The beauty of our relationships not only lie in the mistakes we make but in the way we handle the endings/beginnings. At least, I think so. When I look at them I remember why I believe so much in love and life. When I look at them I am remembering what love looks like, what love is and who love is. What pushes me and is what pushes them farther away from each other. So many parts of us wither away from the lack of understanding, the lack of compassion, the lack of foundation. I’ll always be the first to say I really don’t know much about shit, but, I do know many are living their lives as fools because holding on is always easier than letting go. Because when we let go, then what? What happens next? Is there a next? It’s the unknown that we all struggle with, all of us. But what fun is living life as a fool when you could lie your burdens down and be free? There should never be expectations when it comes to human behavior. Never. I think when it comes to teaching acceptance as a virtue, keeping in mind that fucked up shit happens, and how you move forward is your graduating ceremony. Whenever I look at them I am reminded of my favorite sci-fi movie “what dreams may come”. The movie of a man that loses his kids one day and dies the next day, only to have his wife commit suicide. But he speaks/lives through her paintings. He goes from heaven (because suicides go to hell, according to this movie) to save her from an eternity of hell but she doesn’t recognize him. It’s not until he begins to lose his mind that she begins to remember him. But it’s too late, his risked paradise to be by her side because he believed they were soulmates. In the end, he wakes up back in paradise with her next to him, he was brave enough to risk it all because he believed in their love. Do you believe in soulmates? I never did until I began to really watch them, watch them grow, watch them create and save each other over and over again. All the ways they would risk paradise for each other, I watched them become. Their eyes would light up and I’ve watched her speak life into him so many times, in so many ways. The revival of his spirit. The beauty in her being. The beginning of their love is always worth writing about. Their ending has been their best performance. With every great story, even the greatest formation of well-rounded, thorough characters things happen. Love fades and changes and regresses and hurts and sometimes love does the unthinkable. My parents are a modern day tragedy. Soulmates. Two fools living in a world without each other. Whenever I look at them I am reminded why “what’s next” should be the core of my marriage&family practice, because, what is next now that the hurts there. “What’s next” is the pillar to healing. Do we live this life alone or, should we attempt to be brave one last time and ask each other “what’s next”?
Book recommendation: Tiny beautiful things by Cheryl Strayed.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had a book open me up. I feel excited to get home, pour me a glass of wine and read this book. I’m so thankful for the recommendation; it was worth the $16 that I paid yesterday at the bookstore. There’s a giddiness sitting at the core of me and I can’t get enough of this book. That’s what good writing does to you. it opens you up. It makes you feel. Keeps the pages turning and forces the mind to start working and finding new ways to express one’s self. It’s finding a new language of love amidst beige colored pages. It is a new language every time you discover a remarkable writer, a well-defined-true-to their-craft writer. I am at work counting down the hours until I can go home and sit on the couch and read. This book is giving me something to look forward to and its teaching me. A good book leaves you walking away with new wisdom. It’s a new outlook. A new perspective on the way we view the world. Tiny beautiful things. It’s wonderful what can be discovered in the palm of your hands, don’t you think?
Model: Instagram @kaylablackmon @illbrill
There were things that needed to be done today. Right lower side of my head began throbbing at my never ending to do list this morning. Stress headaches have been a thing for me lately. A little overwhelmed with all that is going on currently with work, school and life. I get so tired at work sometimes. The only thing that lowers the anxieties of the paperwork is making sure I take a few minutes out of my day to spend time with you. My sister gave me this great idea now that I have this new office at work. No windows. Door is always locked. My silver friend I hide at the bottom of my bag. I can enjoy you just as you're enjoying yourself. I even maintain eye contact during the time we spend. Lunch breaks have become seconds of pleasure lately. They serve as reminders on my phone that I mustn't forget that I am a sexual woman who, is fully aware of herself and her body's capabilities. There's a magic to your being. It's in your ability to teach me over again. To instruct me and force me to pull myself out. You invoke that side of me. The side of me in which I am deeply consumed by. The side of me that I love and cherish, adore. It's the me that I love. The me that you acknowledge. It's in your voice. The look in your eyes. I feel sexy. I write about you so often, in short paragraphs to mimic the short burst of time I get with you now. I haven't been able to write in full depth because I need all of you to help inspire and force me to reconnect with myself. There's parts of you that I want to belong to. The physical meshes beautifully with you and I wonder what other doors could be unlocked. But, I remain at bay with certain things because, well, nobody wants to get hurt I suppose. It's hard to unsee the beauty in vulnerability the moment you tip me open, that is what is so addicting. Because the small tastes of your lips always leave me wanting more. The body never lies and I've been repeating that same sentiment for a while. I met you, well, accidentally discovered you through old post and war stories of old lovers. What an unlikely connection, don't you think? That the universe would create it so that the freedom I needed would transpire through you.
Life is at my fingertips whenever we connect.
It always forms in the middle of my back. I spend about 15 minutes warming up my body. Getting ready to engage all muscles. I’m riding and riding. Up and down. Making my body work. Zoning out the world and just focusing on having my body destress. I have been running into blockades in my creative space. Unable to move and flow with words and I am frustrated. Actually, it’s beyond frustration at this point because I am so tense and backed up that I know with a few words it can easily all go away. But we all have busy schedules and sometimes what’s priority doesn’t really take precedence, only what’s feasible in the moment. So, a waiting game is what adults like to play. How long can I take it until I explode with rage and just ravish any body that comes my way? I made a full year once and now with situations becoming so readily available, I only wait to increase the excitement. The intensity of lust that develops is enough to devour a man whole and I like that sense of power. But that’s besides the point right now. Zoning out the world keeps a level head, sometimes. I am constantly having to balance a sex life and a relationship and for once I just want it all in one package. Maybe that’s too much to ask from the universe. Not sure but with the formation of perspiration in the smalls of my back, the sensation of a hand brings me back to the realities of the gym. I think all the looks and lip licking I’ve been doing as I began to sweat has finally caught his attention. Finally. Motioning for my headphones to come out, I obey and smile “yes?.” Lips just full and looking so soft, so suckable and they’re moving and saying words. I am mesmerized by the darkness in his tone. His lips are still moving. I have no idea what’s being said because there’s a weakness between thighs that I would rather him speak to. After finalizing all the ways we could converse, I make the conscious effort to bring myself back to the question at hand. I’m so glad he decided to pay attention this evening, so glad I wish I could show him just how glad I am. “Yes?.” I reply. “How many sets do you have left because we need to use this machine for training?” Is what he was actually saying. It’s just been so long and the mind needs some type of excitement. Oh how I just need to feel that sense of desire. I need to feel something. But although I heard him, my mind was elsewhere. I zoned in on the last word only. Training? Why, yes, I’m in need of a new master anyways…. Too bad he can’t read minds because we’d be having a blast right now. 😔
If I’m not sad enough, it never taste as delicious. The amount of sadness equates to the amount of love I need to put into my soup. This recipe came from a Pinterest page about a year or so ago. I was working long hours at the hospital and not tending to myself. Working to live and living to work. The mundane routine of the psychotic in a plain world. My world had nothing. Sadness and desperation to make sure I was able to take care of the roof over my head. The world was much simpler than as opposed to now. Simpler in the sense I had nothing to motivate me to want more. I learned that self love comes in many forms. I had only focused on selfies at that time for validation from a world that could careless about my dire need for survival. Self love came to me in the form of a kitchen, where I learned how to nourish myself the right way. I learned how to tend to myself, my needs, my emotional needs. I was careful in the way I cleaned vegetables and chicken. Tenderness playing a key role in being mindful of the cleansing. No need to rush. Be thorough and be gentle. I paid attention to the flavors against my tongue. I learned that love is created in the kitchen. And there’s nothing better than making sure you take care of love. This recipe came out perfect the first time. Coconut milk and red curry perfection. I mean, I even accidentally added in coconut cream and that mixture of sweet and spicy became everything to my tastebuds. And I learned that sometimes when you think you messed up, you find out new ways to improve yourself and your dish. The discovery in the kitchen helped better me when I lost myself on days where gray skies were never ending. Some days I just can’t manage the sadness. I cry and cry and cry some more, never able to pinpoint where all the confusion comes from. I credit my hormones most of the time. But making this soup makes me remember to center myself and put myself first. There are so many ways we continuously forget about ourselves through work, relationships and school, the back burner becomes a comfort zone and what’s comfortable is rarely ever changed. If it works, why fix it? But time is a teacher and later the body realizes everything ain’t meant to be carried. So the soup remains as a reminder for me, to take care of myself even on days when I would rather not. When I had nothing to push me forward, I learned that in the kitchen we can create magic and find something worth savoring…
Written: December 12,2015
I would rather stay home and write for the rest of this day. I have so much to say. Mixture of hurt&still feeling ready for more of life. I had sex like a week ago and it was so good. Surprisingly good. I don’t remember the last time I felt the strong urge to keep someone here, just inside me. But sometimes we misread things. And it’s ok. Things happen. At the end of the day something was either gained or lost. You live to learn. I gained more writing material. The feelings are so strong. So very much still alive. You can’t just quit things when you feel like it. That’s why time is so crucial. So you ride it out and let your words mend broken bridges. It’s ok. Sometimes when I pray, I ask the most high to guide me and show me signs. Sometimes I feel the most highs presence and sometimes my prayers get answered. I pray for strength a lot. More than I used to. I gotta phone call the other day and the voice on the other end made my heart stop. “Brittany, don’t you love me?”I thought we agreed to live separate lives? Conversations of babies and remember that one night when we… The memories. Your voice. Here I am again. Empty promises and my heart in your hand. I asked you to stop. It’s been 3 yrs. You’re hurting me with your version of loving me. How can you? What am I? I hate questions. Because you have to ask them and it doesn’t matter if you already know the answer, to hear and feel and then to assume are all 3 very different sensations. Every now and then I lose control. I can’t deal with everything at once. It’s too much. I’m too sensitive. I would rather stay home today and just write. I need time to heal. But I have to work and smile for my patients. I would rather just stay home.
You have to learn to be softer. With yourself and with your art. Don’t be so critical. Don’t be so tough. Feel what’s needed and write. Just write. Practice. Practice. Practice. I think the more you think about how you’re not as creative as her or him or them, you put yourself in a vulnerable position to never test yourself. It’s not about her or him or them. Your passion is yours. It’s all yours. The gift given to you is for you to use. Write the world in a shade of green or red. Write your life in passion. You have the ability to write and change lives and people one day may live through your words. Be softer. Everyday if you must, speak your fears and then tackle them. Tackle your fears and then write about about nothing can hold you back. Not tears. Not rejection. Not criticism. Nothing. Face your fears and be ready to be everything someone needs. There’s truth in your words. Share them. You never know who’s reading.
Written: March 20,2017