Francesca

monet art.

Dogs. Stray dogs, dogs that need saving, police dogs, pet dogs, other people’s dogs.

Watching the sunset after it’s been pouring for days. Taking in the vibrant hues of orange, purple, yellow, and red.

Undiscovered forests. Trails that you’ve always passed, but never taken.

Picnics with friends, picnics with family, picnics alone.

Swimming pools. Tanning beside them, or sitting at the bottom.

Guitars, the sound of each individual string being plucked.

Being home alone, the euphoric sense of freedom you feel.

Long drives with friends, long drives alone. Drives where you’re blasting your music and screaming the lyrics, word for word. Drives where you feel free.

Waking up late, embraced in your lover’s arms or your sheets. Stretching and feeling completely relaxed.

Tight hugs, warm hugs, long hugs. Hugs that give you pangs in your gut, and make you realize that you’re not alone in this world.

The smell of coffee, waffles, pancakes. The smell of breakfast, home.

Free samples, kind workers slipping you a few more.

Kaleidoscopes.

Low and melodic voices, raspy voices, morning voices, 3 a.m voices, high voices.

Books. Old books, new books, book stores, popular books, books no one knows.

Taking care of plants, watering plants. Smelling plants, picking plants.

Afternoon naps, waking up feeling relaxed and refreshed.

Other people’s poetry, your own poetry. Happy poetry, sad poetry, angry poetry, hopeful poetry.

When sunlight pours into your room after it’s rained, after endless cloudy days.

Beaches in the morning, beaches at night. Walking barefoot in the sand, footprints that are washed away by the tides.

Bird watching, people watching. Understanding the similarities. Understanding the differences.

Painting outside, painting inside. Paint stains that come out, paint stains that don’t. Paint brushes, rough bristles. Watercolours, oils.

Warm socks, hot chocolate, cascading snow. Laughing in between bites of food during Christmas dinner, people’s faces when they open your present.

Walks alone, walks with your family, with friends, with your dog. Rustling leaves and laughter at a park. Soft, comfortable wind that caresses your limbs, that rustles your dog’s fur.

Opening cards with money inside of them, opening cards full of writing. The smell of ink, the smell of new books.

Finishing puzzles, finishing books, T.V series, races.

Watching fireworks.

Foreign cities, foreign languages, people, foods. 

Accurate horoscopes, inaccurate horoscopes. Descriptive horoscopes, funny horoscopes.

Road trips with water, snacks, music, friends. Road trips alone. Getting there, stretching your legs.

Star gazing. Understanding your irrelevance. Understanding your importance.

Complementary breakfasts.

Late night phone calls with your best friend, staying up until 6 a.m, laughing, being serious.

Pop music. Old music. Music in between.

Running off a dock, alone or holding hands. Feeling the beginning of a brand new summer.

New music from your favourite band, from your favourite artist. Concerts alone, concerts with friends. Crying at concerts, screaming, dancing. Making friends at concerts.

Graduation. Crying of sadness, of relief. Your mother’s, father’s, family’s face when you walk on stage and accept your diploma. You’ve made it.

Drawing out of sadness, annoyance, inspiration. Graphite stains on your clothes, hands, under your nails. Signs of artistry.

Vacations to places you’ve already been to, vacations to places you’ve never been to.

Binge-watching a series, crying when it finishes. Remembering what it taught you.

Kind comments from your teachers on your report card.

Meeting your favourite artist, your favourite band. Crying in their arms, thanking them. Them thanking you. Framing your picture, looking at in desperate times of hope.

Dancing alone in your room, dancing with friends. Dancing well, dancing horribly. Letting the beat fuel your movements.

Learning a new concept, a new language, a new song. A new lesson, a new beginning.

October. Pumpkin spice lattes, Halloween, scarves, candy. Sweaters, leaf piles.

Movies. Drive-ins, silent films, theatre, movies at home. Horror movies, romance movies, comedies. Movies you’ve seen a million times, movies you’ve never seen.

The art of overcoming sadness, getting over a friend, a lover, a loss. Getting out of bed, dusting your curtains, spreading them open. Allowing the sunlight to pour into your room after days of darkness.

Discovering your gender, your sexuality, your likes, dislikes, your style. Discovering yourself.

Meeting your internet friends. Colliding into them at the airport, knocking them over, making others stare. Laughter between sobs of relief. The realization on your parent’s faces, on their parent’s faces. This is your best friend. These are your best friends.