Deleting This Blog

I no longer have passion for this blog. It isn’t something I enjoy updating, and my audience isn’t who I’d like it to be. This site has no value to me anymore. I’m going to be completely devoting my time to the shiny new version of my lifestyle/minimalism/etc blog, found here. Please do take a look, and if you’d like to see my free-form there, I will consider. I may be working on a book soon, and those updates will be up there as I have them. So sorry to go, but so excited to have more room for what truly matters to me! Good luck, lovelies. This will be deleted by tomorrow.


Something From My Instagram

I’ve never liked having my photos taken. I guess it’s because it’s my thing. I take the photos of that couple on the street, or that friend who’s trying to impress a guy. I take the photos of my sister, who wants to look like a ballerina, the stranger I find beautiful. I don’t like myself in pictures, I don’t know how to look good in them. But I know how to make someone else look good in them. And that’s my craft. That’s okay; I love it. I love to see someone’s persona outlined in an image. A snapshot of what is truly a beautiful life. It’s hard, it takes practice, but I make my photos in a perspective that will make a viewer wonder. “Where were they? How is this person feeling? What is this mood? How would this circumstance occur?” By using this perspective, my photos become more thoughtful… more full of life. I have so much to more work for, and I can’t wait to improve upon my success. I have so much to show the world.


Specifically eyes. It’s seen as shy, awkward, uncomfortable. But is it not also intimate? I don’t believe that they are a window to the soul, but I do know that they mean something. What color are her eyes> How intense are his> When you see them, do they flit away, self-conscious? Or do they linger, for just a moment or two, comfortable in spite of vulnerability? And do they soften when you glance? They tend to crinkle when he smiles. Her mascara darkens them, deepens them, quiets her soul. It’s hard not to notice that twinkle in his eyes when he talks about his favorite song. Did you ever listen to it completely, offering every part of yourself to the melody he cherished so fully? I know you didn’t. It’s hard; I didn’t understand at first, how I was supposed to really be a part of their lives, their interests… It’s one of the hardest things to do. Even if you hate it, even if the world falls on your shoulders because of it, you have to ignore the resistance. Look into their eyes just a moment longer than you’d like. Hold her gaze for a short while more. Make it your goal to understand that complex visual galaxy. It’s futile, but it’s heaven in a human being. Try to understand. You can’t. But try.

Sunday Morning

Nothing is rushed on a Sunday morning.

Nothing is wrong on a Saturday night.

Waking up late, starting your day,

Everything slow, but just right.

Taking your coffee,

Hands on both sides.

Listening to the sounds of outside.

Breathing in and breathing out.

Acknowledging your tasks.

Nothing is rushed on a Sunday morning.

Bills and Banknotes

What a rut I’m stuck in

You speak and I listen

No room for lack or lust

No space but clouds of dust

A bit of smoke

Your soul evokes

We dance the line

It turns out fine

Such is the life

Of ours; a knife

I hold

Your hands are gold

Tired, stop.

Drifting off;

To sleep we go

The dreamer owes her debts.



We throw this simple word around, this emotion, this phrase that keeps us

In a daze, never truly understanding why

Standing under a veil of semi-trust, but when the 

Dust clears and we’re still here,

What is love, 


Is it a constant clockwise circle of endearment,

Sweet words and nothings that warm a heart,

Brushing away the dull misfortune and demise

And the lulls of each day?

A blessing in disguise, these hardships

That trip us into the arms of someone who’ll keep us

Safe from harm, turning our worlds up-side down

And inside out

Without a doubt, 

They capture a heart.

And is there silence?

Yes. And violence,

Though not as much,

And not the kind we know so well,

Recognizing the hell of this world,

Taking us to somewhere else.

See, we know what this is;

What it means

Is something that needs no definition,

No encyclopedia of hearts could help us now.