Colour My Words.

For Love and Lemons.

I’ve stumbled.

With faith, many, many times. The first time, it was twilight. I was sitting in my grandmother’s lap as we watched the dwindling stars illuminate the sky in the front steps of my house. The air smelled of grass and summer. She pushed my hair back and whispered, “Look at all this beauty. There’s so much more” And she told me the who’s, the why’s, the how’s. I was only seven. And I cried because it all seemed too big. Too much. Too rare. She told me I cried because my heart was pure. And it was faithful.

I never forgot that. Pure. As the years passed, her ever-constant presence in all my milestones became less frequent, and her voice of wisdom on the other side of the phone became more strained. More than anything, she tended to my grandfather’s growing forgetfulness. There wasn’t much talk of anything more.

Very often the things we fear most are not only bearable, but also transformative. When my grandfather started forgetting he’d already taken his blood pressure medication, we knew there was no going back—only forward at the pace of those speed boosters from video games. His disease progressed exponentially. Before we knew it, he went back to asking for his late mother, and asking for my grandmother’s hand in marriage.

*

My grandfather. Him who at his best built five different homes for his family, tossed his children to the deep end of every body of water, and proudly regaled himself a veteran of the Korean War. Him who hosted a party every Saturday while his wife handled affairs in the kitchen, and played “música del ayer” in the evenings as he asked my grandmother to dance. Him who made up stories for his grandchildren to fall asleep to, now needed stories made up for himself.

Meanwhile, my grandmother suffocates. He asks. He demands. He hovers. She runs out of stories. He can’t bear letting her out of his sight for a minute.

“But what do you want me to do? It is my pleasure to be next to you.” That, and he just loses his bearings if she’s not around.

My mother tells me she calls sometimes and says she can’t anymore. That she wonders when her cup will be too little, too thin, too full. Her strength fickle, her courage ran out. In these moments I miss her. And I want to be the one to whisper, “Shh. There’s always more.”

*

“Is this our house?”

I’d heard this question too many times, but I hear it louder as I crack open one eye and shake the grogginess from behind my lids. The clock across the room reads 2:00 a.m. I throw the covers aside. As I make my way down the empty hallway to the kitchen, I see their silhouettes around the corner and I hide in the shadow. My grandfather paces the kitchen, grabs a lemon from the fruit bowl in the counter, and tosses it across the room. My grandmother looks shaken. So, so tired.

She reminds him again and again. Yes. This is our home. Yes. We’ve lived here for 20 years. Yes. This is our car. Yes. These are the pictures of our children. This is your granddaughter. Let’s go back to bed.

“But I don’t understand. There has to be something wrong with my brain.”

When they’ve moved towards the room, I stand outside and I listen. I listen and I break a little. My eyes sting, but not because my heart is pure this time, so much as it is afflicted. I clutch my hands to my chest.

“Tomorrow. Tomorrow when it’s light out I’ll show you.”

*

I read once that love is not love which alters when it alteration finds. It carries all, bears it all. It is sacrificed. Pure. And it is faithful.

On the other side of the door, I can picture my grandmother caressing my grandfather’s back in slow circles. She loves him. His strong hands trembling as he looks down on them and wonders. So much wonder. I can almost see his eyes glaze over once again, shallow in their once-infinite depth.

“Is this our house?”

I stumble again. And I think, “This is Okay.” It’s Okay. There’s more. There’s more.

An Epiphany On How I'll Raise My Children.

*Concocted while I was in the shower, as all good thoughts are.*

When I was 16 years old I joined a student ambassador program called People To People. The program's goal was to provide high school students with an educational travel experience abroad. I was in the group that was going to Western Europe for the Summer of 2009.

The first time that the group met we were asked to stand up in front of everyone and introduce ourselves. You know, the usual: say your name, what you're most excited about, what you want to get out of the program, etc. I was terrified. Parents were also invited to these meetings and there was a solid amount of people in that room; more than 40. 

I've always hated public speaking. Blame the introvert in me, but I've never done well with any mention of standing up in front of any crowd and saying anything else besides "Hi, my name is Mellanie." Or of course, dancing, which is a different sort of animal. So naturally, when the time came to stand up and introduce myself, I stammered all sorts of incoherent things, shook and trembled, and I'm not sure anyone understood anything I said. 

When I came back to my seat my mom turned to me with a concerned, slightly taken aback expression on her face, and she simply said, "I did not teach you to be that way."

A blunt statement that illustrated everything my mom had always represented to me: courage and unflagging guts. I still wish I had half her nerves.

I never forgot that. To this day I still remember her exact words because they made a such strong impact on the concept I had of myself at the time. Basically, it went something like "Shit."  and "What am I even doing with my life?" To this day I can't put my finger on what I was so afraid of at the time. 

All this is just to say that these days I've started taking notice that the people I'm naturally drawn to, those who have become my closest friends, those who I admire, those who I crush on, are essentially an example of the strength and grit I look up to. In some emotional, twisted version of the Freudian Oedipal Complex, I look up to those qualities in people that represent some version of the fortitude and assertiveness my mother always inculcated in me, even when I couldn't be exactly who she wanted me to be. 

These days I have no patience for people that are scared of other people. I want to smack my face every time somebody tells me they're afraid of traveling. I want to smack their face every time somebody tells me they're afraid of heights. Afraid of the dark, scary movies, space movies, open spaces, closed spaces, highways, a roach, you-name-it. I realize that's not very sensible, but it's not meant to be. 

Life is so, so, so short. 

I'm 23 now. When I really, really think about it, there's nothing I can put my finger on that I really fear, besides the occasionally roach inside my shirt, of course. I've been known to stand on tables at the clubs, to rock-climb Blue Mounds in Minnesota, to decide on The Conjuring for a friday night movie, and to say what I need to get off my chest, as hard as that can be sometimes. 

I have my upbringing to be thankful for.  I'm nothing without the summer days I stayed up late playing hide-and-seek with my neighbors, getting bit by mosquitos and stepping on dog shit. I'm also nothing without all the knee scrapes that eventually followed, the race home to parents that said "Just wash it." "Mom, can I go back and keep playing?" "Sure, just let me put a band-aid on that." I'm practically nothing, reduced to nothing. Some other version of me out there stayed and let things happen to her. In some multiple-universe version of the life I didn't lead, I would've never made it to Iowa for college, and I would've never been sitting on my very uncomfortable couch in New York.  These back pains are only a fraction of the prize I pay. I can't band-aid that, but I can keep going. 

It isn't always easy, but it's worth it. Sixteen-year-old me lived past her embarrassment to find out.

The thing is this: Half this life is about being curious. The other half is about refusing to sit on your ass like some version of the sacrificial lamb. Though I can't say for sure if this lamb sat, stood, or did what. Back to the point.

If I ever do become a mother in the future, I'd like my children to understand that this life isn't meant to be lived gently. That there's no gaiety in comfort. I want them to become the kind of people that hand their hearts on silver platters and say "Here. I'll dare you to break it."

 

#letsgetreal.

"Today I wanted to jump back on a plane and make it back to Iowa…" so begins my journal entry dated June 30, 2015.

"MOVING DAY OF HELL. First, we woke up at our motel and as we're about to leave we discover we have a flat tire. So we had to call AAA for roadside assistance that cost $85. Second, when we're going ahead with our move-in shit (I'm so thorough in my journal entries) we discovered that we actually had to pay $1890 to move in, as opposed to the $745 that I anticipated. I wanted to cry. That's not counting the $300 from the repair on the hole in the exhaust we gotta fix on the car. Third, we call the utilities company so we could set the gas and electric and the soonest they can do is NEXT WEEK. By then I was numb. My mom and I spent the rest of the day moving the stuff from the storage to the apartment. By the time I hit the bed I was so gone." -- July 1, 2015.

"…mom and I have been heating water to shower with a bucket at night. It's actually kind of funny." -- July 2, 2015.

I guess after a situation is already bad you might as well start laughing...

I wonder if the last time we talked I told you about these things. About the fact that I have no money, that my credit card bill is pretty damn high on all the expenses I incurred when I moved to New York, that I work a job that pays minimum wage, that I have purchased absolutely no groceries in the past two weeks, or that I go to sleep at night feeling horrible about my recent eating habits, my lack of security, and the fact that I can't even afford a new mattress that won't obnoxiously creak at night. 

The amount of times friends and family have asked me in glazed wonder about my new life in New York I've probably said "Great! Still adjusting," because who wants to hear about all this other garbage? I mean...like apart from my mother? So let me tell you something for the next time you look at my Snapchat story and wonder about my charmed life: I have no money. That's the biggest worry. Most nights I come home to cereal. I avoid conversations with my mom about that because they stress me out. I wake up late in the weekends and the day gets away from me. I hate lack of productivity. I feel pressured. I miss so many people. I feel so transient, so ephemeral. I don't have half my shit figured out. Sometimes I reject invitations because well…I don't feel the push to make new friends just yet and my electricity bill will be greeting me real soon. 

But let me tell you, not everything is half as bad. All those smiles you see and all that joy is real. All the hustle is also real. My  exasperation with homework is real, as well as my sitting in front of Adobe Photoshop hours on end with my palms on my face. It's all real and crude. But real nonetheless.

I don't worry. It's one moment to the next. 

But be clear on this: what I decide to post on social media is the final product.It is almost always beautiful. The picture I shot, the poem I wrote, my published article on Elite Daily…what you get to see is the thing that will get all the praise, all the comments, and all the likes. I don't get to tell you about that time I almost pulled my hair out, or when my software crashed and I had to start all over again, or when I spent a whole day working on something that was later deemed garbage. I don't get around to tell about in equal amount about my failures. 

Some days I worry more. There are some days in particular when I search the web in a frenzy for internships and hate every single opportunity everyone else has already gotten; when I question my abilities as a creative. Because I do. I questions my abilities day in and day out. All the fucking time. But I've decided I do what I do for the love. I don't raise a finger because I think I'm good, but because I want to be. So below all the pretty flowing dresses I like to wear, my carefully curated Instagram feed, and my penchant for making fun of myself, half the time I really don't know what I'm doing. And it's aggravating but it passes.

There isn't a single wrong thing about wanting to focus on the positive aspects of life. Absolutely nothing. If anything that fixation pushes us to want to be better, to set higher standards, to aim to be like that one thing deserving of our praise. This is also the worst kind of roadblock. We easily tend to forget we're also entitled to a little breakdown from time to time. Because we don't tend to share our failures with as much impetus we often forget that that is also a huge part of this life.

Just think about that. The next time you feel inclined to assume yourself of lesser value, or the next time you think everyone else is leading a better life than you, think about that stinky impostor syndrome. We're all doing what we can. It's a cliche, but it is because it's so true--Everyone is fighting a different battle. If we all embraced that as well as we embrace comparisons, we'd be a million times kinder to one another; life a million times sweeter. So by all things that are heavenly, stop comparing yourself to your ex's new girlfriend, or feeling white envy over your friend's recent trip to Istanbul, or thinking that you're the only one at rock-bottom. In real technical terms, there's rock-bottom, 50 feet of crap, and then there's us. And everyone feels that way at some point. (Thanks, Rachel).

Do you remember when we were little and our moms asked us to clean our rooms and we'd just stow all our shit under the bed, moldy pizzas, crusty socks, and all? And then she'd be about to inspect and we'd break into a cold sweat? That's how I picture this whole deal of opening up and being real about the stuff that goes on behind the scenes. If our mom's our audience, what are we doing with all our junk? What is everyone else? It may be unperceivable, but it's there.

It does not matter what others are doing. 

My Best Friend Is Getting Married & I Am Beside Myself.

She was this walking set of white teeth, molars and all.  And I was this awkward set of brown eyes that always managed to look like deer in headlights.  One day she stopped me by the water fountain in school and told me she loved my eyes and I secretly wondered what that stain-looking thing on the edge of her bottom lip was.  After school, as we waited for our parents to pick us up,  I asked about it and she told me with a straight face that somebody had punched her, and that her name was Rebecca. I totally believed her. That was about 12 years ago. That is my very first memory of us. 

Of course, years later I was slightly less stupid and found out her so-called bruise was just a birthmark. And she found out my eyes only got more dramatic with age. I had especially perfected my eyebrow raise aimed at anything overtly ridiculous. In the twelve grade I learned how limited her creativity was after we were grouped to make a scrapbook for english class. My days quickly turned into a constant travail to tell her that her scrapbook pages were shit in the least hurtful way possible. To this day I'm not sure I ever told her. So if you're reading this, here it is, my dear. I still love you despite all things.

 After we had buried the scrapbook project deep in the earth, our life that year proceeded to be a whirlwind of sleepovers, movies, parties in San Juan, friend-dates, and occasional stay-cations at our friend's beach house. In school we would sit together during lunch time and recount the whole weekend, complete with somebody's first kiss, someone else's drama with Mrs. Vega, what-did-you-get-in-calculus?, dammit-I-got-a-90- (we're obviously pointing out the important things here), discussion of The Scarlet Letter and La Casa de Bernarda Alba, and days where I was a complete train wreck and she stopped me from crashing. 

When we're asked how long we've known each other I like to say "forever". Although we only solidified this thing we call our "friendship" after high school was done and over with and we had moved on to bigger and better things. Little did we know that our lives would be so intertwined since that moment after prom when we travelled away from the crowd and took pictures of each other in the hotel's beautiful staircase. Me with a peach chiffon dress, her rocking a strapless one that was the color of cobalt. I still remember it so well. This rite-of-passage, this opening sentence, this crisp wrapper.

Maybe it was the promise of new beginnings, or the fear of them; maybe it was that we'd both moved to Iowa (of all states); maybe it was that we both were swarmed with nostalgia for home; or maybe we just got each other. We only grew closer since then. That summer right after our freshman year of college proved to be the one that defined our relationship the most. And I still look at that summer with particular fondness for the babies we were; the hard-ass, shit-eating, overly confident, but-secretly-a-disaster, babies we were. I particularly remember all the times we had to remind each other to pick up our dignity off the floor. Do you remember this too? And all the domino games, all the domino games. 

That summer we both spent back at home, alternating between the beach, her house, my house, the pool, the mall, San Juan, random parking lots, random houses. Boys. One in particular. I was so convinced he was good for me. She was so convinced he wasn't. 

The amount of hours, all-together, that we spent poring over his text messages analyzing every period, exclamation mark, emoji or lack thereof,  is probably ridiculous. And a little embarrassing. So I'll just skip to the part where I tell you that of all the epochs we lived together, this was probably my favorite one.

We have so many inside jokes, so many, about that time in particular. We coined the phrase "There are two ways to go around this" for absolutely every endeavor involving a guy, a domino game, an outfit, or plans for the night. We learned that you just don't crack jokes when people are swimming or are about to if you don't want to witness death by asphyxiation. We learned that we can't sleep together; that she is literally a hurricane, and I'm an angel. We learned that we would still sacrifice potential nights of amazing sleep just to be able to whisper words of encouragement through the dark. We learned that my cat gives us both horrible allergies. That we love him anyway. Or at least I do. I learned that I could always go to her when I felt like my boat was on the verge of sinking; somehow she always found a way to keep me from drowning.

There was this one time I pulled up to her house and yelled out to her from the car ,“It’s sunny. Let’s go! Let’s go! Let’s go!” I love how hungry we were for life. I love our drive, our motivation. I love how happy our happiness is. I love how pure. 

I love her in the present tense. And love isn't always pretty. Or self-serving, or easy. It sure came wrapped up in all the times I looked at her sternly and said, "Becky, just stop."

I still recall with uncanny clarity that day that we were both loitering around her kitchen sampling her latest baking disaster when her mom walked in and blurted out, "Who do you think will get married first, of all of you?" To which we laughed and said "Of course, Andrea". Her mom rebutted, "Nah, probably Bianca," which we didn't argue. Let me clarify that none of these girls are married yet. What we did point out was that I would be last, because of course, the hypothetical guy has all these books to compete with, and that Rebecca would be next-to-last because, of course, the hypothetical guy has all these domino games to compete with.

But that was that summer. That was then. This is now. And throughout the rest of the years that were to come, nothing changed. We only got better. We grew in our love for God, and we grew in our love for each other. Boys came and went. She visited me in Ames, and I visited her in Davenport. We met in Puerto Rico over the holidays. I was the only one of her friends to attend her mother's remarriage. We've shared everything. From deodorant to a bed, from flip flops to sport bras, from our food to my mother's affection. We've even passed the cat around at times. 

One day during that first summer that made us, we sat in her balcony overlooking San Juan, being girls like it was the only thing we knew how to do, and she told me,

"I have this feeling that when we're older...these other guys will come around, and they'll think just how lucky they are to call us theirs."

"You won't be last. I know him. The guy you'll marry. It's like I can see him in my mind. It's so weird."

If I could rewind time and be the one to say those words, I would. 

Because, my dear one, I know him. The guy you'll marry. He has a name. It is Jared. 

And I still can't believed I introduced you.

I met Jared through my Church's family group the Summer of 2012. Out of all the people I met that summer, he was one of the only ones that truly got me. We didn't drive to church listening to Hillsong or Rend Collective; we drove all the way switching from Thrift Shop to Jack Sparrow to Gold Digger. We made fun of ourselves, and we shared the same apathy towards swearing. He taught me many things. Like the fact that sometimes we don't need all these external things to prove to the world that we are children of God. That we are that already, and we are free. Our hearts will forever say more than what our outfit choices, musical tastes, and word choices can say. That a heart that says "dang" instead of "damn" has the same intention, and that that is everything. I've loved him like a brother ever since.

The story of how they met is for them to recount. Just know this: It had something to do with Rebecca coming over to visit me in Ames, and Jared, in his unique awkward way, cracking a joke, to which Rebecca wasn't sure how to respond. She responded the way she always does, cackling wholeheartedly and asking him "this is a joke, right?"

I wonder if she has ever thought about us that day after school when she told me someone punched her and she told me my eyes were pretty, or when we were in the same volleyball team for a semester, or when she did my mom's dishes at home, or when she was in love with that boy in high school, or when we were at prom taking pictures in the staircase. I wonder if she has thought about how every single moment since then was just leading up to this. How wonderful. And how inordinate this path. 

We'll be different now. 

This time there aren't two ways around the fact that when I have some stupid news to share with her I won't just show up at her house and yell at her that it's sunny, that life is now. There's no way around the fact that when we go back home to Puerto Rico she won't stay with me, with the horrible sleep and the allergy-inducing cat. There's no way around the fact that she's a part of something bigger now, the sanctity of marriage. In the most selfish way I'll miss her. I'll miss us in all the ways we were us, just us. In all the ways that that was the most important thing; the center of all things. But there's so much more. If we were a caterpillar, this is the butterfly. There is so much more. 

I thank her always for teaching me the value of time and reciprocity. That friendship is a lot like running a race and extending your arm behind you to see who will keep up. Real friends understand the value of time, yours and theirs. For teaching me that the best relationships in life are built on the base of intentionality and selflessness. That to truly love another you must both love yourself and be beside yourself at times. That these things evolve. That we evolve and so do our friendships. And that maybe we should spend less time fighting that and embrace it headlong for the uncontrollable, nasty plane crash that it can be. That we should just burn right alongside it. 

And on that day of her wedding I hope she jumps for joy. That she celebrates herself. That she celebrates God. That she celebrates him. That she's still just a walking set of white teeth, molars and all, after all. 

Friends in NYC.

Friends in NYC! from Mellanie Perez on Vimeo.

By: Mellanie Perez
June 10-12, 2015
New York, New York
Music: Lights Out, Words Gone by Bombay Bicycle Club

Clean Floors & White Walls.

 The first day I spent in my apartment I made waffles and chicken (you read that right), and spent most of the day alternating between pouring maple syrup on my plate and dunking the chicken in the remaining little puddles of stickiness. I lay sprawled on the floor, my computer, my plate, and me. I had no furniture, unless my bean bag counted as one, my clothes still smelled of dust, and the floor was so immaculate I kept trying to stick fallen crumbs to the pad of my fingertips. I listened to a lot of Ingrid Michaelson back then. A lot of "The Chain", and "Are We There Yet" and "So Long". Enough that when I went to sleep at night I kept humming the melodies to the point where I'd need to tell myself to just shut up, be quiet, enough, dunzo.  The thought brings memories of driving around in the car one of my friends had loaned me that summer, with the horrible brakes and the non-existent sound system. I crooned the lyrics under my breath, somehow they felt extremely relevant back then, with a boy I liked, and the air of new beginnings.  I'm not entirely sure when my Ingrid fad gave way to my One Republic one, I just know that my cramped little place shielded the world from my whirling dance moves, heard all of "Burning Bridges" and "Something I Need", and even bounced them back at me in jubilee. There were nights I'm surprised the neighbors downstairs didn't come up to complain or hit the top of their ceiling with a broom. 

 

I keep trying to find a proper apology to the shiny laminated wood floor that was once, but is no more. It'll be a hypocritical one; I'm just not sure I even want to apologize for the spilled marinara sauce that came right after. Or all the chopped onion, all the butternut squash guts that fell to their demise in my attempt at butternut squash soup, or all the times I stomped around in my dirty shoes. My floor did good, collecting all these leftovers of a life less than perfect; gathering sympathy dirt for me on days when I brushed smidgens from my shirt to the floor, magazine stacks, dust bunnies under the futon, a fallen M&M or two. My floor knows the difference between my wild skips and my somber steps. It knows, it echoes them back to me. It knows about the day I spun around in euphoric celebration of my acceptance to Syracuse University, it also knows about the nights I came home to deafening silence; to quiet prayers, the twisting of fingers, and a whole lot of nothing. It knows my need to stand up and twirl. It understands the difference between the way I look at Chris and the way I look at Andrew. It knows about that day I came home at 6am, soaking wet and dripping stuff all over it. It can tell you some of the best stories.

 In my apartment I became both fastened and undone. For three years, it had the sympathy to both evolve and regress with me in clear depiction of its host: a girl with too much hair, too many books, and too much chocolate. Still hung on my closet I keep the backpack full of chalk and the smelly shoes from my days at the rock-climbing wall.  There were candy wrappers overflowing the trash can, hair atop all shoes, hair ties on the bathroom corner, hair clogs on the tub, hair clumps on the trashcan. Rubber bands on the floor from that time I dropped a box full of them and never felt like picking it up. (I occasionally still step on a couple). Scars. On the windowsill from the time I ran towards it with a pan of burning burgers, on the side of the fridge speckles of god-knows-what that won’t come out, stains in my sink from when I dabbled in making face masks with turmeric, the broken toilet paper holder, nicks on the walls from my attempts at putting up random bullshit; my first photo displayed at the Octagon, my prints from my Integrated Studio Arts class, my best friends’ smiling faces. My toggle. My hat.

 I talked a lot in my apartment. It became a kind of "backstage"to all my shenanigans. If there was ever any room in my life for an imaginary friend, this would’ve been it. I lived by myself. I spent some of the loneliest and most plentiful times under its shelter. It listened to me in times of hope, anxiety, and fear. There are a thousand swears lingering in its atmosphere: That time I spilled hot water on my foot, that other time I caught my little toe on the edge of my bed, studying for that statistic final, discovering a new pimple in the mirror, palm to my face over that last text message I sent. Just fuck. I practiced for the most important interviews of my life, for presentations, and meetings.  I fell in and out of crushes as well as I fell out of Insanity. I imagined myself courageous enough to ask all the important questions; I imagined at the time I had all the right answers. I remember all the days I walked out the door cloaked in the promise that when I walked back inside, things would be different, whatever those "things" were at that certain time. There was the night with all the fireworks, the night with the guitar, the night with the bikes, the night I don't remember, the night I can't forget. No matter the result of any of my undertakings, I got to come home every night. Every night. The same door I opened, the same keys I jangled. Same girl. Just slightly changed. Slightly grown. 

In a small corner of my room I still keep the same two storage bins, blue and pink, that my mom got me during freshman year to make room for all kinds of knick-knacks. They became home to all the hand-written letters anyone ever wrote me during my college years. There's the letter of recommendation my favorite boss wrote that says "Because you deserve to know how awesome you are!", the letter from of my best guy friend, the one that confesses, the post-it stuck once to my back-pack, the postcards, and all this time that once belonged to someone else, that now belongs to me. All these words that can't be taken back, all this bravery, all this care. And along with all these little things that collect dust in that small corner, I also still keep a scrapbook one of my best friends made for me in high school. I can't help but to think that this time when I turn my keys in, when I paint my walls white again, and attempt to fix the toilet paper holder…This time when I try to remove all evidence that I was here, I imagine it must feel like dismantling that scrapbook; ungluing the pictures, whiting out all the captions. For now, I'm just planning on spending that last day making some chicken and waffles.

Mine.

 Originally written Jul. 8, 2014

I cringe at the thought of small talk; at the thought of entering a room and filling the silence with mindless details of the day, and the weather, and laconic responses to endless “How-are-you’s” and “How-was-your-weekend’s”. All which only serve to get in the way of great conversation to burgeon from skimming the surfaces to actually saying what we really feel. Fine, maybe sometimes it is necessary because they are part of something greater, only then, only then. 

And I’ve never been one to make do with less than ideals conditions in which to share great thoughts, or personal fears, or just to connect with someone just as we are: nakedly human and all-throughout imperfect. Quiet the opposite, actually. I think maybe because I recoil so much from the kinds of conversations that make me lose neurons instead of gaining any is why I’m, bluntly putting it, one of the most open and willing-to-be honest person you might ever meet.

However, I always used to be a little taken aback by people who seemed to cringe at all the things I cringed about in reverse; where anything meaningful and intimate got lost in the middle ground between their thoughts and their lips, giving way to an insurmountable amount of situations where I just sat there across the table wondering what on earth it was going to take to get them to crack. 

The point is that it has been a while since I’ve shared anything personal, unlike previous years where I bluntly poured over the keyboard all kinds of strange feelings and incoming thoughts about the meaning of life, and even cheesier things. But I think that I now finally understand all my interactions with people across tables where tight-lipped smiles that concealed an avalanche of truth and fumbles for words to say,  reigned over all. Because somehow, along the way, I’ve started losing patience for clarifications, too. And  have made peace with the cryptic and tedious way feelings can work: where sometimes, when we feel we just feel. And sometimes that’s all there is to it. 

People are like mirrors sometimes. And it takes an army to prevent what you pour unto others from spilling unto your own shoes; from bending down and picking the remnants off, and dirtying your own hands in the process. And one thing I’ve learned is that when those same people really care about you, they will reflect all the sparks and all the light you shine on them, as well as all the dullness and vacancy that sometimes seeps out of the corner of those smiles that don’t quite meet the eyes. 

So maybe I don’t want to be walking into a room full of mirrors all the time. I think maybe I like the subtle mystery and promise of blank walls and burnished tiles. Where my reflection isn’t staring back at me all the time looking for a little acknowledgement, searching for a little recognition, and where I don’t have to constantly see my self through another’s eyes.

I think maybe we over-share sometimes because we are searching to fill a void that no amount of “selfies” and “TMI” Facebook statuses can fill; I think maybe we are just afraid of being plain, just ourselves, just skin upon skin, upon muscles, upon bones. 

 It’s taken me a while, and I haven’t really fought it, but I think maybe now I’m finally Ok with losing all lucidity and delving into the unambiguity of my plainness in all it’s manifestations: My life doesn’t have to be out there for all the world to see, and it doesn’t need to be reflected right back at me through the tarnished images others conceive about me and most importantly, it doesn’t need to be filtered, edited, or perfected.

Because for as much as I like sharing what I feel and talking about my personal life, and for as much as I’ve never given the phrase “trust issues” a room in my internal vocabulary, I’ve learned to find charm in what’s rightfully mine and to fine peace in the churning thoughts only my mind can speak, and my heart can feel. 

I want to steward my life, my thoughts, and my feelings not the way it is reflected back at me, not the way mirrors paint the picture. I want to collect moments the way one sometimes collect favorite things, favorite tokens; the way grandparents love one another:

Quietly. It’s not necessarily out there for all the world to see, it’s not necessarily provoking, or life-changing, or desirable, but it’s mine.

This Favorite Feeling.

The waking up at 8am to clean sheets. It is the sitting back down, the standing back up to my favorite songs. That Jamaican Red Rooibos tea. It is the phone call with my mom and my brother yelling obscenities in the background. It is my father's hilarious text messages. It is the "What are you doing?" "Come over". And also that one time we rode out bikes in the dead of night through obscure paths. It was all in the letting go on the handlebars. It is the subtly disgusting snapchats between friends. The going home after a long night. The rain puttering on outside the window. The little light they catch and ricochet. Swimming on a hot day and feeling like a child. It is board games and shits and giggles. Making coffee in the mornings. Getting to sit down on a porch right before the rest of the world is up. The slow grin that creeps when you're understood. It is sunsets after dessert. Hazelnut mousse cakes. The sound of pigeons in the afternoons. It is the windows open, the curtains flying. The running out the door without fishing for a jacket. It is staring at your hands. Making time for you. Making time for myself. It is the smell of new books. It is grass between my toes. The sand between my nails. The sun burning my back, the tan lines right after. It is empty coffee shops. It is the weariness after a run. My favorite Damien Rice song. The sound of a cat's rumble. Whole days of nothing, entire nights of everything. Stopping to smell the roses. Farmer's Markets. It is the waiting for that signal. It is the possibility of airports. Those empty dance floors to be occupied. It is the staring at the stars on clear nights. It is the fireflies nearby. Pockets of shade. It is hand through hair. The closing of your eyes. Demure smiles exchanged. The "fuck it" before we smile for real. 

The Boob Touch.

This is one of my main girls, Holly. She's going to kill me when she sees this.

Like seriously.

What.

Are.

You.

Doing.

But we had such a good laugh when we were going through pictures together and spotted this indecency that I just couldn't pass it up. I told you I was going to GIF it, friend. 

Main Girl and I attended Prom a couple of weeks ago. Or more like, she attended, I just snapped photos in a corner with terrible lighting. Our church holds events for international students, and this was one of those in which we attempted to give them a taste of the U.S., complete with the silly photo booth pictures that, who are we even kidding, are kind of the best part. 

 Our nail color matches our phone cases. Just thought I'd point that out. 

 

 

On Happily Ever After.

I'm not too ashamed to admit that I've always been a crier. Like the ugly-snotty-heaving-sobbing kind of crier who used to lock herself in her room and just wail about stuff when necessary. Throughout the years I've found there is no better cure to a troubled heart than a good cry. I don't even try to put up a front about it. I just roll with the punch. Or swim in the flood, however way you'd want to look at it.

Yet despite all my private theatrics, I also found myself to be surprisingly rebounding, a notion I came to understand as a 12-year -old girl sulking in her room because mom didn't let me go to one of my best friend's pool party. I swear I spent the entire day holed up in my room, not really caring anymore but still wanting to make my point. I'd never even truly missed out on anything, I didn't know what it was to truly lose out. 

During my senior year of high school I finally got a taste of what losing really felt like. I came back from school one day in December to find that my beautiful dog of eight years, my best friend, had gone missing. I remember spending the entire day riding my car around the neighborhood yelling her name only to come back empty-handed, and to remain empty-handed for all the years to come. I spent a solid three days afterwards alternating between blowing my nose and choking back tears. After that I was done, the dull ache a reminder of what I had lost, but the days ahead a possibility, a reminder that there was more. More to live, more to love. 

And let me tell you about that time I was truly ripped apart after reading the third book of the Divergent series. Sounds ridiculous, I know. Except that something you might not know about me is that when I read I'm not present in planet Earth anymore; I'm floating in the parallel universe where these stories might just be true. I'm a character myself waiting to unfold; rooting, seeking, hoping. And you might think it's funny, but I spent three days crying over this book. Like stupid depressed. The kind of depressed that didn't see a point in engaging in the regular activities of everyday life because I was just too hungover this damn book. Brushing my hair? Why, if the whole world is doomed anyway? / You mean, like, going out for a run? What for, if Tris didn't even get to friggin' LIVE!? And so two things got revealed to me this time. One: Apparently my rebound time is three days. That's all the time I need to process things and hold a little funeral for my emotions. Two: I just need a damn happy ending.

And one might argue, what is a happy ending anyway? What does it entail to wrap up a story where the characters are fulfilled, where justice is made, where you return to real life feeling hopeful rather than despondent? Whether it be because good won at last, or because love really did move mountains? But what if it didn't? What if  story resembled something closer to our life? Something sometimes cruel, sometimes crass, something real? 

I've spent some much time being afraid of a story confirming reality; of a book telling me that yes, people die, and that yes sometimes the girl doesn't get the guy, that families can be broken, that you need to do a lot of breaking before mending. And that no, you can't always have cake for breakfast. Sometimes in order to atone you can't get your heart's desire, because that's not what life's about anyway. It's not about what our selfish hearts want all the time. A life with integrity is also a life with sacrifices. It is one of the hardest things to stomach, and yet, one of the most liberating things I have yet come to understand. And I realized that my young self was never, and will never, be OK with the fact that we can't be impossibly happy. That every single thing we've dreamed up might just not come to be. My adult self looks at her and slowly shakes her head, thinking "How selfish". Sometimes happily ever after doesn't pertain to you exactly, sometimes it means a search for someone else's happiness besides our own. 

As I sat last week in my room finishing a book I had been devouring for the last two days, I knew I was going to be somewhat heart-broken before I got to the ending. Half-way through the book I thought "This is the kind of story that I will need reprieve from, I can just feel it coming". And yet I pummeled through, because I'm masochistic like that, and because I wanted to be freed. I wanted to play Josh Garrel's Beyond The Blue right after and hear him remind me:

"...to do the right thing even when it burns
And to live in the light through treacherous turns
A man is weak, but the spirit yearns
To keep on course from the bow to the stearn
And throw overboard every selfish concern
That tries to work for what can’t be earned
Sometimes the only way to return is to go,
Where the winds will take you

And to let go, of all, you cannot hold onto
For the hope, beyond,the blue…"

 I can't help but to think that there's something incredibly liberating about emotions. It's like opening a faucet in the dead of winter and letting it run to hot water; incredibly excruciating at first, then all-througout comforting. And I sat there staring at a wall for the following 20 minutes, I felt my treacherous emotions do a one-eighty. I felt brave all over again. Because we're so human, we're so insignificant, our feelings so ephemeral, and yet, so enduring. Those emotions have the power to ignite change, to move mountains- to push us to love deeper, to climb farther. And we lose, and lose all the way, but we also win so much. At least, I need to believe so. After lying in the dump, the only way is up. And I need to believe that there's all this light we cannot see, that there's an order and a significance to how things come to be. 

"But what does it matter if I can't be with you" I wail. "I can't live without you."

"But you have," he smiles, though it is a sad smile. "You have and you will."

I nod bravely because it's true.

Life always keeps moving, even if it has to drag you along kicking and screaming.

- The Opportunist, Tarryn Fisher