2 Beau2ful 2 4Get

Aaannnnnnddd hheeerrrrrreeee wwweee gooooo... I accept rhyme and reason for what it is. Especially in life, it has it's own little spot in the world, that is your mind, soul & spirit. You have your reasons for accepting difficult things, just as you do reject easy things. Depending on mood, reflection & conscience of that day, depends on how reality will play out for you.

Sometimes I feel like a scratched record that's somehow been refurbished by this great invention. And that's love. YES!! YESSS! I Do realize how insanely gay it sounds. But imagine how it feels to be at least so happy, that in the least bit it's a fairytale... What would you give to even feel slight elation for a little while? 

Isnt't that what we do when we drink? Smoke? Halluncinate? Orrr hope???

"Love is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion. That is just being "in love" which any of us can convince ourselves we are. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident. Your mother and I had it, we had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossom had fallen from our branches we found that we were one tree and not two." True is it not??? Or is it?

Autumn In Philly

The love affair you can have with a city is incredible. You memorize the skyline, the way the people & traffic make a soundtrack during your commute and how the wind blows constant amusing, (and sometimes agitating), possibilities your way. I make this city sound like a mystical place. 

All filled with wonder and awe. Yet it is. I mean, it's no Narnia, but it's yours & mine and I think it's oh so very fine.

Philadelphia.

Philadelphia in autumn is the most enchanting experience you'll have in the city. Like the first kiss you embrace after realizing you love someone. It's a rapid fall too. One moment the quirky shops have you wishing you had more money & the next--you're swooning over the historic and romanticism Old City or Rittenhouse has to offer. Not to mention how the color of the leaves bleed together. Red to orange, to yellow and a hint of lavender purple. It's wonderful.

There's a certain calmness that happens to Philly once autumn begins. A sense of contentment that flows through everyone. Maybe it's the fact that Christmas is around the corner. Maybe it's the warm colors that get the lighter side of people going. Maybe it's just my perception. Maybe it's a lot of things.

The ever alluring city of Philadelphia has captured my intrigue and enfolded my soul. Afterall, who couldn't be enraptured by one of the oldest cities in the country? That alone is enough to make you, at the least bit, curious. And upon researching & investigation comes the flooding of an obsession. Philly lives in you... me... and all around us.

HEE changed my life..

How can life do this to you? Just throw you bones, throw you options & choices, then.... suddenly nothing. Just space & time to think about the nothingness. And it'll kill you. The emptiness that fills you, the yearning that you have for something substancial is crazy. So when you find it, like I have... you still can't believe it. You feel threatened towards the littlest things cause you're defending what you want to keep. What you want to obtain & save as yours. It's a very defensive position--love is. Insane. You want to protect and serve what you worked hard to get. Because it's yours and it belongs to you.

Tell me love isn't grand.

Tru Blood

Blood suckers of the night. The lude, ever so passionate creatures of darkness. 

Beautiful.

That's what I call it. Although there are harsh

 factors of being an immortal being, I however, find it enticing, sensual & all around alluring.

I've been caught up with all the aspects of this show. Making me wish I was either a Vampire, existed among them, or completely Southern.

It's just such a driven passion. How deeply they feel and yearn for the ones they love and are loyal to. I want that....

..and although I'm just a mortal, I'm no Vampire... I have found that..

Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

"How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard." ~Carol Sobieski and Thomas Meehan, Annie

As happy as I am to have confirm my happiness towards a certain someone, I am equally regrettable for having to leave it behind. I can't convey how much it will hurt to part with such an amazement. Because when it comes to 100% unconditional happiness without question of ruin--I haven't experienced something like now since the last time I felt like this... which was about four years ago when I had to literally forget about a chapter in my life that meant mountains to me. So to turn my back on someone that potentially could be the best thing to happen to my love life, or life period...well that's a hard pill to swallow. And I don't know how to handle it. All my life I've given up opportunities & things for love, because of the way I think about life and love... so for the first time I actually have to leave love behind in the hopes of making something better of myself. For the first time I can't be selfish. For the first time I realllly have to say goodbye. Something I was never really good at.

Timing and myself were never good friends. What the hell am I gonna do?

The Decay of Lying

Oscar Wilde had a brilliant way of expression...

"One of the chief causes that can be assigned for the curiously commonplace character of most of the literature of our age is undoubtedly the decay of Lying as an art, a science, and a social pleasure. The ancient historians gave us delightful fiction in the form of fact; the modern novelist presents us with dull facts under the guise of fiction. The BlueBook is rapidly becoming his ideal both for method and manner. He has his tedious ' document humain,' his miserable little 'coin de la creation,' into which he peers with his microscope. He is to be found at the Librairie Nationale, or at the British Museum, shamelessly reading up his subject. He has not even the courage of other people's ideas, but insists on going directly to life for everything and ultimately, between encyclopaedias and personal experience, he comes to the ground, having drawn his types from the family circle or from the weekly washerwoman, and having acquired an amount of useful information from which never, even in his most meditative moments, can he thoroughly free himself.

The loss that results to literature in general from this false ideal of our time can hardly be overestimated. People have a careless way of talking about a 'born liar,' just as they talk about a 'born poet.' But in both cases they are wrong. Lying and poetry are arts--arts, as Plato saw, not unconnected with each other--and they require the most careful study, the most disinterested devotion. Indeed, they have their technique, just as the more material arts of painting and sculpture have, their subtle secrets of form and. colour, their craftmysteries, their deliberate artistic methods. As one knows the poet by his fine music, so one can recognize the liar by his rich rhythmic utterance, and in neither case will the casual inspiration of the moment suffice. Here, as elsewhere, practice must precede perfection. But in modern days while the fashion of writing poetry has become far too common, and should, if possible, be discouraged, the fashion of lying has almost fallen into disrepute. Many a young man starts in life with a natural gift for exaggeration which, if nurtured in congenial and sympathetic surroundings, or by the imitation of the best models, might grow into something really great and wonderful. But, as a rule, he comes to nothing. He either falls into careless habits of accuracy, or takes to frequenting the society of the aged and the wellinformed. Both things are equally fatal to his imagination, as indeed they would be fatal to the imagination of anybody, and in a short time he develops a morbid and unhealthy faculty of truthtelling, begins to verify all statements made in his presence, has no hesitation in contradicting people who are much younger than himself, and often ends by writing novels which are so like life that no one can possibly believe in their probability. This is no isolated instance that we are giving. It is simply one example out of many; and if something cannot be done to check, or at least to modify, our monstrous worship of facts, Art will become sterile and Beauty will pass away from the land."

Infinitely Interesting

There are times in your life when you have to take the good with the bad. The departure of my dearest friend was devastating of course. The only good thing I actually had going on at the time was the possibility of something substancial. The kisses and affection of a person that blows my mind. 

You can't mistake a feeling like that. That sensation that maybe you might be on to something. The cosmic connection when your eyes lock and your skin makes contact. It's a spark for sure. I'm just glad it happened to me.