Broken strings & Pretty things

The world, seen through a young girl's eyes.

Archive for the month “February, 2013”

Affliction.

Sometimes we go through life like reading a book and seeing a word which we don’t understand. We are given an ultimatium: try to deliberate over what it means, or carry on regardless without a dictionary and hope for the best, praying that you will understand the passage anyway. All too often we take the latter option and realise just how important that word was: just how important that word was- it has changed the whole passage and potentially the rest of the story.

We as people are not dictionaries. We can’t and don’t understand every little detail of our lives at every moment, and sometimes we just skim along and hope for the best. We continue, and continue and then realise one day… I wish that I took the time to think that one through. I wish I just gave it that bit of time. I wish I didn’t just skim over it.

We regret for being careless; for being negligent and being too lazy to understand what was right there in front of us. We finally understand what could have been, yet understand we will never get it back.

All we know is that we must try to not let it again: not let ourselves feel the same anguish all over again.

One year.

Many people start a blog from some form of life altering experience: a break up, moving, travelling, commitment. But for me, creating this blog was completely selfish, yet consequently beautifully fulfilling. It was the first thing that I did for the good of myself without having to rely on the judgement or input of someone else. It may have taken the inspiration of summer romance and six months of accumulating courage, but it happened. For the first time, I began to allow myself the worth to achieve the dreams I so desperately craved.

This blog has seen me grow: it’s seen me change from an insecure little girl whose insecurities led her to believe that she was the problem to a woman who is so passionate and driven, yet is willing enough to accept her flaws.
This blog has helped me mature: it’s allowed me to take a step back from life and see what’s really going on; it’s allowed me to see where I went wrong and given me the ability to move on when everything was so tough.
This blog has given me my purpose, my freedom, by allowing me to do what I love the most: write. I have been inspired, and encouraged and have spoken to the most beautiful and pure hearted people who walk the very earth. I’ve been challenged and I’ve been made to strive, but to me, it’s been wonderful.

But it’s far from perfect, and possibly may never will be, but it’s the flaws that make things so endearing. Because it’s a part of me, hand crafted and honestly made. Looking back, my writing style and topics may have completely changed, yet the primary purpose has never faltered. In my first post, I claimed that “This blog is not created for others in mind, but for my joy of writing and expressing myself”, and I’m proud to say that this has remained true. Rather than trying my hardest to appeal myself to people, by staying true to myself I was able to somehow bring some inkling of joy through my haphazard typings.

They say time flies by, and that it does, but to me it feels like this blog has always been a part of me; somewhere where I feel safe; somewhere I can finally express who I am. Though it may not have shaken the foundations of my life, or unveiled a new pathway for me, or radically shaped my life, I wholeheartedly say that creating this humble little website was one of the best decisions I ever made.
Why? Because the day that I created this blog was the day that I finally became myself.

Thank you to everyone for the endless support, love and confidence. You are all truly beautiful.

Stay strong.

You’re doing so well. So, so well.
I’m sorry that I don’t always realise how much this is affecting you; how deeply this whole experience is shattering you.
I’m sorry that my own survival tactics are inflicting you. Because, after all, it is easier to fall out love with your father than your own husband.
But mom, you’re so wonderful. You’re so strong and selfless and faithful. Your perseverance is beyond words.

I’m sorry about the women at church. I’m sorry that some people choose scandal over sympathy. I’m sorry that some people will just not understand.
But I’ll stay by your side. So will the boys. Not because that’s what family do, but because we love you.
You’re our superhero; the woman who will prevail over anything.

We believe in you.

Love letters.

To the one with the guitar,
Thank you for making me the person who I am today. I can’t deny the fact that I had some beautiful memories with you at the time, memories which shaped and changed my heart forever. You were my first love, you were the first time I felt those crazy and passionate feelings; you were my first heartbreak, you were the first time I knew just how deeply love’s fickle sword could cut.
You changed, you did some things that we both live to regret. But I forgive you. Remember that darling.
Remember that you can be different; that you have a second chance to make another girl just as happy as I was once, a very long time ago.
Just remember to be yourself. Stop wearing that mask that we both know you feel safe behind.

To the one with the broken strings,
Remembering you is like remembering the laughter of summer. You posed such confusion; such uncertainty and ambiguity, looking back just makes me smile. Because it was far from a romantic love, but the sheer hopelessness of two best friends trying to take that larger step. And it failed. catastrophically. Though we are not quite the best friends we used to be, I’d like you to know that I still love you. That you’re my beautiful and stupidly annoying brother whom I will never quite forget. You helped that first step of moving on, and helped begin the change into the person I now am.
You’ve made more of an impact on me than you could ever imagine.

To the one with the cherry soda,
You are the words that I will never be able to say. For many reasons.
You are my beautiful secret, yet also the most tragic enigma to walk through my walls. Because you’re so hard to decipher. You’re foreign: everything is and was so hard to decipher with you, and I don’t know if I ever will. Maybe that’s part of the beauty with you.However, you’re like malaria: reoccurring, and deadly. Each time you come back, you take a little part of me. You add another dash of hope. Because that’s the thing: you always come back. And that is what makes you so intensely addicting.
And I love/ hate you for that.

To the one with the trainers,
I’m sorry for what I did. I’m sorry for turning into a girl who I never expected to. I’m sorry for putting strain between us and I’m sorry that you can’t forgive me. I’m sorry for ruining our friendship.
I’m sorry for hurting you.
I’m sorry that I didn’t love you.

To the one with the uno cards,
It seems like there is nothing to be said, as I have said it all before.
Some days I miss you tragically, others I can just about silence your haunting voice.
One day, I pray that I will see you again. You were the one that got away.
You were seeing a flawed person perfectly.

To you,
Despite my untamable heart, I’d like you to know that I really do quite like you.
I enjoy being with you. Please can we stay that way?
I’d really quite like that.

All the love in the world,
Alys

Recurrence.

Sometimes, late at night, I lay and wonder where you are.

But that’s all I can do: wonder. Wonder how you are, what you’ve been doing and where you’ve been. You’re my guilty pleasure; the addiction that I can never quite kick. It’s exhausting thinking how breathlessly enchanted I was with you, yet I can never be anything more than content now that you are gone. Your constant haunting has ruined me, and the reoccurring memories render me unsatisfied.
Your crooked smile, the way you traced the back of my neck with your finger, the smell of your clothes and the unending road trips. Each one of them a bittersweet memory leaving the dry taste of regret and remorse.

Some days, I have to restrain every urge to pick up the phone and call you.

But I can’t. What would I have to say? What could I say? Everything was so long ago, yet almost feels like yesterday. I still have your bracelet, and I still have the tickets from the night that where we drove until the early hours of the morning. I can still faintly hear you voice, hear the crackle in your laugh and the way that you would hum along to our favourite songs.

But times have changed, I should be happy. I found someone. Someone who makes me content. But I can never feel that spark, that unending dreamlike euphoria of yearning to spend every minute with that one person. I’m stuck in the trap of being content but pretending to be infatuated with the boy who seems just short of perfect, and desiring the enthralling pseudo-perfect image of you that remains in my mind. But if I shut my eyes and push you away, I’m happy. In fact, I have the possibility of loving, but risk that it may only be with half of my heart. Because, you are far from evanescent. You have no intention to leave my mind, for you have already marked my heart.

I just don’t know what to do anymore: stay or flee; disregard or cling?

Beautiful.

Knowledge is creativity
Creativity is passion
Passion is boldness
Boldness is strength
Strength is perseverance
Perseverance is hope
Hope is faith
Faith is trust
Trust is honesty
Honesty is vulnerability

And vulnerability? vulnerability is beautiful. Because it is when we are at our most vulnerable, we are at our most lovable.

Ten thousand.

I’m amazed.

It feels just like yesterday when this blog reached one hundred views, and now it has reached such a significant milestone, I’m speechless.
When I created this blog almost one year ago, I never expected such a beautiful turnout of readers. I never imagined that people would actively read my blog; that I would have regular followers; that someone other than myself would read the thoughts of a naive young woman.

Thank you for staying with me. Thank you for forgiving the typos, the lack of accurate syntax, the clichés, the hyperbole, the constant use of anaphora,  the imperfect grammar and seeing me through all of my clumsy typing. Thank you for making my days with wonderful comments and support.

Most of all, thank you for providing me with the passion and inspiration and drive to do what I love most: write.

Drive.

There’s something distinctly beautiful about being young and driving on an open stretch of road. It’s the enlightenment of realising the cliché is not contrived, but wonderfully real. It’s feeling free; it’s feeling infinite; it’s feeling nothing but that precise moment: no fears nor constraints. As the film flicks in the peripheral, every inhibition is left behind, and the focus becomes the unending road before you: the freedom of knowing that you could go anywhere.
At this age driving is not a necessity, but a liberty. It’s the excitement of the first real chance of escape.
It’s limitless, it’s infinite, it’s youth.

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