Broken strings & Pretty things

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

Archive for the tag “inspiration”


It’s these kind of days that I live for- the days where the spaces between seconds stretch until infinity feels like something tangible; when the world is golden and pure and nothing exists outside of this moment. When we shout at the sky for clouds taking away our precious sunshine; when our senseless chatter flows out into a simple melody. These are the days I turn the page to when life gets that bit too much: these in-between moments when we stop living in the past or working towards our futures; when we actually savour the taste of the present. In these precious seconds, I no longer care about any current uncertainties, because everything I need is right here.


untitled by 夏先生 on Flickr.

(image via tumblr)


The last few days. (August)

It’s always the last few days: they sparkle and glimmer like no others. Everyone is caught up in some kind of golden exuberance, dragging their fingers across this sepia-stained clingfilm, making sure they can feel every last second. Eyes are stretched as widely as they can go, as if we can somehow vacuum in every last speck of this place into a space that is fit for hand luggage. Even our breathing deepens, hyperventilating like we can somehow store this peace somewhere for the cold months, when Winter’s reality is too much.

These moments, they cling to you; cradle you in a golden canvas. We hold onto them because we know it’s not going to be the same tomorrow; that soon we will wake up in a faraway land, in a bustling city, and we will miss the sweet smell of pine or the crystal green of fresh water. Soon floral prints will fold in the face of wool tailoring and, soon, we will all just be grainy faces stuck on bedroom walls.

Soon enough, these present glories will become faded memories of a better time; a time when days were long and the sunshine was bright. Because none of this real, none of it was ever real. But that’s summertime: when the romantics finally get their chance to live life like they had always dreamed.

(image via

‘So happy I could die’.

Hurtling through the velvet skyline
this moment stretches, making us infinite.
Lungs too filled with air to cope
to even blink
to even mutter.
Here, I could lay my body.

Green crystal waters and lofty pines;
purple mountains eclipse Continental sun.
We soak our skin until everything floods out.
Letting the water pull us in
just enough.
Here, you and I could lay our bodies.

Glittered words and glowing lights
eyes wide in a fixed bloom
they speak words no one can hear,
dancing alone in a sea of pulsating figures.
Here, we could lay our bodies.

And if it weren’t for outstretched hands
and garlands of long-cherished names;
If I could just sink
without leaving an unexplained grave
I would lay my body here,
Drenched in this golden exuberance.

(image via tumblr)


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)

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
 Last year’s thank you:


And this is true happiness.

Snow stained sparkles and red lipped laughter. Caverns of quilts shaped by a long missed embrace. Familiar scents and unforgotten laughter. Winding roads leading me back to the steps I once trod. The warmth of deep voices cradled by the tender taste of afternoon tea. The deep ginger of worn beards and the prickle of awfully grown moustaches. The jibes of merciless teasing, carving faces into permanent grins. The clattering of clay plates and the comfort of my mother’s food. The richness of wine intoxicating green eyes. The endless chatter of your breathless accent alight by fire in your personality. The sweetness of your soul and the unending hilarity of your sister’s jokes.

Once a place so entrenched in fear has finally become a haven.

The exorcism of my home town.

(image credit


Then, she began to breathe, and live, and every moment took her to a place where goodbyes were hard to come by. She was in love, but not in love with someone or something, she was in love with her life. And for the first time, in a long time, everything was inspiring.

-r.m. drake

tumblr_n1vj61MNoB1rdq9f1o1_1280(image via tumblr) 


I looked up to the sky and praised Him, because I finally made it here.
After years of constant star gazing, and months of unshakable hope, and weeks of constant calender watching, I was here: I was finally home.

No longer would I sit in a cold room drenched in loneliness, and no longer would I crave the warmth of an poisoned friendship. No longer would doubt and insecurity coarse my veins, wrenching my heart into a static sickness. No longer would numbness become reality and no longer would tears be the water to wash in.

So the clock finally demanded that my time had come, and I moved far away. I left the years of disappointment and confusion and the streets of dead-ends and lost dreams. As tyres hurtled me to bright lights and high hopes, I stripped myself of those half hearted goodbyes which cracked my heart into such fragile pieces. The road was long, and the journey was as difficult as the prelude, but it eventually led me here.

It led me here, to you. All of you. It led me to sunshine soaked afternoons lying in peace, and embraces filled with honesty. No longer did my name feel unsafe on another’s tongue, and no longer did I lay my head in depths of fear. I was, well and truly, home after years of fighting for it.

And though being home meant saying goodbye, and although my love is found on the other side of the country, I still have hope. I have the hope which made me survive the deepest depths of insecurity; the nights where hopelessness and the gripping sense of depression wouldn’t leave my bones. Because if I could muster myself through that, the distance between us are is a mere breeze in these sails.

So I stand here in this room, filled with faces carved with happiness. And though most of you don’t know it, I thank you all every single day. I thank you for never letting me let another tear fall on my pillow, and I thank you that a crowded room is no longer something so deeply lonely.

Thank you for making this long awaited destination somewhere I never wish to leave.


And the tears streaked my irises like the rain drops on the window pane as the train tracks led me far, far

away from you.

And all I wanted to do was to stop this train; stop this eternal ticking of time; stop this distance

and crawl back home into you.

And all I could taste was the smell of your skin and  all I could see was the beauty of your voice

yet all that surrounded was complete vacancy.

And all I want to do was to bridge this gap; to colour in this distance etched between us. All I want is to break these in-between moments between now and two weeks away. I’m desperate for your voice to be closer than a crackle down the wireless and your smell to be stronger than the linger of your old sweater. I want your hands to be more than muscle memory.
And I want, more than anything else, for your embrace to remain something unbroken.

But I will carry on chasing you, and I will build a bridge between these miles which stretch their arms between us. And I will embrace the time constrained conversations like the arms that will soon envelope my waist.

(image via


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.

Post Navigation