your cigarette butts; the romance we left at the door.

I have an Audrey Hepburn cigarette case, and though I rarely smoke anymore, I carry it with me everywhere. Like my sketchbook. my journal, and a good book, wherever I go, it goes. When my emotions decide to beat me ’round the head, when my hands shake with anxiety (and oftentimes possibility), I always have my emergency cigarette case to keep me sane. Like the sugar-free sweetener I put in my coffee, I wish I could say that I’m ashamed of this vice, but I can’t. I find beauty in this weakness, this quasi-addiction. It just fits in so perfectly with the red lipstick hiding at the bottom of my bag, the broken sketch pencils and fountain pens. It’s pathetic, really, and makes me wonder why it is that we can so easily fall in love with such notions of fragility. Why are those sharp inhales of smoke so unrelenting, so beautiful? What is it about a glass of wine that makes me weak in the knees? Why is the smell of coffee in the morning such an aphrodisiac? I think the melancholy of these simple things is what draws me in. Fall leaves, the sensuality of a cello, the arresting odor of an old book, the nostalgia of a stolen kiss.

These things may seem empty, forgettable, but something about them makes me see the subtle hints of immeasurable elegance in life.

Life is a series of discoveries, of hits and misses, and you are almost always in the process of lamenting something that you do not have. These discoveries, these insatiable longings, are what drive us  to become more than ourselves. Some discoveries I’ve made, in recent weeks;

In studying the female form via figure drawing, I have realized that my body is absolutely wonderful. I’ve come to love my almost-curvy parts, my pallor, my vein-y legs, my bony wrists, and my round face.

The camera can capture your essence, or your mask; choose carefully which parts of yourself you choose to project onto film, and do not be afraid to play back your captured self. There is so much to be gained by watching yourself from afar.

Though high school may seem trivial, it’s important to enjoy it. Actually, it’s important to make a conscious effort to enjoy (or at least acknowledge) all things in life. There is SO much to be learned from even the most tiresome things.

Alternately, I’ve spent hours longing for things and people and ideas. Sleepless nights staring at the ceiling in wonderment, mornings lying in bed for much longer than is necessary, attempting to tie myself to images pulled from volatile slumber.

I’ve been drifting in-and-out of Plath-esque dreams of married life. It’s terrifying and interesting and has lead me to question many of my future plans. In this I have decided to make no concrete plans. Dates and times and place and everything iis just as impermanent as sunshine on a fall morning. So easily, everything could turn to ashen rain. Waking from these poeticized slumber has led me to write small, nostalgic poems.

I woke up this morning

at a loss.

Unaware and foggy,

I hid in the dark

forcing myself from dreams of you.

Silencing the alarmed cries

of Monday morning.

Silencing doubts

and barbed wire memories

of us.

Stagnant in this quiet retreat.

I woke up this morning.

Felt emptiness without desperation.

-felt you;

differently.

By the sea.

Drinking by the water,

you knew me

-and I, you

(all too well).

We knew each other’s dreamsong.

 

And our children played upstairs

while we fought

and you left

(over and over)

in fogged rage.

Your insistence slung over your shoulder

like a broken guitar.

I didn’t cry

but the children, they screamed

in your absence.

 

But you’d always return.

-weeks, months,

(hours, sometimes)

Your arms full

of dusty paperbacks

and apologies.

It’s certainly been an interesting week, in dreams and in waking.

xx

 

 

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