When u get older you realize that love is indeed a choice. Its not rainbows and butterflies. Its not a quote from a romantic movie, or a cheesy line from a nicholas spark novel, not even a scene from new girl, I am not jess nor anyone is my Nick. Love is a choice. To be with someone is work. Sooner or later, relationships become real. Itll be about the time, distance, differences, families... itll be about bad habits that can never be broken. Itll be about what you need, not what you want. It is messy. Its a decision you have to make whether to leave or stay. But never blame yourself. Time allow people to grow. Decisions make us stronger. We move on. People walk forward, and we should- cause time is precious. No time to walk backwards. Like those folks who get awards from guiness. Make everyday count. Spend it with people who add joy to your life. Spend it graciously and selflessly. Even selfishly! Its about time you do things for yourself. Life is not about finding someone. You should be able to see love in everything you do. Whether itd be by simply walking in parks, smiling to a stranger, making conversations, traveling, serving your church, or just by simply being in your day. We have days when we have no clue what were doing, but it should not be wasted procastinating, over-thinking. There are a lot of things going on in this world that are far more important than the length of your bangs, or the difference between fish or seafood, or which photo is cuter. Solitude is a blessing if you make it. It allows you to discover parts about yourself you never knew existed. Who knows, you might start liking who you are. We all have our journey. We have a purpose. Life is about God allowing you to love, accept love, and be loved. That is a beautiful thing to practice every single day. Everything is temporary in this world. Time is running. Lives change, people change, change is so constant that it shouldnt hurt anymore. Especially, if it feels right in your system. And lastly, life is not about me telling you what it is about, we will all eventually figure that out. But definitely not from a Murakami Novel.
The aftermath is what gets me
The remnants of
The picking up the pieces
How it is
two years later and I still am
I lost myself without realizing
after trying to move forward
I never made time to confront things
It took me months to notice that I had been missing
How do you get over
something you never really got over?
How do you move past
a moment thats still living in yours?
I tell myself it doesn't bother me
That I only remember when I lay in bed at night
Or walk for a while
Or think for too long
Or hear someone talk
I only remember
when I think I'm starting to forget
The mess I'm still sweeping
isn't a good enough story to tell.
It has yet to end.
I will be cleaning as long as I'm here,
I know this.
Two years later and I still am
I still am
I'm still here
I'm pretty drunk right now,
But my thoughts are clear enough to say,
I believe in you.
I believe in your dreams.
I believe you can overcome your flaws.
I believe you could write the masterpiece of our generation.
You could cure cancer, bring world peace, and feed the hungry.
You can show love.
You can breathe your positive presence into the air.
I want you to go forth and shine like the beautiful star that you are.
Together we can demolish our egos.
Start on the path to purity.
They say the journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step,
So hold my hand, and follow me,
As I take mine.
These tiny loiterers on the barley’s beard,
And happy units of a numerous herd
Of playfellows, the laughing Summer brings,
Mocking the sunshine on their glittering wings,
How merrily they creep, and run, and fly!
No kin they bear to labour’s drudgery,
Smoothing the velvet of the pale hedge-rose;
And where they fly for dinner no one knows—
The dew-drops feed them not—they love the shine
Of noon, whose suns may bring them golden wine
All day they’re playing in their Sunday dress—
When night reposes, for they can do no less;
Then, to the heath-bell’s purple hood they fly,
And like to princes in their slumbers lie,
Secure from rain, and dropping dews, and all,
In silken beds and roomy painted hall.
So merrily they spend their summer-day,
Now in the corn-fields, now in the new-mown hay.
One almost fancies that such happy things,
With coloured hoods and richly burnished wings,
Are fairy folk, in splendid masquerade
Disguised, as if of mortal folk afraid,
Keeping their joyous pranks a mystery still,
Lest glaring day should do their secrets ill.
i saw a white hart in
gorgeous before the
night he stood,
delicate, like a pearl,
wild and untamed,
a graceful flower
of the breeze
where autumn leaves
sorrows in mossy
as surreal as stars
melting their blue
in september seas.