Night Changes. One Direction

 do you remember in second grade when you thought it was cool to call your best mate and ask
"hey can you play today?"
 like actually play? with barbies and action figures and legos and american girl dolls?
 my best friend and i rigged a rope swing that hung from a skyscraper willow in her backyard. and we did the daring deed of jumping off a play house. onto the swing. yeah it was scary. and yeah we calloused our hands. and bruised our butts.

or remember when you went to P.E. in fourth grade and you saw the squatty square seats with wheels on the rack in the corner? and as you bolted towards them you shouted 
I CALL THE BLUE ONE! NO ONE GETS MINE!
and you thought your little scooter was just the best because of the color.

i grew up in a blue house. and it was the ultimate best thing of my childhood. there were huge trees everywhere in our yard. leaves were the grass. i remember our first trampoline. we bounced on it for hours, me and her. and when it was her birthday we had a scavenger hunt to find her bicycle hidden behind the shed. 

my first hamster was buried at that blue house. or so i thought. a few months ago my mom told me they actually threw the dead life and the box in the trash. the ground was too solid to dig into.

or thats what they told me anyway

psh

 there goes my childhood. right out the window. 

ever since the blue house things have changed.
she cares about her makeup where she used to care about the color of her personality.
she cares about her chirp instead of her voice.
she listens to others voices instead of her own. why?
because she's lost her creativity. and shes searching for it. like an ap calculus student searching for their graphing calculator. 
because when creativity is lost so is our ability to not care.

i loved not caring.
when you could hear someone whisper and your heart wouldn't race.
and your eyes wouldn't shift. they'd stare straight ahead. like a train on a track- forced ahead.
when you'd hear that name and your wall wouldn't lose a brick.
or your filing cabinet wouldn't open the exact drawer with the manila folder, shoved in the back, that holds their profile picture. their address. your secrets. or your midnight memories.

i guess i just need to figure my heart out.
and find that stupid graphing calculator.

The Heart of Life. John Mayor

its a tough old life. he says.
he snakes his arm behind his head to scratch an itch. ive never heard truer words.

it is a tough ole life.

no one gets exactly what we dream of.

i dream of success, fame, fortune.
i dream of suede shoes, vinyl records, and anthropologie pillows (and comforters).

i dream of NYC- the place where no one sleeps and lights dance all night long- and London- where big ben chimes midnight.
i dream of film festivals and farmers markets in overcrowded cities. where you have to pay for parking and everyone gets super upset when you get beat by some too-cool-for-you kid in a convertible. 

i dream of sleeping in with my socks and comforters and waking up to that someone who you've known for exactly 623 days.
i dream of wandering around a city and finding that one cafe or restaurant that makes the perfect truffle fries.
i dream of meeting that "long hair slicked back white tshirt" guy and writing lyrics with him all night long.


but its a tough old life.

i get a warm bed with a thick targét comforter. i get a sister who listens to taylor swift and i get to fake hate taylor swift. i get to fake hate going to school every morning because its too mainstream to love it. i get to fake hate posting to this blog and pretend that i wait until sunday to finish the hwk. i get the option of wearing "short skirts or tshirts". i get to pretend that i dont love my best friend as much as i do. i get to drive to school instead of fake hating the bus. i get to sit on a freaking toilet seat instead of crouching over a pit in the dirt!

i get all of these things and what happens?

we beg for more money
we procrastinate our hwk
we complain about loading the dishwasher
we fight our parents for 2am curfews
we blow our money on hipster clothes we know we cant afford, yet we buy them anyway

we do everything in our power to tell everyone that we hate our life.
is it a tough ol life?

i mean...maybe it is.
because some people i know have a tough life.
one person has a pornography addiction.
another has a divorced parent.
or maybe their mom died of cancer. 
their dad has lost the love of their faith.
somebody out their has debt to high heaven!
i know we've all heard that saying

someoenes always got it worse than you 

but sometimes your life is hard to deal with. because no one has the same problems its hard to get someone to get what youve got to deal with. i get it. i understand. it is a tough old life. 

its a tough old life.
but yet...it isnt...is it?

  

tess

Me. The 1975 // Welcome to New York. Taylor Swift

these words whispered directions to my soul in times when i thought i was lost. 
though most times i was actually stuck around the corner second guessing my map.
these words have held my tongue for me when i wanted to lash my whip out at a bird- someone who was just flying by. 
an observer in the crowd.
these words are on repeat in my mind. 
releasing and chaining me all at once. 

saving me. 

what are these words?

they are advice from those who care. 
they are insecurities painters decide to include in their masterpieces. 
they are hearts that choose the twinning heartbeat that's charred. 
instead of that perfect beat that is too slow for their pace. 

everyone has lyrics in their mind.
in their soul, in their life. 

but what are these words?
they are my words.

and they are 

THE PLAYLIST

why am i writing this? hahaha its a freakin friday at exactly 4:29 and what am i doing? checking the blogs. and fixing my first post. because its super cheesy and that was the intro to the intro. here i am slouching in my seat listening to my sibs belting out

I CAN SHOW YOU THE WORLD.
SHINING.
SHIMMERING.
SPLENDID.

and here they come. running around the corner. hes screaming whos dunnit as she comes barreling up the stair after him. and im chuckling at them. who knows why? hahaha i dont even know.

everyones got their New York. their own little paris i guess, but its new york. yes not the capitalized new york but the lowercase one. who likes tall letters anyway?

my new york is full of ordinary words. i wont try to impress you with lengthy letters or short stickies. i like being plain. because everyone understands the meaning. everyone understands i love you and everyone understands shut up.

my new york is deprived of original thoughts. i get inspired from everything. from quotes. pictures. books. especially music. and i base myself off of others works. because i feel a sense of knowing who i am, even for a split second, before becoming self conscious again.

my new york is full of socks and comforters. you must wear socks in my new york. to hide those weird things we call feet. like what? ew. and who doesnt love a good poofy comforter?? like just imagine being enveloped in a warm hug every night- by the blanket of cotton and skin.

this new york has a required law that states we must turn off our phones during dinner time. cause theres nothing better than dining on the best alfredo pasta and making conversation with the loves of your life.

new york hates punctuation. why should i caps the first word? just so you know its the beginning of a new ending?

oh and i am obsessed with the sounds. this new york is never quiet. the streets are bombarded with voices and guitar strums constantly. and i love it that way.

this new yorker loves it here. and thats why i rarely ever leave. because why would i want to leave? so someone can scream at me on the street saying

HEY WHY WOULD YOU LIKE POOFY COMFORTERS? THOSE SUCK!

and i quietly shrink into my comforter thinking

...well i liked em...