Broken strings & Pretty things

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

Archive for the month “January, 2014”

The little things.

Her finely touched spirit had still its fine issues, though they were not widely visible. Her full nature, like that river of which Cyrus broke the strength, spent itself in channels which had no great name on the earth. But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.

-George Eliot, Middlemarch

Eden.

I awoke in a haze of sea green eyes of my salvation: my saving grace from a midst of unending despair.

You came down and rescued me from a world enshrouded in fear and loneliness and hopelessness. You picked me up and brushed off the dust and kissed where it hurt. You washed away the impurity and hate with the tender waves of mercy. You looked into dull and tarnished eyes let them rest until rejuvenation.

You turned the other cheek when the punches started to roll. You pardoned when untrue words were lashed and struck into your side. You rolled away the stone of a cynical and careless heart and shone in glory. You carried my pain and doubt and dissolved it before my very eyes. Unconditional love flowed from your veins into my eyes and resided in my heart.

You saw beauty in creation and took my hand and ran with me to a garden of fresh hope and frivolity. You taught me words of faith and love and hope and selflessness. You waited with saintly patience as my heart grew open to accommodate your inescapable effulgence and felt me blossom in your breath.

And we stood there in an unshakable embrace and watched with breathless gazes as heaven touched earth.

Battles, losses and hopes.

Charles Dickens opens his novel A Tale of Two Cities with the line “It was the best of times; it was the worst of times”. This couldn’t better describe the year 2013.

Sixteen days overdue, but I just couldn’t shake the feeling of reflecting the year of of broken heart strings, promises and relationships; the year of  wide eyed smiles, sweet smelling embraces and tear stained laughter. Two-thousand and thirteen truly was the most eclectic mixture of joy and pain and hopefulness.

What 2013 took away:

  1. My father.
  2. My Grandmother.
  3. The ability to believe in lukewarm relationships.
  4. Some much loved and comfortable friendships.
  5. Complete trust in everyone whom I met.
  6. Belief in my abilities.
  7. The living situation of a typical seventeen year old.
  8. My perception of people.
  9. Self esteem.
  10. My Grandmother’s health.
  11. Faith. In many instances.
  12. My mother’s happiness.

What 2013 gave:

  1. Clarity of what constitutes a healthy relationship.
  2. The ability to distinguish a true friend.
  3. A unfailing passion for writing.
  4. A wider vocabulary.
  5. Nights I wished that would never end.
  6. A driver’s license.
  7. Independence.
  8. Openness.
  9. Resilience.
  10. A first kiss.
  11. True belief in my own abilities.
  12. The AS level grades I dreamed of.
  13. A month long adventure in Africa.
  14. The belief to never settle.
  15. An interview at Cambridge University.
  16. An offer from the university I dreamed of  for several years.
  17. Hope.
  18. Joy.
  19. Forgiveness.
  20. Patience.
  21. A truly wonderful love.

What I wish for in 2014:

  1. A sustained belief in the fact that I will achieve my dreams.
  2. The ability to keep going, rather than wish for the end.
  3. For an constant passion to continue writing.
  4. The fixing of several friendships.
  5. A wonderful end to my final school year.
  6. The confidence to know I can love without fear.
  7. Never to forget my friends.
  8. To show my mother my appreciation.
  9. Humility.
  10. Fearlessness for when I move out.
  11. To smile every day.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way – in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

-Charles Dickens.

A hopeful mess.

We lay there in the fragments of our own undoing; in the depths of empathy; in unshakable forgiveness; in unfailing helplessness. The only gap between a tear-stained whisper. Everything had been torn down, ripped apart and burnt in some sporadic cataclysmic flame.

And we found ourselves in the midst of it.

And we awoke from this fiery haze with nothing but an unyielding clutch. A drowning in blankets and hands trying to save and bring life back to deflating lungs. Nothing to be said but a mountain of words both requited and known by both parties, yet still yearned to be spoken. A simple flick of wet irises were enough.

Enough to say that no one is leaving.
I’m staying right here.

January blues.

With the closing of hinges, we hurtled far away from each other.

In a mere few hours long gone were those Earl Grey afternoons cluttered with the pitter patter of simple happiness. As quickly as December came and went, the family filled days in your living room blurred their way by as fast as the tyres and tarmac took us apart.

Because it wasn’t until my eighteenth Christmas when I realised the true treasure of family, despite them not being of my own blood. I embraced the warmth of laughter and shouting and family movies and never felt more at home than in someone else’s house. I laughed at the calamity of board games filled with sore losers and overzealous opponents. I helped make dinner and watched VCRs with your brother and cried in your mothers arms and talked business with your father.

And as the silent clock face danced her way to this point, it wasn’t until the final goodbye when I realised just how much this one was going to hurt. Because last time I was able to slowly watch you fly away and flourish whilst I submerged myself with the hustle and bustle of a new school year. But that is the elasticity of our beautiful friendship: that either of us can run to some other horizon and know that we will end up running back to a blue polka dot teapot. We always come back to each other. No matter how long of an adventure we embark on.

This was always going to be a hard one, because the goodbye was whispered as soon as the hello was spun around. You and I now live in different worlds, and fall asleep in exotic sheets. Emerald will lay far away from peridot. But one day it will come back, as the gravity will slowly lead us back to our shared atmosphere.

So as I hold you one last time before we say goodbye, I wish I held you that bit tighter.
But I always know that you are just a smell of chai; the tender sound of Jupiter; a guitar string strum away.

Forever and always my dearest best friend.

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