Broken strings & Pretty things

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

Rhythm.

There was the way that she listened to music: she would throw her head back and grin as if her head rested on every last note; she would exhale almost like every last breath weighed of lead, her head recoiling with each plunge of air. Then there was the was the way that his body became alive. His sides pulsated with every riff, his finger tips plunging deep into each beat. Everything about him began to resemble electricity; everything was sharp; everything was dynamic.

And it seemed like light streaked behind each movement, staining the dark night behind around them. What used to be black was now a phosphorescent blur. Shrouded in a halcyon web of sound and movement, it was if every last syllable hurtled them down that rain-soaked motorway.  She continued to keep her dipped chin tilted, feeling the soak of each chord run freely across her skin, pouring deep around her neck and welling into her back. He kept moving, sporadically, but with a fluid rhythm as track after track became the new theme tune .

Much like the way that you would notice other customers in a candlelit restaurant, they were quite aware of each other’s presence, but were equally far away, enveloped by those waves of symphony. Their eyes were dreaming of a far away place; their ears alive and awake in a wave of electronica. So the music continued to well and flood with each muscle clench, reaching a deafening loudness with each heavy exhale.

(image via weheartit)

The North Star.

My summer nights are christened with your name, your smile adorning these rolling fields with garlands of light.  And I continue to spend my summer days falling fast into these wisps of straw, with absolutely no intention of getting up. With every beam of your rose-stained lips and every glow of your tangled laughter, these cold bones grow warmer, and blue flesh becomes flushed.

And, for the first time in a long time, I feel alive.

But I can’t have you: you are a Michelangelo and I’m a thrift shop steal. You are a symphony and I’m a broken string. You are a shining glory fallen upon my calloused mistakes. I am more than damaged goods; I am a fountain of broken glass.

I may look, but I cannot possibly touch.

But I don’t mind, because people have their places and relationships have their time. I would rather gaze across this gliding sunset than never experience it at all. And I will continue to return to these summer nights and have you bless every passing star which blankets us. Maybe one day my fractures will become joins, and maybe I will become a vessel that no longer leaks. Maybe then my ink-stained hands will be able to clasp something as tender as you.

Nevertheless, it is beyond a pleasure to witness your great orchestra, even if I am but a blurred face in a bustling crowd.

The last day.

You get a strange feeling when you’re about to leave a place. Like you will not only miss the people you love but you will miss the person you are now at this time and this place, because you will never be this way ever again.
Azar Nafisi

Fire.

Deep in midnight, we set these walls ablaze
We hurled daggers from our mouths
Breathed fire from our lungs
We mercilessly broke each other down until nothing was left
Our silent screams echoed for no one to hear
And we fell deeply, darkly into a restless slumber

But as the light of morning cradled your every edge
We awoke fragilely in a silver embrace
Chains were broken; freedmen were made
Wounds were cleaned; burns were healed
Curves dominated faces
We were free and everything had returned.

(image via tumblr)

Untitled.

And she loved him. She loved him with every closing of those familiar sliding doors, every glide of cigarette smoke, every last chime of wine-stained laughter. And she missed him, waking with that dull ache of reality as morning crept across her body. His smell had long left her room, but his mark was still scorched on her skin, in a place that could never quite heal.

But time had passed and drastic decisions had long been fixed in their ways. He would never love her. His passion began and ended on those cold January days, whilst she carried on burning. She made sure the flame lay low, deep inside where no one would discover the burning ash inside of her lungs. So she filled her days with empty conversations and tried to put people in gaps that just didn’t fit. She tried to forget him, she honestly did. He was tirelessly flawed and tarnished and painful, but he had a grip on her that her fingers just couldn’t undo. He was a masterpiece of broken glass; a summer’s day without any shade. And without knowing, she would always hope for dark eyes in the countless puddles of blue.

She continued burning away, putting away everything they had once shared at the back of her wardrobe. That is where her monsters would live. And she slowly accepted that she would forever be but a snowflake in his great avalanche; an exhale of smoke in his grand ballroom.

(image via tumblr)

Empty bed syndrome.

She lay there awake at night, wishing she was somewhere else. Kisses were her company and hugs were her home. Her blankets were a limp arm and her lungs only worked if the air passed through other lips.

She was trapped in a place where even friends couldn’t fill the void: she no longer craved love. The only thing that kept her bones warm at night was the heat of a naked body pressed against her. She missed him. She still found his outline next to her at night. She pressed herself around his skinny waist and she kissed his nose and curled her eyelashes around his cheeks, only to realise that this was another body. This one wouldn’t hold her tightly in the final moment; this one wouldn’t chase the night away with silent whispers. He may be soft and gentle, but, to her, he was just a familiar shell of a long-missed body.

She realised that she couldn’t sleep with that empty cupboard next to her, because she could never have empty spaces in her life: everything had to have its place; everything had to be filled. And for this reason, she could never be alone. Empty air was constricting; open spaces were suffocating.

So she rolled over, wishing that he could fill that void, wishing that he would come back to bed and fill this ghostly space between them.

(image via tumblr)

Oceans.

The sea rolled her way onto the shore, and brought you back to me.

Her breeze hung on my hip like the way you held on when everything was crumbling apart between us. It brushed my lips like the time I didn’t know it was our last kiss, and then again against my cheek like when you thought I was asleep. I was encompassed by a golden glow, reflecting your gaze when everything was okay: holding me in the shine of the promise that we would make this next season. With it, I felt the warmth of your body pressed against mine on cold winter nights.

And as the winds picked up, I remembered that evening when words where thrown and things hit harder than home. I remember the salt water flooding between us, filling those open miles we had always managed to cross. I felt your muscles seize and your skin became cold. Everything became blurry; everything became pale. As much as I held on, I couldn’t stop the waves breaking us apart. And, for the longest moment, I thought I was drowning.

And for a while, I was. The freezing waters climbed down my lungs and filled my insides with numbness. All I could do was watch the waves pass over me, suspending me in this halfway house between sinking and making it through. Over time, I managed to raise my lips above those waters: just enough to know that it wasn’t the end. I just kept floating until I found somewhere stable. There, I finally learned to stand again.

And that morning I stood on that beach, and watched the currents pull you far, far, away.

(image via tumblr)

Love blindly.

Love blindly and love like you have never loved before. Love with wide eyes and dimpled cheeks and outstretched arms. Love their stories and their hopes and their family’s names. Soak in the sound of their laughter. Sing to their favourite songs. Retell their favourite jokes. Love people like it’s your first love: tell them your secrets, your childhood memories and make plans for the future together. Keep nothing hidden, and delight in what makes them laugh.

Love them even more as you start to uncover their flaws, because you can finally see that they are real. Love their impatience or their closed mind or their lateness. Love the way they can be a snob over music, or coffee, or books. Love them unequivocally, because it’s these little bits which make them so wonderful. Spend evenings listening to their tone deaf singing, and eat their burnt baking, and hold them up when they are too drunk to stand. Continue loving them when they let you down, or make a careless comment, or lie, because people make mistakes, because no one is beyond forgiveness. Throw them parties without expecting thank yous, write them letters when you expect no response, continue hugging them when their arms fall loose. Love them because you know that they are still there, somewhere underneath that mess which has mounted between the two of you.

Continue loving them blindly until they wipe mud on your eyes and you can finally see. Then watch them unfurl into the person you never thought they could be. Love them anyway. Continue to come over to their house, and make them tea, and listen to their problems. Keep laughing at their jokes, even when their voice has lost that melody. Constantly remind yourself of the good times: the folk concerts, or when they held you when everything was breaking down, or becoming part of their family. Keep loving them and keep making excuses until you finally stare at their face and realise how ugly they have become.

And then, I don’t know how to go on. Do you keep living for the days when the sun shines on their face; when the person you used to know knocks on your door? Do you continue to love the person that they used to be; the person that they claim to be? Or should you stop waiting for them to come home?

Because, either way, it’s going to hurt.

 

Three years.

And there we have it: three whole years of time spent writing on this humble little blog. Three years of naive wishing, desperate prayers, hyperbolic tears and love-struck poems. Over the course of time, this blog has become more than an outlet for my writing, but a reflection of my final teenage years: an insight of all that has changed from the age of sixteen.

I know that every year I have written a thank you to all of you that have somehow managed to stumble upon my site, but, from the bottom of my heart, I could not be more grateful for all of your support. Whether you have been here from my humble beginnings in 2012, or have just recently found brokenstringsandprettythings, I could not thank you enough for the time you have taken to read my little ramblings on life, love, faith, and everything in between. Thank you for the constant support that you all equip me with, and thank you even more for coping with my half-baked and hyperbolic posts. You all truly inspire me.

I would also like to apologise for the significant decrease in posts in the past months. Moving to London for university has been one of the most wondrously crazy moments of my life and I’m so happy that, after all of this time, I am finally living my dream. As a result, I have sometimes found it really difficult to find the time to write, but I am truly working on it! Therefore, thank you again for still visiting and reading my site when content can be so limited.

Finally, I truly want to thank the people who currently surround me, because you never cease to inspire me. You have all made life a dreamy fairytale which I never thought I would actually obtain. Your smiles, and happiness, and unending laughter light up my days like no other. You all keep me writing, through the good times and the bad. You made a very sad and lonely girl become the one whose face never stops beaming. Without you, there would be no words, no passion, and no inspiration. Without you, there would be nothing left to write about.

So, for the third time, here’s to another year filled with the clumsy typings of a young woman who is still trying to make sense of the world. As I pass through my final year of being a teenager, I realise that though little parts of me have changed, I am still the naive girl who is trying to find the bigger and brighter parts of life; the things worth clinging to. I will continue to write about them, and I will continue to be inspired by you, all of you, whether it is via a computer or in the surrounding day. So thank you.

You all make this blog what it is today.

(photo via http://goo.gl/hrnc9C)
 Last year’s thank you: http://goo.gl/JpWVAz

Crab fishing.

I called your name.

But there was no answer.

Empty corridors, silence down the line, a vacant stare, a message which will never come. I stand and stare out of the window, in the vain hope that your dark eyes will be staring back, twinkling in the mysterious way that I always adored. And I shake my head, not at you or the barren tarmac below, but at me, for the fact that I allowed you another piece of hope. So I pull on the wool of my cardigan, because the frost between us chills my bones too deeply.

And as I sit at my desk, I wonder if my ghost has ever streaked your mind. I wonder if, in between the cigarettes and the music and distasteful jokes, whether you manage to turn your mind to lips pressed onto cheeks; when green eyes grew as wide as her grin. Or back to sudden statements and black stained pillowcases and her body pressed as far as possible into the wall, far away from you as possible.

But I put down my pen and I remember.

I was never that special to you.

Post Navigation