rainy sick days

 So this is what I find myself doing on a very very very sickly day, with lovely weather.
Looking at lovely pictures of homes that aren't mine.

And watching Home & Health's Say Yes To The Dress

and holidaying with my favourite girl.

raaaaaaawr.

a thought; dusty.

I found an old post I wrote.

Slipping.

Here's the problem with quitting something you've been dependent on for years-

You're always going to go back to it.

Sent from my iPhone

Of wishes to be beautiful

There are all these ugly things about me.
And when I see them, or they get pointed out, yes I want to change it. Change me. Make it go away.
But you can't undo ugly moments.


I wish the rest of me made up for Moments like those. But I don't think it does. I don't think it even works like that.

It's a nice feeling, that someone might possibly think you beautiful enough to stay, even just for a little bit.
But we get it wrong sometimes.
And if you're leaving, it's okay to tell me you just figured out otherwise.

Sent from my iPhone

Red wine and Janis Ian

I woke up today tired, unwilling, feverish, frustrated. And more frustrated than grumpy, might I add.

It's one of those days that I just feel like I can't do. I want to curl into a ball and cry. The odd thing is that, today's Supposed to be one of those better days. Actually, to be quite honest, most of my days are one of those better days.
But today in particular. There wasn't a super early morning class, work officially starts at half past noon, I've started on something interesting with the CCA kids in the afternoon...
Not to mention the event I've got this evening to perform at.

It's just one of those off-days, I suppose. But the sort that has you wondering when you might just outgrow the urge to say yes to some things, just for the heck of it.

Maybe that's the problem with getting back into the game: you need to grow up all over again. And half of you is annoyed with the other half that wants to use right now to try everything, for the sake of it. When both halves of you have had long conversations about what you want and where you're going.


Okay so how about this, Charis:
You know tonight's going to be the last of its kind. So go run at it, with your arms flung wide, take a bow and know that when you walk away, you won't be looking back.

Ready? Get set, go.

Sent from my iPhone

You are a mystery I promise I will never try to solve

Spark

So let's. 

Just you and me. 

And the terror of my indecisiveness and your impatience, my sensitivity and your straightforwardness, your practicality and my dreaminess. 

Let's. 

Because the moment we turn our backs, the fireworks always start up again. And I always want to be close enough to realize it's not time to leave yet. Close enough to have you pull me back. 

Let's. 

Sent from my iPhone

But I'm fine, I'm just fine. I am aren't I? Fine, just fine.

Because sometimes, when I say I'm tired, I also mean of myself.
I don't know why, but I am.
Frustrated with myself even. And then, tired of that.
Sometimes, when I say I'm tired, I mean of the things around me.
The way the world spins so perfectly on it's perfect little axis and I am left wondering if I will always feel this way.

If you ask me if I'm happy, I am. For the most part. And I am glad for that. Grateful for the life that I have and the things that I do and the fact that everyday I get to wake up and do exactly what I love.

But then sometimes, I wake up with tiredness sewn in to the lining of my bones.

Sometimes I wake up, like today, excited about my life and the things I have to do.
And I add to it with an amazing breakfast.
And go on to have a fantastic meeting. And other meetings that makes sense and that were good.
And somewhere, at some point, maybe during the third cab ride, or on the bus or on the final drive home, the tiredness hit me the way a knife finds that perfect spot right between your ribs.

Sometimes, when I say I'm tired, I mean physically, yes, but with all these other bits added to it.
The sort of tired that hangs on your clothes, and slips out from your fingertips.
The sort of tired that makes you want to curl up with bottle of wine and My Best Friend's Wedding on repeat.
The sort of tired that makes you ask yourself when you ever started running in the same rat race you've watched generations before you run. And how come you didn't even know when you started.
And you wonder just where the finishing line is. And try to get over the fact that it's likely pretty damn far away because you're only just starting your career.
Try to get over the fact that maybe, there isn't actually a finishing line.
You just keep running.
Faster, and harder, your feet pounding on the floor until it burns your insides, and takes the form of the car with the obscenely priced COE or the piano lessons you feel your children have to take or the Condominium that you bought because of a gym that you now never even have time to use.
And you run, and run and keep running. Faster, harder, to send your children to the country best known for the fields they want to major in, for the large Christmas gatherings that make catching up more convenient because everyone's in the same place, for the swingset you'll get to sit on when this is all over.
Except you don't know when that'll be.

And you run, and run and run until,
You're tired.

Confessions of a--

It's always really hard to realize, and then to admit that however well-intended your actions might have been, they have always been subconsciously rooted in a bad place.
A place not of strength and/or wisdom but of emergency, need and in some cases, obligation.
It's really hard to admit that maybe, like the programs and the writings and the stories that you birth, you provide all the things you wish could be given to you instead.
It's really hard to admit that you can't always save the world.

Mostly though, it's really hard to admit that for the longest time,
you're the one that's needed saving.