Courage, Dear Muggle

But you won't

So I can't

And I'm stuck here

I've written about love endlessly. It seems to be where all good poets begin.

I've also written about self. About accepting it, dying to it, building it up into a Greater version.

But for some reason I can never just...write.

Yes, my works have borrowed themes and linguistic trinkets from movies and TV shows. But inventing a new story?

With new people, who have quirks and places to be in their paper lives?

Impossible.

It's why I hesitate with every post to include the tag "author." Because I can't help but feel

Less than

As my words hobble forward, leaning on the crutches of skipped spaces and missing punctuation to evoke feeling.

I do not feel like an author. I have not created, I have not even published. I have simply retold my thoughts, stale and familiar.

But it's not as though the designation "poet" is somehow undesirable, do not misjudge my depreciation for denunciation. It is only that I wish to grow further.

I feel I have earned the right to call myself a poet. I have barred my soul, portrayed emotions with acceptable wordsmithing, connected people by placing phrases to feelings that would have otherwise remained nebulous. But I need more.

I need the worlds on different planes of existence to come to fruition on the paper in front of me. I need evocative language to play out a scene in the minds of strangers. I want to fly through valleys not yet charted, craft arguments and war cries from thin air, practically hear the hoof, wing, and down beats from animals and songs that do not yet exist.

I want to create something new.

I want someone bleeding out on the floor with me, desperately calling my name, trying to drag themselves to get to me. I want to silently claw my way towards their voice, my only thought of their name. That level.

I want to live it.

I want to work out next to each other and fly across the world hand in hand and create great works of art as a team, all while it works quietly within us to ensure the other's happiness.

I want to be able to see it from both directions.

I want to enter the house, secret candy in hand for him, to find my favorite snack already on the counter.

I want it to underpin our entire relationship.

I want to sit beneath sunny skies, conversation flowing like the living water within us, warm and laughing in the comfort of being Perfectly matched.

If I'm going to accept love, I make this vow.

I vow to never to settle for any less than I can ask for or imagine. I will protect myself with the full weight of my identity-- but I will not yield my hope.

I will keep my desires at bay, allowing myself to be led forward only after seeing that we have enough of it for God to spare for each other.

I will have it, and nothing less.

Can others see how much He loves them through your actions? Smile. Make eye contact. Care for them. Ignore the insecurities. Let yourself be at peace within the full version of your personality that shows off His love, and stop thinking about how that reflects on you. Be honored it's reflecting at all.

I could go back, but it wouldn't feel like home anymore.

All my clouded illusions about where we were going blocked my ability to see where we truly were. A fog of happiness not even the lighthouse of logic could break through.

The siren song of my real self, calling to me in a crescendo until I could no longer resist, only she could guide me from the rocks.

I...almost crashed. Me. With my strong words in the dark, endless sun, and towering dreams.

But thank God this lifeboat to which I cling has been upgraded.

I am aboard the Hummingbird now, and I will continue to sail the skies until I find my Ravka or my Sturmhond.

Not cool enough to be seen

But not nerdy enough to be accepted

I box and I prance around in my fancy dresses

I'm an artist and a writer and I labor over music

But I spend half my time yelling at my games to just-- shoot

You could say this makes me normal

Or that my character is weak

But all I've been told is that there's just way too much of me

I don't fit into ab or c and definitely not d e or f

But you look me up and down and say stop trying to be that

Be yourself, no not like that

Try your best, no not like that

Wait for the right one, no not like that

But honestly how am I supposed to find my people if I'm not doing "that"?

I'm happy and I'm free and I'm smiling at all I see

Because I know someday I'll find my people

Who want a woman in between

I made the refined coaxium vial from Solo for my brother's birthday (and then my sister's, because she wanted one too). Why? Because yet again, I didn't like the two overpriced, clunky, blue-light options on the market.

You're too busy to think of a stranger's opinion of you

You're too distracted by the well-being of your people to listen to expectations

You're too humble to think anything of your talent

You're too intelligent to let any conversation wither on the vine

And what about when we're together?

You're too strong to be influenced by the whims of a chaotic mind

You're too grounded to be scared away by a gasp and a dance

You're too patient to be bored by the end of a dramatic silence

You're too emotionally aware to breeze past a hasty explanation

You're too attractive to not be completely enraptures over

You're too much

And I am just...

Which is why it is only in my mind

Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever be able to do it again.

Because I know, deep down, it's always been you.

On some level, everything was always going to compare to that blur of nostalgia. When does it not?

Our joy and our fun, your mind and your kindness

Your love . . .

And your emotional intelligence, off the charts

And every bit of music you've ever made with me

I collapsed it all into a single moment and pushed it aside.

Because we do not make sense. We don't. Our values are antagonists, and our youth is no longer around to shield us from such an obstacle.

But, George, you see too much. Back then, in the hallway on the floor, when I thought I was helping you, you were the one who saw who I was, you saw who I wanted to be, and yet you showed me just how happy and loved I can be right where I am

Even when I'm growing

Even when I hate myself.

With you, there's never been any way for me to pretend. You've never overthought it, you've always just smiled that smile, lit up my world, and I, beside myself in love, smiled (and snorted) right back.

Back then, every time you left you'd take your light and your music with you. To this day, they have only ever reappeared when you do. I know, you may never brighten my life again. I may only be able to convince you to light near the door-- maybe I'll only be able to hear your music if I open it.

And just maybe having you on the porch of my life will be enough.

Will I? Is there someone out there? I should. I think so. I want to fall head over heels for someone the way I did for you.

I'm afraid I have tricked you, my dear.

I am actually not a great person, but I put on a great show. I run a tight ship. My smile and my laugh come out on cue, my personality shifts gently into what you want to hear, my jokes fit your expectations based on my neatly acquired data.

I have manipulated you into liking this version of me, and soon my mask will slip, and just like the others, you will grow bored of me. The conversations I organized will fall apart without my care, the values I "inspired" in you will crumble without my steadfast optimism, and your false personality, which I have oh-so-carefully guided over the years to fit mine, will slowly dissolve.

I did not wish to be made this way, I wish I could love someone the way they are, and leave them if I could not.

But I want love too much, and do not ever think to sit back and wait for it. I should wait for the rains of change to come through to water the trees love grows on. Imagine that, a fully-bloomed love. One that encourages growth within me, instead of pulling my focus towards those scattered, unplanted seeds. A love that I am obsessed with, who drives me to blushing, whose eye contact strengthens and undoes me all the same.

I know it's a lot.

It is why I cannot just...wait. It may not exist, you see. But even if, as I suspect, it does, it would require me to be myself to attract the sort of person who would mesh well with these regency-era desires within me.

But oh, my love, my invisible love, I am not brave enough to be myself.

To snort instead of giggle, to sit in silence and wait patiently for dramatic effect, to gasp loudly and throw my arms out at the first beat of a favorite song, to crouch, finger extended, near the sparrows eating crumbs at Starbucks, in the hopes one will land on me to say hello, to go up to someone and be kind in my unexpected, bold, quiet kind of way.

It is too scary.

But I must be braver. I must.

Tell me, how are you able to do that?

How, before I say a thing, as I'm trying to pull back to give you your space as you grapple with so much, are you able to latch onto the one topic I wanted to dive into?

It's like you've plucked it right from my soul, and you've started a conversation that leads me to imagine a whole world where--

Oh.

No no, of course, see ya.

Clouds!

They're my favorite, I hope to get some supercell photos someday :)

Allowing photos to mimic art / A study in difficult lighting

Sunset studies

Sony Xperia 1ii

A study in yellow

Sony Xperia 1ii