Broken strings & Pretty things

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

Archive for the tag “2013”

Antidote.

Though friendships may fade into the distance, you always stay. And there are never enough words to give justice how grateful I am for that. Even if I spend the past month scouring for them.

Because you’re the one that stayed through everything.

You’re the one who survived every hit, though I know you’ll argue no punch is even thrown.
You’re the one who stilled the tears and made me laugh when it felt like life was nothing but grey.
You’re the one who understands my disjointed and forgetful thoughts and delights in every flaw.
You’re the one who is patient beyond comprehension and doesn’t even realise it.
You’re the one who laughs uncontrollably in my fountains of melodrama and unfathomably finds beauty in it.
You’re the one who passed through the walls and set up camp.
You’re the one who fits.

You’re the sweetest elixir, and the most faithful companion.
You’ve inspired these past eight months and you continue to inspire me today.

My love. My salvation. My all.

Thank you for stripping the poison from these veins.

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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.

December.

I love December because it brought me back to you.

December brought me back to the ginger in your beard and the carelessness of your blonde ruffles. It brought me back to the pools of your peridot eyes. It brought me back to the honeysuckle of your voice. It brought me back to your simple warmth. It brought me back to nostalgia. It brought me back to your slowness, your calm and your easiness. December brought me back to tea-stained afternoons decorated with clumsy conversations.

December brought me back to yet another bustling coffee shop with you. It brought me back to the asymmetrical fullness of your bottom lip. It brought me to some hard apologies, and even harder forgiveness. It brought me back to your endearing immaturity. It brought me back to being the person there for you. December brought me back to a friendship that I though had ended, and made a bed for a new start to bloom.

December brought me back to earth and back to you. It brought me out of my head and back into the warmth of your arms. It brought me away from the edge where I was ready to jump. It brought me back from recklessness and self sabotage and fear. It brought me back to love and wholeness and maturity. It brought me to where I belong. It brought me to realisation and sincere gratitude. It brought me back safely from almost letting history repeat itself.  December brought me back to sense.

December brought me back home.
To you.
To all of you.

Berlin.

Sometimes I wonder whether the moon misses the sun.

I wonder whether there truly is silence in space
Maybe instead the stars themselves
Are psychedelic whispers transcending
Across the velvet skyline.

Or maybe the moon does not actually miss the sun.

Because maybe there is happiness in knowing
That they are moving in a parallel waltz
That maybe just sharing the same atmosphere
Is enough.

Because one day each celestial glide
With each side’s unshakable zeal
Will one day meet

In the warmth and brightness
Of a silver eclipse.

Necessity.

“You’ll need coffee shops and sunsets and road trips, aeroplanes and passports and new songs and old songs. But people more than anything else. You will need other people. And you will need to be that other person to someone else; a living, breathing, screaming invitation to believe better things.”
– Jamie Tworkowski

Eighteen.

Yesterday I finally turned eighteen. Last year I wrote about finally turning seventeen (https://brokenstringsandprettythings.wordpress.com/2012/12/03/seventeen/)
and it’s strange to think what has happened in just one year. That’s the gloriously captivating thing about birthdays: you just don’t know what is going to happen in the next twelve months. Much like how I wrote last year, this year was filled with the highest of highs and no doubt the lowest of lows. Seventeen was the year where I didn’t think I could face anything harder, and seventeen was the year where I didn’t think I was going to cope. Seventeen was the year of not only losing two of the most significant people in my life, but an array of close and distant friends. But seventeen was the year of change, and the year of meeting the most wonderful people. Seventeen was making the best of friends and going half way across the world and seeing a changed life. Seventeen was achieving more than I ever thought possible. Seventeen was falling in love when I didn’t think I would feel so strongly about a person again. Seventeen saw the hardest, but it welcomed the best. And although I lost and cried and despaired, I gained the whole world. Seventeen was the best year of my life.

And that’s what makes me so nostalgic about becoming eighteen: because seventeen was just so wonderful. Furthermore, eighteen means becoming an adult; it’s not just another candle on the cake like seventeen was. Eighteen is the setting sun to my childhood, and the dawn of a brand new world. Eighteen marks change: in eight months I don’t even know where I’m going to be; just not here.
Eighteen is responsibility and sensibility and less recklessness. But that doesn’t mean eighteen will be any less wonderful than seventeen. Eighteen is freedom and chance and risk. Eighteen is challenging and different and that’s exciting. The next year is going to be filled with new trials and temptations and crying down the phone as well as joys and dancing with friends and 3am. Eighteen is going to be wonderful.

Eighteen is only the beginning.

Best.

“Did you know I can touch my nose with my nose?”

We’re sitting in my car at the traffic lights, and I’m close to tears. I slowly turn my head to the left. Sure enough your tongue is rammed right up your nose.

And I’m just sitting here, almost about to break; you’re sitting there with drool covering your nose.
The tears fall.
And I’m laughing.
I’ve never loved you so much before.

I’m in love with you because you know how to turn my days around. You think it’s funny when I’m mad, or stressed or fixed on something completely insignificant. You tell right away when something is not okay. You do anything and everything to make me feel better, and never fail at it. You make me laugh by looking at dumb photos of obese cats and dogs with strange expressions in bed. You see my faults and choose to completely disregard them. You know exactly what to say. You hold my hand, or touch my knee or say my name and the world is okay again. You make no sense and do the silliest of things and say things completely out of the blue, and I love it.
You’re honest. And that’s the best part.

Quite frankly, you are the best. This time I really mean it.

Mapped.

It’s almost as if the stars slowly pin-pointed their constellations to this.

It’s as if every tiny decision made; every question asked; every struggle faced all pointed towards this. Like my own labyrinth in Plato’s cave, it wasn’t until I reached this opening when I realised that I was actually heading for something. Because if you had told me this destination seven years ago, or even three months ago, I would never have believed it. I never thought I was good enough. To be honest, I still question it every day.

I’m not one to believe in fate, but I wholeheartedly believe everything before this has been mere preparation for something bigger: that every time I wanted to give up, that every time I almost succumbed to the easy option and those times where I thought I just wouldn’t be able to do it, were not in vain. They slowly and quietly led to me to an opportunity: to this old brick road and this towering building before me. Every labour, every pushed limit, every breathless cheer were mere steps to give me the strength to get here.

I’ll open these centuries-old gates and tread those paths so many before me have laid their footprints. I’ll fight: I’ll fight for everything that has allowed me to be sitting in this history-laden room and prove to myself that I am good enough; that I was always good enough. I’ll continue to test those limits, to strive and keep striving until there is no horizon left to capture.

I may not have been able to call you up and tell you where I’m going  any more, but I know you’ll be there too. You always had some preconceived idea I’d wind up somewhere like this.

And chances are that this may not work out; maybe this isn’t actually where I’m headed, but yet another prolonged dead-end. But that’s fine. I’ll try my hardest anyway. Because I’ll make my way out of this labyrinth one day, and I know that I’ll do you proud no matter where it leads me.

‘L’.

I guess this is really happening.

I mean, I had always kind of believed that one day this would happen, but I never actually knew it would. It was more of an optimistic hope, or yearn or even helpless cling to reality that it could, one day. But I definitely did not think it would happen right now, or with you or this much.

A helpless form of awkwardness and helplessness grapples me, as I hold your head in my hands and whisper in your hair. The thoughts I had always silenced to the caverns of the back of my mind somehow tried to propel themselves into the fresh and open air. They seemed to want to be in the open where they could blossom, rather than being sentenced to their locked up cages. So I compromise. I murmur softly in your ruffled locks, far from the vicinity of your ears. I still said it, you just didn’t know I did. And that makes it safe.

And almost as if those delicate syllables diffused straight into your knowing, your head comes up for air and brings me in. An affirmation that this is safe; that this state of vulnerability doesn’t mean instability. One day those words can echo.

Slowly, as the absinthe in your iris intoxicates, the thoughts begin to linger a little more on my tongue. They gain depth and flavour and vigour.  They formulate themselves in a simple, yet heavy utterance. It would be over in just one breath. A simple movement of the mouth, a swift hushed voice, and you’d know. Those little talks and glimmers in my eyes would be made vocal. And I begin to curve my lips into a word, but my larynx closes shut. I’m not ready to let this go. I’d much rather live in my head where it’s much safer and calmer and risk-free.

So time somehow catapults us on the day of your birthday. After the laughs of friends who had imbibed far too much lulls to a quiet hush and the last clack of a heel stumbles through the door, I’m left in your arms. Somehow all those locked up thoughts have leaked into the whole vicinity of the room. It’s so tangible. It’s as if there are no words left to say, but I say them anyway. I use that dreaded word, the one with the ‘l’, and.

He’s still here. His arms are still around me, his skin glowing in the light only found at 4am and I’m safe. Along the way he said that he had always felt the same too. And that was it. And that’s it. Like that, I lay by his side and laugh at his jokes and finally feel that effulgence of  life and brilliance and know that it’s going to be okay.
Because I’m right. He’s different. He’s worth the wait.
He’s lovely.

Infatuation.

You’re a silent brigade in the dead of the night.
You’re the fiery balm in the bitterness of Winter.
You’re a booming whisper in the midst of silence.
You’re the smiling eyes in the sea of unhappy faces.
You’re an unanswerable question in a black and white world.
You’re the simple rhetoric in a room filled with answers.
You’re an unquestionable happiness in a hopeless setting.
You’re the all-consuming love in a barren wasteland.

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