Currently on a gap year.
Chronically on an endless marathon for my dreams and goals in life.
Registered nurse. Writer. Aspiring cardiothoracic surgeon. Bibliophile. Music geek+snob. I write to save myself, read and collect books, make art on my spare time, hope that I can achieve intimacy versus isolation and believe, in the grandest scheme of all things, that a balance between the heart and the mind is possible and that hot air balloons, yellow submarines, rainbow-bred unicorns, post-apocalyptic romances, my faith in God and the idea of you and I will always, always, always prevail.
These are the stories I write and this is my story. Someday, I will travel and change the world. Teal is (now) my favorite color.
You are my favorite quadratic equation
When all else comes easy
These symbols in monotype
Nothing but a
You are my favorite stanza
As the words from your eyes
Beckon into mine
You are my favorite book
The bunch of papers strewn together
The plot, the twist, the font
You are my favorite feeling
That of which requires
A poem longer than this
With silly definitions
Not even found on the dictionary
You are my favorite comforter
When all else can be rid
The pillows, the bed
The lamp beside your bed
As long as there is warmth
A hand to hold, a smile
A text in the middle of the night
You are my favorite photograph
A little pseudo-vintage in polaroids
Not as authentic as the one I made up
Flawed, inked, sometimes black and white
I don’t care
You are my favorite fear
A jump at the edge of the world
Afraid, afraid, be very afraid
But I take that leap anyway
You are my favorite light
Because it’s dark
But there you are
My heart is heavier than it has ever been in a long long while. I’m scared and exhausted and lonely and it is vital that I allow myself to feel this way or else all these feelings will come back to haunt me future after future, days after days to come.
I have to tell this story of emotions or someday, one day too soon in the middle of a grocery check-out counter caught in an inopportune time, I will just crumble down the dirty floor and break down.
And, that cannot happen. Like most people, I would like to keep my dignity. And with that dignity excludes a myriad of Broadway-like moments playing out randomly through the course of my lifetime. But as I told you before, I was born a tad more dramatic than most of the population.
Instead of an impending West End performance, I’d rather write it here and maybe laugh about it a year from now (God, I hope so) plus as a short term goal, make me feel a little bit better afterward.
The other day, one of my closest friends (hi *waves) told me to write something about love. I’m still stuck on that because (obviously) as of the moment I can write about soulmates as much as I can write about quantum physics.
Which is not much.
We write about we know, after all. And right now, all I know are feelings of impending doom, feelings of impending happiness, creating new levels of anxiety, why the word is not spelled happyness, how this mix I’m listening to right now on 8tracks is so good I want to cry, and how scaredexhaustedlonely I currently am.
I have made this such a paragraphical fanfare when in actuality, I can sum it up in a few words: this, heavy, heart.
Things will get better and no, pragraphical is not a word.
How do you feel?
It’s so lonely out here
My heart was broken
Again and again
That there’s nothing up my sleeve
1. I think all of their articles are made by drunk writers at approximately 3 AM.
2. It’s scary how much I can relate with almost every single article in their entire website from those about love and life to those with pop culture references. Their views on unrequited love and the different facets of social network and media have proved to me one thing: I am not alone.
3. Whenever I feel depressed about being a (useless, distraught, happy-free-confused-and-lonely-at-the-same-time) twentysomething, I just go read their careful selections on young adulthood and I feel almost instantaneously better. Misery loves company— really fun, witty, and existential company.
4. I hate how they hate Taylor Swift because I love Taylor Swift.
5. The precise definition of a basic bitch is not on my vocabulary but I have this disturbing suspicion that I am one. And, their articles are so (forgive me for using this as an adjective) hipster that as I’m reading them, I almost feel like one.
6. Of course, they have articles that are assuming, hypocritical, judgmental, irritating, annoying, and so off the mark that I am left to wonder why I still read their “crap.” But, I do. Mostly because of #3 and because well, among the bad writing and the not-proofread-articles, they are still entertaining.
7. I’m starting to like country again, although not as much as I fell in like with folk several months ago. This doesn’t belong here but random is also one of the things Thought Catalog is. Random and relevant is a difficult combination to accomplish but those two words embody Thought Catalog down to its very first article back in 2009.
Love’s freak accident
The meeting of you and I
Greek gods are laughing
Sometimes, I don’t know how to deal with assholes because I have only ever been treated with respect most of my life. This is both a blessing and a curse.
It is about time that I encounter more types of people and learn how to cohabitate the world around them. I guess it’s also integral that at least once in our life, we will be treated badly by superiors, colleagues, boyfriends, so-called friends, or even, family.
This is the only way we will ever appreciate those who treat us kindly, those who deserve us, and those who, even in the imaginary post-apocalyptic age, will choose to stand beside us, support us, and still think that the sun shines out of our ass even when we are covered in post-Earth debris.
I am eternally tempted to insert an overused The Perks of Being A Wallflower quote here but you probably know it by heart, too. So, I won’t.
Let’s just, instead, revel against the backdrop that life has provided for us— that people are different in a world that is so unfair and it’s entirely up to us to find who we can stand to be with for ten minutes at a time.
My hair’s too heavy
Messy buns, loose ponytail
Not unlike my heart
This is such a dream come true, a line crossed off from the invisible bucket list that I have cataloged inside my head. A typewriter is every young and modern writer’s dream. My hands are itching to write and the machine is bleeding with inspiration.
Our old house was being renovated during the beginning of the year and since then, I have accumulated a lot of authentic vintage things: two leather satchels, a pair of Celine suede loafers, and Ray-Ban aviators.
I LOVE THEM ALL BUT THIS SO FAR IS MY FAVORITE!!!!!
Okay. It isn’t at all obvious how excited I am about this. When my parents brought it in, I was squealing with joy and jumping around like crazy. It’s sitting in my desk now but I have yet to name it. I never really thought it would be possible to be so attached to an inanimate object but oh my gosh, I am in love.
We always go about the thoughts we have at 4 AM. But, I wonder. What about those you hide at the back of your minds at 3 PM?
These are the thoughts that we have while having afternoon tea or a mandatory black coffee. They come up while people-watching, while stuck in a life-defining class, or while in a meeting with your boss.
They might not necessarily be questions about what you are doing with your life or why you are in love with this person. They might just be queries on what else is missing on your grocery list or why the street pavements are suddenly dirtier than usual.
Are they as relevant as the grand romanticism and self-proclaimed depth that comes out of your head as the dawn breaks?
When you think about it, where do these conversations with yourself (or with your similarly drunk/not drunk 4 AM buddy) come from? Maybe, they crawl up your veins from the day you were born or maybe, just maybe, they are the unwanted thoughts you have in the middle of the day.
Apparently, there exists a kind of exhaustion that supersedes and is stronger than any other feeling in the world. It takes giving up to new heights, takes everything you can offer and turns it all around in the most fashionable 360 way. It’s the most unexpected and terrifying kind. But in a merciless universal construct where all we have are hungry hearts and neurotic minds, it is the good kind of exhaustion. In fact, it’s the best kind there is. More than anything, it provides new beginnings.
How many times do I have to say goodbye? How many stories do I have to write? How many battles do I have to lose for you decide that you’ve already won?
If my heart is on my sleeve, then what is left inside my chest?
Or how to paint your own nails without making them look like a train wreck
1. Ensure that scene is safe. Wear PPE or personal protective equipment.
2. Gather and prepare all needed materials: bottle of nail polish, emergency nail polish remover, Q-tip, cotton balls, etc.
3. Clean your nails.
4. Start applying first coat and make sure that your arms are resting on a surface. This is the only way not to make your manicure disastrous and laughable.
5. Let first coat dry while listening to Arctic Monkeys.
6. Apply second coat and let it dry. Dance around your room to The Wombats. Make sure not to tangle your manicure with your hair. If this happens, remove all nail polish and return to step 1.
7. Apply clear coat. Wait, be patient, and don’t do anything stupid like eat finger foods while waiting for manicure to dry.
8. Make sure it really is dry and move on with your life.
9. Maybe read The Girl’s Guide To Hunting and Fishing by Melissa Banks and validate that that book has indeed nothing to do with this blog post or with manicures.
We are perfect in paper
Like glue for pages that should stick together
Like train for those who seek a fast escape
Away from monotony and the cold distant chatter
You are perfect in paper
I glance at my note cards again and again
The least I thank
To have you in my pocket every now and then
If this is perfect on paper
Let us but torch what strings connect us both
However fine the broken lines I’ve traced
When the perfect one leaves in haste
We are perfect in paper
In heavy hardbound novels, in theorems
In solitary moments where proof can be derived
The seamless truth or the places you can hide
But if this perfection ends in nothing but paper
The last of words I write
That I have known no else like you
Nor you, I