…is love alive?

from asofterworld

It’s so me. I’m definitely lactose intolerant but I eat ice cream anyway…. What does that say about me and love, if love is ice cream?

hit me with your best shot

Okay, world. I’m ready now.

just leave me your stardust to remember you by….

I dreamed there was someone. Who held me. Who’s heart beat in my ear, who’s breath stirred against my cheek. Someone who brushed the hair out of my eyes and told me I was beautiful.

I wish I was beautiful. I wish I didn’t need someone to tell me that before I could believe it. I try so hard to be independent and self sufficient and the strong woman my parents raised me to be. I’m smarter than this.

But the truth is I am jelly, ready to be moulded by anyone who has the courage to love me.

I dreamed there was someone with courage, someone who saw what I want to be, deep in my eyes, rather than who I am flawed and imperfect. I dreamed that I was that person who was loved. And it wasn’t the arms or the warmth or the hands that I missed when I woke. It was that other me, the one who was beautiful.

If you'll be my star, I'll be your sky,
You can hide underneath me and come out at night,
When I turn jet black and you show off your light,
I live to let you shine, I live to let you shine.

But you can skyrocket away from me,
And never come back if you find another galaxy,
Far from here where there's more room to fly,
Just leave me your stardust to remember you by.

love isn’t just for lovers

I’m in love with the world through the eyes of a girl…

I want to tell you about my girl.

When we’re driving and singing along to songs we both love, her voice eclipses mine. I don’t have a horrible singing voice, I’m even halfway decent. But she has that quality that goes beyond just hitting the right notes. That broadway quality. She loves music like I love music, like it’s a part of her soul. I can’t picture her without music playing, because it always is. Her life has a soundtrack.

Her eyes sparkle when we go into the art store. Genuinely. Like a kid in a candy store. Like I’ve only seen one other time, when we were in London together. Her hands move like she’s ready to use that brush, those pastels. Like art is hunger, that’s what I see.

She becomes a part of a book like she lives in a song. She breathes it. Like I do. The only other person I’ve met who reads exactly like I read. From inside, not from outside.

She’s the most talented person I’ve ever known, and I’m certain that she could be a singer, an artist, a writer… anything at all that she wanted to be. She understands what I mean when I tell her that I feel older than I am, she understands what it’s like to see more, because she sees it too.

She has beautiful eyes that are always lined in thick black. I used to think that she uses it to hide something, but I think after years of it it’s as much a part of her as her skin. My girl is a chameleon. She dyes her hair every month or so, never satisfied. Restless, she tells me she cut it short. Hours later, she wishes it was long again. Black. Blonde. Red. My girl has calico hair that would awkward on almost anyone else. But on her… it fits.

She says she hates herself, and yet she’s the only person I’ve ever met who’s consistently herself. I never doubt the authenticity of how she acts, what she wears, what she says. She just is. As if there’s no other way she could be but her way. This was the first thing she taught me. She’s always been my anchor to reality.

The second thing she taught me is unconditional love. I like to challenge people’s love. I’ve pushed her so many times. But she doesn’t push back. She sits, waits and takes it. She’s the one person I know would love me at my worst and at my best. She’s the one person who I know has only my interests at heart. My girl would bend over backwards to keep from hurting someone, to keep everyone happy. It’s so pure and so right - something that I haven’t been able to do since I was little, since my barriers came up. And I hate when people use this against her instead of being greatful for it.

If you watch her, my Faerie, when things are quiet… you can see a flash of pain dance over her expression, when she thinks no one is looking. More than anything I want to take that pain away. My girl doesn’t cry in front of people. She cries alone and feels alone. Or else she’s numb.

My girl is car rides and goodbyes and rain and international flights. She’s ice cream and laughter and corn on the cob and grocery stores and nights sleeping on cushions on the floor. She’s feeling infinite. She’s inspiration. My girl is “imagine.” She’s Romeo and Juliet and Judas and Johnny Depp. She’s a geek and she’s Freaks and Geeks and she’s fantasy games and video games and Zelda and comic books and she’s Batman. She’s six feet under. She’s Delilah. She’s my Konstantine. She’s music boxes and unicorns and greeting cards and sparkles in a jar and icing and colours and cake for breakfast. She’s London. She’s a horseback rider in Killarney. She’s drunk and she’s sober and she’s halfway in between. And she’s nice enough to pull over so I can throw up. And laugh, but only when I’m ready too. She’s jokes and teasing me and sentences that never make it. She’s blue eyes and grey skies and black clothes and fucking depressing movies. She’s late nights and twinkies and crying to computer screens. She’s my black rose. She’s beautiful.

And I love her more than I’ve loved any other person. In a completely straight way. It would be easier if we were gay. But I don’t think love is just for lovers. I’m pretty sure that no one will ever get me the way she does, and I don’t even want anyone else to. I’m okay as long as I have my girl.

Amin mela lle, vanima Faerie. My words are all I have to give you, but they’re yours, melamin.

And all others, who love, and who will love, must they die too?

Euripides’ Phaedra was a puppet of the Gods, overcome by Aphrodite’s need for revenge on Hippolytus, given no choice but to love him madly and to kill herself to escape that love which would ruin her honour. Seneca’s Phaedra is a spoiled princess who wants the world to move around her desire for her stepson, Hippolytus, who is willing to ruin the honour ruin her own honour and that of her entire household to satisfy that need. And who kills herself when she is denied what she wants.

How can one woman be both?

And in each, Hippolytus is both a staunch unblemished servant of Artemis and a hater of woman. Strange that while the woman changes, the man remains the same.

Seneca’s Phaedra is the weakness of women, who give in to their desire. Seneca hates women. In Euripides, Hippolytus’ hatred of women is something the audience is supposed to find ridiculous.

I like the Greeks far more than the Romans. At least a woman’s weakness isn’t inherent in the Greek.

“The tide of love, at its full surge, is not withstandable.” (Eur. Hippolytus 443) I like that idea, in the Greek, as well, that love is undeniable, that it has power over mortals and Gods alike.