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I am a body of water.
02.20.14 - Reintroductions.
consolations and condolences


Whatever you do, you won’t reach her at her old address in the city. She’s forgotten that street, that room, those boys. Take a five-hour bus ride to the northern seaside and she’ll teach you new ways to love the old sea. She learned how to read waves so she could live outside of books. She got rid of old skin and grew a tan. Got rid of old words and just grew. Once, she collected birds that fit in tiny envelopes and other objects that folded into poems.

mole on her skine

6:30 a.m. of the birthday aftermath and I am typing this hurriedly, haphazardly, happily-- inside a bus bound for Zland. At the start of this year, I was also fiddling with my thoughts and fitting them inside a status message when I first dared to take the bus alone to LU to learn how to surf.

My life has never been the same. And I am deeply grateful.

For the gift of travel, and the worldview that expands with each geographical displacement: place as teacher, time as parent, sea as solace.

For the gift of friends with the same sense of wide-eyed wonder, friends who become lifetime strongholds in less than an hour, friends you meet once but continue to love thereafter. For friends who are more family than actual family. And for family who now feel like friends.

For the gift of surfing and the courage it commands, the belief it builds within the self. For sea knowledge that becomes world wisdom with each wave ride. For the gift of stoke, which is metaphor coming alive.

For the gift of happiness now coming to me in many forms of love.

For H. For being my constant travel buddy, master chef, surf inspiration, life coach in many ways. For making me feel like I no longer need anything else.

Thank you to everyone who has taken this trip with me, whether we've shared carpools and ratty bus seats or vicariously. I am now a quarter of a century old and only now have I begun truly living. ♡
darling sea drown in you

I told myself I'd work on myself, spend time with myself, date myself, write to myself, love myself. Someone once told me there's always a boy in all my stories and never enough of the girl growing up after each breakup. It's not that I'm not okay alone; I do quite fine in fact. I like going to the cinema alone. I enjoy sipping coffee in quiet corners shielded from the rest of the world. I like quiet alone time. Or the truth is: I like quiet alone time, but not too much. I mean, how was I supposed to stop this one? This boy gets me right. And without me having to reveal myself. It's like he was with me the whole time. Maybe, in some alternate universe, we grew up together and then he came to look for me in this one. Or maybe he can read my mind. I don't know, I can barely write about all that I need to fold into words to slip into his pocket so he can help me remember. I don't like my old words. I need to find new ways to preserve what could perhaps be the elusive superlative, the effect and the cause, the happy end. All I am sure of right now is that I am terribly, terribly happy. Almost to the point of guilt. And I want to explode into paragraphs detailing each and every each and every each and every each and every time my heart feels complete.

I can't catch up. To love myself, I have to let myself be loved. And here I am.
laiya like a lover
At this moment, he is fast asleep on my couch, dead tired from the Z-land to Bay City to Las P to Coastal Road roaring road adventure with me. He cooked dinner. Again. I'm looking over my shoulder checking if he's woken up to catch me writing. Again. Hello, hello, this place is a sink hole. I should never let so much slip away. Again.
02.05.13 - unfinished feb 4
mole on her skine

I fall in love at the same rate I fall out of it, so maybe I should try falling in love slowly. That way, we'd last longer than the months it would take me to know the color of your darkest fear. Maybe I should try holding back for once, pit questions with questions and never give away all the answers. Try mystery for size. See if love fits inside the shoes of restraint. How far can you walk before walking away? Maybe I should trust myself less when in your company. I'll be more selfish with my stories. When I feel the need to tell you a secret I will bite my tongue and mime mute. I will nod to your stories and say nothing more even though I know a funny anecdote just like yours. This is the antidote to the heart's failures: choose lovers as you would work and never take home more than you can finish. Keep the weekends to yourself.


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