My order came out as an feeble whisper. He seemed pensive, serious. He inched closer to the cash register. His thick eyebrows raised a few centimeters above their state.

"Iced green tea. On pump of sweetener, please."

He took my money, and I turned around intent on finding a table in the corner of the place. One thing I dislike is being in the entrance of places. All the while I was envisioning his expression, it kept replaying a bit. He seemed like a guys' guy - if that makes sense. You see, I've grown with a lot of men that were vastly different. I couldn't help it, but I stereotyped him. This guy probbably likes to drink beers with his bud, and sit around and talk about cars and girls, and girls, and other manly stuff. I mean, he had the muscles, and a tattoo. His smile was trembling a bit, as if it was a stranger that came to visit his face.

It's been numerous weeks, now, almost the whole quarter of me going in once in a while to study in that specific location - which is a bit out of my way. I like to see his smile. His smile is a bit flat, probably due to the fact that he works at Starbucks and his smile is worn out. His eyes curve a little when he smiles, and I can see genuine friendliness oozing out from the corners of his eyes. Maybe he feels sorry that I always come in to study alone, at random times of the weekend, wether it's late at night or noon. I think he as seen me sit there for hours, reading, writing personal pages, sometimes sitting outside and people gazing. I like it that way though, being alone. Most of the time. So far I've felt okay. His smile always lingers a bit, and sometimes so do his eyes. I love his eyes, for just meeting them straight on those couple of times. His eyes warm mine, it's kinda weird.

I'll probably stop going soon. When I start to notice comfort I flee. It's an instinct. My heart is so jaded, even without having gone out with many - hardly any guys and it's not really those guys' faults. My life keeps everyone away. Sometimes, i'm horrible that way. I've always done this, and sometimes I don't know how to stop.

His eyes will stay with me, still. I don't know how to make that stop either.

Waves.

From crests to throughs my life goes. Dips and Heights. Today is definitely a dip. dip. drip. 

Chocolate, it's my favorite sweet.

Dust. Dirt. Brown. I can’t quite find the right word to describe my skin color. It’s not that I’ve really had issues with my skin color. I mean, I’ve grown to accept the infinitesimal qualities that come with it. You can’t tell very well when I blush. I’m like a chameleon, with spotty color here and there; it’s not even colored all the way. When an uncomfortable moment comes, my facial expression might very well give me away, but never my skin. I’m able to adapt to summer heat waves. In the summer I take on a darker coat that with wintertime I slowly efface.

I want to love my coat. I want to embrace my dark skin that houses my soul, which I am ashamed to admit contributes to some of my insecurities. I know, I’m not twelve anymore, but let me just deal with this for a moment. Especially when that color comes from my father. The one person I care nothing for, or rather cares less about my brother and I, gave me the only thing he ever cared to give me after birth: his appearance. I’m actually the exact same replica of my father’s mother. You should see how everyone stares at me (from his side of the family) when we visit them, as if their mother was breathing and talking right in front of them. Perhaps, that’s the reason why I associated my big nose, my dark texture, and round face to become negative, repugnant qualities. It’s as if the world transpired to remind each and every day, of the face that was responsible for the issues my mom deals with every day of her life, I used to think.

There was a time, when I wanted to stay indoors to retain the light, not quite as dark, color that would imitate that of my mothers’. Today, I can ignore any comments that attempt to degrade me based on skin color, but the funny thing is that the most offending comments always end up coming from family members – very close ones at that.

You see, I come from a very colonial background, a traditional machista Mexican family. We all come in various shades of dark brown - hazel, chocolate milk, and even white. It is customary to have that one guera in the family, and the negra. If you’ve seen me, you can very well guess my nickname growing up. They always have a joke about how -since my mom’s hospital bed was next to an African American lady - the nurse must have traded babies. Growing up, as family members retold the story countless of times, I felt embarrassed, but I accustomed myself to accept this and to laugh. I confirmed whatever they felt about color. The cries and exultations of adults in our family when a light colored cousin was born were never lost on me. If one came to the dark end of the brown spectrum, they’d be a chuckle, but I don’t like to think that there’s any hate. No, it was more of a sense of relief when a white colored baby was born – adoration quickly ensued.

I don’t know that I was treated unfairly, different perhaps, and I would really rather not think back on all those moments where I was for I would like to keep the image that I hold so dear about my family. Tragic events not too far from the present do not allow me to do this, and I know they aren’t horrible people, so I’ll stop here in the present.

 I just want respect, that which is bestowed on everyone else. I’m not perfect, and being a woman I grew up apologizing for many – too many -  things that I now realize I never should have apologized for in the first place. I’d rather you insult me on my deficiencies rather than on my skin color, as if I there were inherent undesirable characteristics that come along with pigment.  If you ask me, it’s a cheap trick. If you want to insult me, come at me, but without any references to color.  One day you will become mature, and realize how much this hurts. One day doesn’t erase this moment or the ones I am sure are still to come. Good thing I can move on and have the ability to not dwell on this, just don’t’ do this often please. I don’t want you to repeat this with your children, or in front of my children (if I ever have any).  I lose respect quickly for you if you cannot look past color, even if you are very dear to me. I will always love you, and treat you with respect, but I can never fully respect and trust you if cannot look past the tone of my skin. 

Baggy Eyes.

I'll have baggy eyes for endless days. Dark, ring circles around and below my eyelids.

Love. What is it exactly? So much to give, yet so difficult to give.

Dusty Clothes.

Racks filled to the brim with clothes long ago worn, to dinner parties, to parks, to weddings, to school. The creases tell you of something, of a life they once held. Those creases are filled with dust particles of their previous owners. Owners who would carefully smooth out those same creases. Others would simply let them multiply until the pattern became a sort of texture spreading evenly across the surface area of the cloth, making it less conspicuous.

On another wall a sort of glass mosaic exists. Tall, pear shaped, skinny, and circular shapes are found in green, yellow, red, and most commonly, white.  The glasses are mixed with the old and new, but they are all empty. They entice you with their cleanliness. They implore: take me home. they look pretty atop cupboards, dressers, and bookshelves.

On that same wall, the glass shares space with other trinkets. Sownmans sitting festively on the the shelf, hoping Christmas would hurry up and pick them up. Halloween ghosts and ghouls linger right around the edge. The best part is that a specific area must only be touched with our gaze, as the figures seem so delicate that a soft touch might prove their undoing. They are like those people you see, but never quite touch, as your harshness might make them crumble and hurt. The precarious balance you must use to naviagate the shelf makes looking and finding pieces a time consuming pass time.

Then, we move on to where there lies wooden, tin, and plastic boxes. They all intermingle furiously with each other, an eclectic bunch gasping for air. Once, I found a heart shaped box with walls and a lid made from tree vines. So much emptiness, to store treasures, to hold thoughts untouched.

Down the corridors, as you keep walking, you can't help but lose yourself in the world of so many people. The vivid colors, in my mind's eye, are bountiful. The shoe rack is somewhere in between doors and clothes racks. These shoes have many things to tell you. Some of the soles are worn so thin, you just want to get them finish their destination, whatever it might be. Sometimes, you find those shoes that empty with experience. Their luster provokes quick hands to grab them, as they are always the first to go. People don't know they are the less sensitive of the pair. It is the worn, rugged shoes that provide you with stories and comfort you might not expect.

On a long and rainy day, you might drop by a place like this, and people aren't needed. It's as if the people were inside those things. Their emotions, their histories, and their love. You just pick them up to continue or create new life into them. Reusing. Always reusing. The world needs this kind of reusing of material things that are meaningless - yet, oftentimes define our existence. The trick is to not let it define you.

-----

Coming back to this later, I should be studying. Procrastinating so hard right now. It makes for a busy filled week? ::Sigh:::. this way I can remain in that dark corner of the library's sixth floor, away from every possible person I might know.  Self-isolation at its best. 

Writer's Legs.

Sound waves touched my legs. Touching them quickly and letting go. They felt comforting. I could almost see them pushing air particles into each other. I felt happy. It is one of the most transcending experiences to feel the vibrations bump into you and then leaving, without as much as a goodbye. They give you a feeling that you are full of life. They let you know that you are not alone. As soon as my legs deflected the sound waves, I craved for them. I wanted them to shake my legs a bit. They were a bit cold, and needed some movement.

Cramped, in between towering shoulders and sound waves, some angst teenagers that attempted to burn a rolled blunt interrupted the rapture I was experiencing. My air particles began to fight against the smell. Why are so many obsessed with this little phototroph? As soon as they were escorted out, I was able to indulge in the pleasure of listening to a band. A band whose music is the sole remnant I have of the one person I've ever loved. Even if it was from afar, they left me their music. I find comfort in that, knowing that they left me something so beautiful.

The lead singer touched the drums with such clarity and love, that the music coming out was more than I could ever want. If I could mark and re-live one of the best expriences, I would not hesitate to choose this one, on this particular night. I pumped shoulders with strangers, and I, siting there without familiar people or surroundings, felt how beautiful life is. I, in a room with strange souls, feeling the sound waves hitting us, deflecting, loved my life. For that two hours performance, I felt in good company.

As the show ended, I glanced to all the hands clasping each other, at all the friends capturing moments with each other. I walked with the night beside me. I walked peacefully and content to my car. My hand clasping my happiness.

With my windows down, felling the night sit beside me was all the company I needed as I drove home.

End of the World.

I wake up in the morning and I wonder,
Why everything's the same as it was.
I can't understand. No, I can't understand,
How life goes on the way it does.

Loss.

Why? You had such a beautiful soul. The greatest. Why didn't you ever believe us? This pang in my stomach and heart will never heal. I will always have you in my heart. 

You were the greatest.

Smell.

 I used to love sleeping over my aunt and uncles' homes. They were always warm and full of bubbling pots, and laughter packaged in tiny mouths that were filled with tiny hands. Baby feet would scurry down the corridors -  welp as big corridors can be in relatively large mobile homes - and kisses would cover your cheeks. Each home had a distinct smell. You know, the smell that distinguishes one person from another, kinda like perfume, but without the nauseating part.
----
Note: I HATE perfume. I'm probably the only girl that does not own any perfume. It is equal to a stomach-churning experience, and I get close to vomiting if you get within a foot of me. My aunt told me I need vitamins? ::shrug::
----

I could immediately tell to whom (family -  not particular person really) a sweater, jacket, or shirt, belonged to when I'd find them in our home. My family used to come to our house all the time, ten to fifteen people on any given weekend. Clothes would be strewn around our home since our family get-togethers were more like a camping experiences.  They would spend the night and so backpacks and baby bags would be carried around.  Like that one medium sweater, yep, it had to belong to my uncle Moises' family. Or that baby hat, yea, it was from my Tio Tivos' little girl. The honeysuckle smell that they'd carry were name tags that would allow me to identify who was next to me with my eyes closed. It romanticized their lives, since mine was more like a cold dank room. My core family - my brother, my mother, and I - don't have a smell. We kinda are just there, without any type of warmth. Our house, growing up, always smelled like rotten fruit and vegetables, with a tinge of pinosol to try to cover the smell. It was either that or a supermarket type smell, the type that you wanna gag at the amount of clorox and pinosol used to clean the floor.

----

I think I'm finally acquiring a smell in my home. Don't worry, it's not upsetting pinosol or clorox anymore.

Have a good night. I can't wait to be at school once more, even if I just want to be in the remotest corner of the 6th floor.

Jaiba.

So, you can make this on the run. Literally. All the ingredients are pictured. Although, I should warn you about the onion, you will only need a small onion (pictured bottom right corner, already cubed - small cubes). Two tomatoes will do, but if you love them like I do, then you add three (then as you are cutting stuff up you eat the rest like apples :D). One big cucumber will do, but I'm kinda nutty for cucumbers so I add two. Also, you usually need one package of the fake crab meat (sorry I don't know the quantity, but you can go by the one they sell in Fresh & Easy). Oh, and dont' forget the limes!

Enjoy!

p.s. There's other stuff you can add, but when you are on a budget, and have minimal time this is a perfect meal.

I Can Finally Breathe.

There's so much I want to do I can't sleep. I'm excited for life, although I currently have the lowest funds since I started college, somehow it's liberating. In the process of deep cleaning my room that I share with my 17 year old bro, I've discovered I've lost the souvenir I brought back from France. In another time I would have been upset, but now it seems trivial. The memories from France and Rome are the best souvenirs I could have brought back.

I have to sleep soon, I have a date with the wind tomorrow :) 6am sharp.

p.s. Listening to public radio and Jaques Brel (especially L'Ostendaise) when you are cleaning is actually quite relaxing. Try it!

Wind.

I like the wind. I like how it sometimes pulls, tugs, and pushes against you, sometimes telling you to go back, today is not a good day - come back another day. Or. Hey come on get out, you need to see the world outside of the four walls in your home. Sometimes it raps at my windows, and I think it got sick of me staying inside so much it might have broken one of the window panes in my room. Oh, don't worry. They aren't sturdy at all, they are those 1970s window panes that are cranked open. They are the cause of the sweltering heat I experience inside my home.  Think sauna, without all the half naked people.

But that wind can be a little rascal. Once, it paired up with it's buddies from Santa Ana, and yes I have to say I was a bit scared. Just a tad. I promised I would go outside more often.  They haven't come back since, but something tells me they will be at it again in fall.

So I promised to Mr. Wind, I'd go outside more often. I face the inner-city conundrum. I could go outside in my little yard to read, meaning I'd have to inhale whatever my neighbors have on the menu to smoke that day, or I could visit my local coffee shop. The only one within a ten mile radius is this coffee chain which isn't too bad today. At least there's trees outside. And wind.

Tonight. I've decided I would play a bit more. I'm going to run. I can finally run three miles with no problem. I mean. Yes. Of course, there's the perspiration. Duh.

But, finally, I could do it without giving up. Without conjuring images of times past that made me stop in my tracks, that caused me to give up. I can finally shed that little chain that I placed on my own ankles, that I myself made into 50lb weights. After four years of constantly quitting my running schedule, I can finally say I'm back. It's been about two and a half weeks that I've been consistent. I even woke up to greet the day on more than one occasion. You don't understand, that seems like very little time. I know. It is.

I used to run seven miles no problem, I used to be good. Actually I was pretty damn good. But I always gave up on myself. One day I gave it all up.  I gave it all up in front of the shattered eyes of my coaches. It was traumatic. So much happened, that it's hard to explain. Running gave me something very valuable. It gave me something I could hold on to when I had no one there, not even when my mom was there for me. Running always kept me going. I shunned it, and my life crumbled before me. It has been a time-traveling experience, and I whole-heartedly welcome it back into my hands.


It's beautiful. The pain. The wind.

 I have one culprit to thank.

Thanks +)

Miles Ago.

I was sitting in that spot you introduced me to after that killer run eons ago. 

The horizon was a bit blurry today. I couldn't see capitalism as that day you described it, it wasn't as beautiful. Welling up, I stood there alone. Mr. Wind kept me there a bit longer than I would have if I truly was completely alone, tousling my hair all the while. You remember that day? I remember clearly. 

Won't you let me run up that hill with you once more? Let me see your face once more, because lately I've been crumpled and tossed, and I could not bare any more punctures if you left our friendship without saying a last goodbye. 

Or better yet. 

Please don't say goodbye, but say hello. 

Late Night Again.

My demons creep up at night, and it's a shame really where I am. Sometimes, I crave this feeling to be in the company of someone, but at the same time I find repulsive this childish need to feel someone's warmth next to mine.

I want to run till I puke dry. 

But I am too afraid. 

Sometimes, crying is not a bad thing if it helps you move forward. I don't know when was the last time I cried. I go mid-cry and completely stop. It's a bad thing to forget how to cry - it signals that many things are wrong. 

I always prided myself in being this kind of strong, independent young woman, but it comes to no use when you become cold, unmoved, stoic. You bash others, unknowingly. 

People think they know you, but they never do, especially when you don't know yourself too well. 

I ran hoping to see the light, now I run to catch the light. 

I am waking up at five am. II hope to start the day with a good long run and that I cry from exhaustion, maybe then some sort of feeling and motivation will come back. 

Little White Sandals.

My little white sandals used to walk down that line. Unsure.
Worn edges.
Creased from all the use.
They were my little white sandals.
They carried me off to places, wonderful places.
Schools filled with lovely survivors from the early century,
even those from yesterday.


I used to love those little white shoes.
I look down, and I still see those little white shoes.
Because, I am still that 9 year old little girl.
Treading the ground softly,
careful to not step on anyone.
Careful to make everyone unhurt,
oh but I have hurt.
I didn't mean to do so.

Also, what makes you think you know me.
My intentions?
Do I know my intentions?
Yes.
No.
I think.
All of us trying to find the one responsible.
None of us finding the possible.

My integrity. It only matters to me, so why should I hurt for everyone.

I should marry Malcom X of my book for an hour, then run the streets of New York with James McBride.

Breaking inside my throat.

Incoherent thoughts, words. Incoherent.

Deer Creek's tragic wail woke me up.
Please,  now don't shut me up.

Silence.

"People come, people go
Sometimes without goodbye, sometimes without hello
She's got one magic trick
Just one and that's it
She disappears

It's like: now you see her, now you don't
You think you're going to get to know her, now, well you won't
She's got one magic trick,
Just one and that's it
She disappears

It's like: easy come, easy go
Sometimes without goodbye, sometimes without hello
She's got one magic trick
Just one, and that's it
She disappears"


--------

Coffee.

I had coffee today, after a week of committing myself to less internet, less coffee, and less of everything. Today I bought those overly sweetened coffees that make your stomach churn.  Maybe I'll ask for less sugar next time.

I need it black next time.

--

Greyhounds are actually quite neat. I am allowed to simmer in my thoughts while someone else grapples with the monotonous heavy road. I finished reading Lathe of Heaven, which I highly recommend. It's one of those books that turned me into science fiction. Its plot is about dreams, about the possibility of dreams altering reality. Movies I supposed have been made after the same effect, but one cannot create the same effects in a movie that the mind can - can it?  Some stories are meant to be dreamt up in each individuals' minds, differently from each other person that happens to come across the same storybook.


--

I might post a video of the endless terrain that we cruised through and the songs that I heard. I mostly have sad love songs.

I wonder. When people fall in love - if they ever fall in love - do they keep loving those same sad songs? Do they hum them on long rides too? But I mean that kind of love that might exist after being in a long enduring relationship. Does it?

---

Sleep. Interestingly I am not craving it now. I just realized I need more good books. I don't have enough books to keep me company at night. My last two were wonderful, so much so that they kept me awake even after I flipped the last page. I'll just take a trip to the swapmeet today - later in the morning. I am sure to find old tattered books that need a home.

Right Here.

“Solitude gives birth to the original in us, to beauty unfamiliar and perilous - to poetry. But it also gives birth to the opposite: to the perverse, the illicit, the absurd.”


- Thomas Mann


More on this later. 

Un día le dedicare esta canción...

¿Porque No Duermo?

Talvez es porque yo tengo varias cosas que todavía no resuelvo. Porque tengo muchas cosas que no he dicho a personas en particular. ¿Porque me torturo tanto, porque? Cada vez me pregunto quien soy. Mis creencias siempre las cuestiono. Siempre estoy en cuestiones perpetuas.

Fish Soup.

A couple of days ago, my mom made fish soup. It's the kind she would make in the days of yore - haha. okay maybe not that long ago, but you'd have to see how it looks, you'd think it was from the centuries before they had tools to clean fish.

See, her soup was made with whole fish, two to be exact, and she simply put some vegetables, salt, spices, and other secret stuff. You know, mom's secret recipe. The specific type of fish she used is called a mojara (when it's fried).  However, she did not fry these fishes.

When my mom cooks, she makes a whole vat of whatever it is, wether it's soup, meat, enchiladas. Sometimes, I know it's due to the fact that she had a huge family,  she was used to cooking for twelve other people, and now she simply cannot cook for only three people. She misses my aunt too (who always came over for dinner) but recently moved to state of Dorothy and the Wizard of Oz.  Although I shouldn't complain much, my mom seriously is known for cooking skills. Her cooking is the envy of all my uncles, they wish she could cook for them all the time.

However, this particular soup does not look appetizing at all. The soup is a mix between gumbo with fish soup, plus the fish is horrible to look at. Imagine, the fish's texture is that of a cayman, green, rough, unpleasant to the touch. The eye of the fish stares at you, one eyes is a blank stare, I feel remorse for having cut its life short (considering its already short life.

The fins are spiky, and the smell, well, let's say you'd rather not eat once the smell hits your nostrils. See, this is supposed to be healthy eating. I usually don't mind this, but my relatively unhealthy habits die hard after dining out so much this past year.

So time for a change. After getting sick for a record breaking two weeks (including a two-day all time high fever), I've opted for the healthy eating lifestyle.

 After the first spoonful, I actually enjoyed it. Don't let the looks of the fish soup fool you, even this repugnant looking soup is delicious.

Lesson: Judge not the soup by its looks, but by its taste and nutritious value.

Bring on the fish soup =)  My mom's cooking never fails.

Mi Piel Azul.

Since I don't' have time to post text lately, here is another picture post. Forgive me if the size of the picture is obnoxious, I am just experimenting with the layout a bit.

As my friend, Steph, pointed out, I have a running theme in my blog: daisies. Although unintentional, until this post, I've grown quite fond of these little things - especially when it comes to photography.  I think they are under-appreciated. They might be small, simple flowers, but their beauty is there all the same. Its beauty is not seen in a glance, but rather you have to get to know the flower. You have to see beyond the pedals. =)

-----------

Rojo como mi Corazon.

It burns within me. I want you to know.  

-----------

Music is always comforting.

Such a lovely voice, and melody. I can't resist posting this up, although I need to stop posting so many songs everywhere :"?

Bright Lights.

There are endless rows of bright bulbs, flashing on and off in sync with each other. The smoke swirls slither through my finger tips and hair. I watch with distant eyes at all the people that come to play. They slip dollar bills into the machines (which they - the machines - snatch hungrily btw), making great gestures with their brows and lips at each winning and more often than not, each loss. I wonder about the lives of all those people and what brings them to these places. I know. If only there were kinder people in the world, perhaps they wouldn't spend their leisure time here. If only they saw the beauty elsewhere.

We trudged along and followed them to the nearest 1-cent machine.

We bet all we had: 20 dollars.

We plopped on the seats next to the machine and were forced to press again and again.

Finally it ended, the best parts are always the rides to and from the casinos. Don't worry, this is only momentary and you are one of the best persons I know. It will be over one day. Never again do you have to step into those smelly, artificial places again :). See you at graduation Maria!

Gambling. It's always a losing game.

Wake Up.

6:38 a.m.

I felt lightheaded as soon as I lifted my head from my pillow.

I am running on three hours of sleep.

I slept so soundly after facing rocks, freezing water, and breath taking views, why couldn't I sleep the same yesterday...

-----------

I have no reason to stay up so late. Well, I do - kinda? For one, I kinda screwed up, but the difference this time is that I don't feel helpless. I feel ready to tackle the problems face on. Why? Simple. My mind won't let me create negative thoughts. After getting bruises and cuts from climbing boulders, and after getting into ice cold water, I've learned a few things. My mind is as powerful as I make it. My mind is the most powerful thing and perhaps the only thing that prevents me from doing certain things. The fear I created in my mind became a 600 foot river that seemed impossible to cross, while all the while it was only a puddle two-feet in diameter ( applies to a LOT of areas in my life for the past few quarters, including last year.)

Well, I already knew this in a way, but I never actually practiced it so much as this particular day. I felt that I was being tested every time I came across a new path, a new boulder, a new wall, new heights. I figured it would be easier as we moved on, but each boulder we had to climb seemed different, more dangerous than the last - which perhaps wasn't so much true, but in my mind I made is so.

All I know is that I couldn't have quite done it on my own. It doesn't matter how much you deny it, but it's you who helped me change my mindset. I was determined to continue - yes. I don't give up easily, or try not to for the most part. However, I could not have trusted myself on my own. You taught me a beautiful thing, and that is that I can trust myself (as I once did) - I have to trust myself - but also that I can trust too (again as I once did). My fear, which was perhaps more than what is seemed in the surface, was eased with the trust I put in you too.


I get hurt really easily.

Like a bruise that lingers for days with its purple, pink, and black hues. Hurts stay in my heart for a while. So, yeah. They have prevented me from being in certain situations. However right now, my heart is not full of bruises - my knee might be but not my heart. Right now, my heart is brimming with happiness. I have a feeling that it will remain for a while.

Merci :)