She Wanders

Born: 48°57′25″N 54°36′32″W

Currently found: 45°25′15″N 75°41′24″W


You make me speechless, but as a writer, if I have no words than I have nothing. So instead I will spend my days with my hands sliding up and down the spines of books, and scrawling my feelings onto page after page until this ache subsides.

The time has come for colds and overcoats.

The summer snuck past like a bad dream. It felt like it was lingering for a moment, and in a split second it was over - and I am left here panicking and heaving for breath. It was a good one, to say the least. The last year, in an of itself, has been so full of surprises for me that I truly don’t know where to begin - which may be why I haven’t bothered to write.

I’ve been in between dreams. There was New York, there was Newfoundland, and I am ending it all with a trip to Paris, and London. A gift to myself for everything I felt like I had given up years ago for love. When I sat at a crossroads between traveling and giving my heart away, and for some reason I chose love instead. DOn’t get me wrong though, I don’t regret the choices I made - but it certainly is impossible not to live with the what if’s, but I’ve traded them in for what now’s.

Now, after almost a year and a half in Toronto, four countries and enough new experiences to feel up all the voids I felt I had created, I am ready to take something I really want - and that is Paris.

While I’m only spending three days there in total, the idea of going there has my stomach completely in knots. I remember being hell bent on going there in the middle of my university career, when I wasn’t sure what I wanted to be, or where I wanted to go, but I knew that I wanted to see the world - and I wanted Paris to be the place I started. It all began with Remy, the adorable frenchman my aunt took in for a year, and with that my wanderlust exploded, and I knew I wanted to be everywhere. 

Now, several years older, a few trips under my belt, and a hell of a lot stronger, it’s my time to add Paris to my list. I want to eat lunch in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, I want to sit at a cafe and watch the world go by, I want to visit Montmartre and see the Moulin Rouge and drink red wine eating bread, and cheese until I pass out in the park. 

Most of all, I am excited for reunions. I’m going to be staying with Remy, seeing my cousin Cheryl, and doing this all with my dear friend Louis. Three days in Paris, and then we head back to his city of London where I spend a week exploring the markets, and the shops, and the cafes and the history of London. Hopefully, also, I’ll have a reunion with Kate (we traveled together in South America, and recently had a reunion in New York - I’m hoping we can make a third happen on her turf)

I’ve lost a lot of things along the way. I’ve lost good friends, and with that good memories were tarnished and my favourite parts of the city I used to dwell in have been reduced to ashes and dust and I know I can’t go back without feeling as lost as I was when I left. I know it all sounds a little dramatic, but it’s certainly how I feels. Losing people will always hurt, even when you know that you are the reason for losing them.

So I fill my days with dreams of trains, planes and automobiles. Of crossing lakes, and oceans. Of traveling highways, and backroads. Climbing hills, and mountains. Getting my feet dirty, and scraping my knees. I want to love more than a man. I want to love countries, cities, cobblestone streets, and seaside benches. I want my story to be told not only in words, but in coordinates, and passport stamps and visas.

And so far it’s all going according to plan.

Post Paris destination: Colombia. 

Whose in?

Obit steals my heart with a burrito reference.

obit:

1. The stuff beneath my underwear really started to exist when I was trapped on the balcony with my best friend and inside, through the fogged windows, we could see her mom and some guy we assumed to be her boyfriend moving with so much focus on the middle segment of their bodies. They disappeared…

450.

Somebody who I care about is becoming exactly who I knew they could be and I am so excited for them. Even if I they won’t speak to me, even if they don’t care how excited I am, even if I know I will probably never see them again…a girl can keep her fingers crossed, right?

The capacity to be alone is the capacity to love. It may look paradoxical to you, but it’s not. It is an existential truth: only those people who are capable of being alone are capable of love, of sharing, of going into the deepest core of another person—without possessing the other, without becoming dependent on the other, without reducing the other to a thing, and without becoming addicted to the other. They allow the other absolute freedom, because they know that if the other leaves, they will be as happy as they are now. Their happiness cannot be taken by the other, because it is not given by the other.

Osho (via psych-facts)

I think it’s cheesy when people write “I really needed this right now”, BUT, I really needed this right now.

(via ohheyitslivia)

I feel ya, sister.

(via ohheyitslivia)

Blame it on the weather

Thunderstorms always make me nostalgic. I feel as though I have hundreds of memories tied to them, and every time I hear that boom echo across the sky I am reminded of specific moments, tiny wrinkles in time.

I remember being in my garage, I was maybe ten or eleven years old. I was sitting with my mother, listening to the storm reverberate overhead. The rain was coming down heavy, and my mother and I were listening to the crashes and watching the light break in the sky. I remember my neighbour staggering over, liquor soaked and looking to talk. He was in a failing marriage, and Mom was always one to listen. I remember smelling the whiskey on his breath when he spoke, and him slurring until the early hours of the morning, when we finally decided we couldn’t wait the storm out, and finally headed off to bed.

I remember being seventeen, and in my first serious relationship. I had lied to my parents and said I was going to sleep at a friends house - instead, we went to my boyfriends house. We drank, smoked, and laughed until I finally realized the weather was too terrible to leave. It was the first night I slept at a boy’s house. His parent’s were out of town. It felt so rebellious. It was one of those moments when you think you’re so grown up, that your parents advice or rules don’t matter anymore. I remember sitting in his basement, him on a chair and me with my back to him, crouched between his legs. I looked up, neck awkwardly bent backwards, and we kissed upside down. I remember thinking it was the most romantic moment of my life - like when Spiderman kisses Mary Jane on the fire escape. Those tiny moments that tingle through your body when you’re young, and in love. Those split seconds that will stay with you forever. I even still wear the ring he gave me, almost nine years ago - I suppose as a reminder that once upon a time, I was open to the idea of love. Every time I ever doubt myself, I fiddle with the ring. I softly remind myself I am capable of loving.

I remember standing under the overhang at the apartment my ex-boyfriend and I shared. Casually smoking cigarettes together, and watching the sky on fire. I remember thinking being with him was the happiest I had ever been in my whole life, and looking back I recognize how completely delusional love can make you. How I tried so hard to be everything I thought he wanted, and hid so much of myself away - to ensure things sailed smoothly. I still remember, so vividly, the day when he decided things had run their course. I remember crying until I couldn’t breathe, us falling asleep together on the couch - and then me waking up with the realization that if I didn’t walk away then - I would regret staying forever. It’s strange, how even still today, I think about him. How badly I wish we could talk, work things out, maintain some sort of friendship. I’m fairly certain I burned that bridge last October, when I slept with his best friend. I think I did it out of pure spite, out of a hope that it would cause some reaction that would convince him to speak to me, even if the conversation was simply just a ‘Fuck you” - but the worst part is, at this point he didn’t even care enough to bother. There was no pounding of words like thunder, there were no bursts of light and fire - there was only silence. The storm was over months ago.

I remember how the silence in Uruguay was broken by the resonating thunder. I remember when the sky was ablaze, and with it my silence was finally broken. The words were finally able to pour out of me, as the rain fell. I sat on the porch, and watched the lightening light up the horizon, which seemed endless. I remember scribbling down every feeling. I remember wishing I had told him that I came halfway across the world - not just to find myself, but to truly find out who he was. What struck me most, is that he was never really who I had imagined. He was like the eye of the storm. Calm and quiet - a steady passion that you knew could burn you up at any moment, and it surely did. I suppose I should have known better, but then again I have always preferred to live for why not’s, as opposed to the what if’s. This time I learned some rocks are better left unturned, that mystery is sometimes better than truth, and that misery loves company.

Every storm has a story. Every time I hear the rumble, I’m brought back to times I want to forget, and at the same time, I wish had never ended. I think that’s the thing about thunderstorms, like relationships - no two are the same. Each one has a different rhythm, a different outcome. There will always be the calm, the fury, and then the silence. I suppose I’ve just gotten better at cleaning up the aftermath.

Silenced.

I have written and erased and written and erased nearly 12 times. I have nothing I can say without saying too much - nothing I can feel without feeling wrong. So I will write and erase and write and erase and hope it all smoothes itself out. An iron to a crease - these flaws cannot be corrected on their own, and I’m certain there will always be friction.

So I will go back to the words Melphil shared with me and remember:

"When we long for a life without hardships, remember that oaks grow in strong contrary winds - and diamonds are made under pressure." 

(Also, happy belated birthday my dear. xx) 

water logged

I threw myself into the sea,
and let the tide take me away,
I let the words and the waves swallow me whole.

If you were the ocean,
I’d roll with you along rocky shores,
and I’d love to be washed out to sea,
if only to be lost with you, 
lost in you,
swallowed by you.

I would be glad to drown in your waves and in your words,
never to be happier,
with water-logged lungs. 

Looking back

I have spent so much time waiting. While I know I’m only 24, and I have years ahead of me to make a change, if I could go back in time and tell my younger self one thing, it would be to stop waiting for people, for places, and for things. Stop waiting to make the moves you want to make, because you are afraid it won’t work out, or you are afraid you will fail, or you are afraid they won’t reciprocate. So many times I have watched opportunity pass me by because I have been too scared to be honest about how I really feel, and about where my passion lies. And while I know passion cannot drive everything, and often times my instincts will kick in, and I know when to trust my head over my heart.

If I could tell my younger self one thing. It would be to take the offer from the school further away. To study what she wanted to study all along, instead of what was closest to him. To never, ever sacrifice her self respect for his needs. To never pass up an opportunity to see the ones she loved the most, because you never know when they will be gone. To always let people in, because she had a bad habit of closing herself off, and she shut so many good people out for fear of being let down or let go. 

If I could tell my younger self one thing, it would be to write. To always write. To write on napkins, and receipts. In the pages of journals, and notebooks, and the scrap piece of paper on the subway car. That no matter how much she wanted to impress him with her intellectual prowess, words are where her heart will always lay. That she will never love him as much as she will love words, and that she is only with him for a good story, and not because she truly cares. That good stories are wonderful on paper, but they have broken down her soul. That the situations she puts herself into in the name of a good story will wear down her sense of being. That she will lose herself in all the men she’s ever known, but that soon she will know better. 

If I could tell my younger self one thing, it’s would be to always go. Take the trains, the planes, the long car rides. Take the journeys across the city, across the country, and across the world. These trips you take, or failed to take, will forever change you; even in the smallest of ways. That the people she has met along the way, they will get into every fibre of her being, and the things they teach her will stay with her for life. Every moment spent soaking up the scenery instead of looking through a lens will change the way she see’s herself, and see’s the world. These are lessons she will not get from a textbook, or from her parents, these are lessons she will learn on her own. That she must learn on her own. 

If I could tell my younger self one thing, it would be to stop. To stop thinking that an eating disorder is the answer to all her problems. That the path that she is taking will forever alter her body, and her mind, and that she will have to live with the consequences of these actions, however heartbreaking. That there is nothing she will find with her fingers down her throat, that she wouldn’t find with her pen to a page, or with her nose in a book. That altering herself physically will not alter the way she truly sees herself, and that this is something she will never grow out of. This is something that will linger for a lifetime. 

If I could tell my younger self one thing, it would be to leave him when she knows it’s not right. That staying with someone because you love them, or because they love you, is not the answer. Loving someone is not the answer, that loving herself is. I would tell her not to let him convince her to take her dreams and squander them, because they are too big, and she is not ready. That she should focus on something more attainable, more concrete. That happiness, not salary, is the answer. 

Or maybe, I would never tell her anything at all, because these are lessons which she needed to learn. No matter how relentlessly we try to fight the ebb and flow of the people, places, and things in our lives, these lessons are necessary evils, and the irreparable damages caused have lead me to conquer so much more than I thought I ever could. So instead I will sit quiet, and write letters to myself, and pray that I will never, ever read them.