Broken strings & Pretty things

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

Archive for the month “September, 2014”

Marvellous.

Sometimes I all I can muster is to just sit and watch you, because, in a multitude of perfectly imperfect moments, that’s all I can do: stare.

Because the slightest pull of being in your atmosphere; the rhythm and risk of my name on your lips; the simpleness of knowing your fingers will clasp mine without a second of doubt: these are things people have written sonnets and plays and cried and laughed about and have gone to war over since man’s eyes first laid themselves on another. Yet, as history rolls on, no one has been able to capture those words. No library, or painting or monument can ever truly capture the depth and passion and rawness of unadulterated adoration within the love-stricken human being.

So as I sit and watch with the same widened eyes as generations before us did with their own paramour, I realise that I too cannot find those words. I realise that I cannot build you a palace. I cannot mark your name in posterity’s history books. I cannot rearrange the stars from their idiosyncratic welds and form our own skyline.

But I know what I can do: I know that I could scour dictionaries and anthologies and learn languages and write volumes of poetry all in vain to find those words that I’m looking for. But there is no need, because the most profound things in life are too great, too powerful, too wondrous for words.

And with that, I am content, for I would rather love deeply than search widely. I would rather give you my heart than the moon, or a river or Giroud’s autograph (though you may debate with me on this one). I would rather communicate my love with action and deed than a simple set of syllables. You are more than a worn out and static phrase: you are active and present and as real as the air residing in my lungs as I write.

You are oh so marvellously ineffable.

Advertisements

The fall from summer.

I know that you say that you are excited for change, and I know that you say that you are happy the way things are, but I know how easy you find it to hide your feelings until you come undone in the solace of your bedroom.

And I know that you want it to be summer forever, no matter how excited you say you are about moving away. I know that autumn strikes fear into your heart, because you believe autumn means change, and change means distance and a broken heart and missing what is right here in front of you. But darling, please stop living your life in the summer. Stop waiting for sunny days to free yourself and stop waiting for the sunshine to fix your problems.

Because the summertime isn’t real. Although summer makes things appear brighter, it doesn’t necessarily mean that they are better. Because easier is not better. Easier is lazier and laziness is doing nothing; achieving nothing. You were created to do so much more than stagnation and a tradition of a wrongly fitting pattern, no matter how comfortable and beautiful it feels.

In the autumn, things happen: you happen. Contrary to popular belief, autumn is where you blossom and winter is where you flourish. It is in the bleakness when you truly find yourself, and it’s when you cut that tie when you can take your shoes off and run in the grass and scream to your heart’s content. Here, you are too strangled. Here, you are told what fits and what to put in your head and you are deceived into thinking who you should love. Not because you don’t know any better, but because the sunshine is a cunning mistress and makes the deepest wound appear the friendliest face.

Run away into those autumn leaves. Let autumn’s musty breath change you: change everything. Let it settle in your relationships, in your eyes, in your heart, on your windowsill. Let it make nothing appear the same. Then come back. Come back with fearsome tenacity and knowledge and strength in the fact that you no longer need to rely on fading blonde curls and summer dresses to make your day a good one.

Liverpool.

I didn’t know what to expect as the train hurtled me far into this western corner, but as my clumsy feet found themselves standing between your golden-ruffled grin and your freckle-kissed blue eyes, I suddenly found myself home.

This was not because any of these streets held any familiarity, and not because these crowds held any long-lost faces. I was home because I finally felt like there were no longer fault lines or hard edges or a squeezed fit: here, belonging felt effortless. With the pair of you beside me, this foreign city furled into a place where my name didn’t feel strange; I felt safe, and welcomed and loved.

And the feeling of home grew as every minute passed: as I made friends within your friends and shared in your smiles; as I learned your families’ names and revelled in their laughter; as I cooked and skipped and tripped beside you in each passing moment. And, for that, I could not begin to express my gratitude. For so long I had always felt content in half-hearted friendships and ill-fitting matches, and it was more than a blessing to taste the friendships I had longed for so long: to finally find a home when for so long I was trapped in empty streets and cul-de-sacs.

Because that’s the thing about home: it is far from bricks and mortar and a postcode. Home is knowing that your name is safe in someone’s mouth and home is no longer having to work. Home is no longer having to construct a perfect image. Home is reality and laughter and watching you wrestle your sister over photographs you’d rather left unseen.

And though train track wrenches us miles apart, I have never felt closer home. And though watching you hurtle far away, back into that western corner, heavied my heart like nothing else, I could not be happier. Because of you, and our entirely serendipitous friendships, I finally know that I belong.

(Photograph: Alamy, sourced via The Guardian)

Post Navigation