hayao miyazaki said it best:
“i’ve become skeptical of the unwritten rule that just because a boy and girl appear in the same feature, a romance must ensue. rather, i want to portray a slightly different relationship, one where the two mutually inspire each other to live—if i’m able to, then perhaps i’ll be closer to portraying a true expression of love.”
“once you have met someone, you never really forget them.”
love is inspiring the other person to reach their full potential, to coat their life in a little layer of hope and ambition, to steal a few of their thoughts and have them meander in your own thoughts as well.
romance isn't the precursor to love. sure it helps, but it's not fully indicative.
love is simply. pure happiness for another's sake, happiness that shakes and spins and spawns joy that makes you wish to live, to laugh more, to jump a little higher and smile a little brighter.
that is all. steady adoration and falling apart, but only to be whole with them once again.
not sure if any of this makes sense, but neither does love.
Carried by the Wind
They used to live there,
but now they're starting to leave.
They are floating
being carried by the wind.
Some are free and whole
others are crumbled.
They are diverse.
An array of colors.
When they settle,
and they gather
pure joy is created.
The air is cool
and the sun begins to disappear quicker.
The things in nature
all around us
that give us air
lose their beautiful coat.
The coat that floats down
And is carried by the wind.
Lover of the Light
oh lover of the light do not despair
at day’s quick death in the winter air,
for what was summer’s kingly glow
is not defeated by winter’s snow
but only changed, and scattered far
into the points of a thousand stars:
the glitter of frost, the crystal gems
of ice that sparkle in all the glens,
the little candles in each window,
the glimmering icicles that grow
from every roof, and look at the sight,
of the silent, moonlit, icy midnight.
yes, this is winter, soft but bright;
do not despair, oh lover of the light.
of costumes and bones and tasty drinks
of colors of leaves evolving in sync.
of death and life in equal balance
some crops are growing, others vanish.
the season of tripping and scraping your knees
as you scramble for stranger's candies.
dressing up or dressing down
ghosts and goblins dancing with demons
blending in with humans for a night of fun
before they have to return
for another year.
when seasonal drinks start pouring
in clementine colors,
and coffee starts
painting your day.
when hot chocolate is only
a few steps away.
The world is full of crisp edges and muted sound. Sunlight reflects off of every surface, blindingly. My footsteps make little crunching sounds and my breath leaves little wispy clouds in the air that quickly fade away. A still figure with a lopsided hat and a wide button grin waves at me as I pass. Tiny streams of smoke leak out of chimneys. The world smells like warm chocolate and peppermints and spiced apples. A cold wind cuts through to my bones as I make my way toward my own cozy fireplace, a new book tucked under my arm to enjoy with a steaming mug of hot cocoa.
The drive is only supposed to take an hour, but traffic is bad today. Granted, traffic is always bad in the city, but today, it's especially bad.
We don't mind much, though -- in fact, the drive, despite being longer than normal, seems to fly by in minutes. We're drinking our Starbucks strawberry refreshers and listening to Marshall's "oldies" Spotify playlist, which is nearly entirely Beatles music. Marshall thinks he's John Lennon reincarnated.
Halfway through the drive, Bonnie pulls over to take the convertible top off, and when we start driving again, natures air conditioning tickles us, sending locks of hair flying back into tangles as we sing along to "Here Comes The Sun".
You can smell the beach before you get there, you know. I'm not sure if non-Californians would know that, but it's true. The air gets salty, and for a moment, you debate with yourself as to whether you're smelling the ocean or the sweat of homeless people camping out on Santa Monica Boulevard. You decide it's the smell of the ocean, since that's more romantic.
Parking is hell, like always, and the sand burns your feet as your trudge down to the waterline, ice chests and camp chairs behind you, surfboards marking your trail in the ground.
And then suddenly you're there, at the place where America meets the Pacific Ocean, which is surreal to think about, so you decide not to think about it for too long, and instead dip your toes into the icy cold water, ready to experience one of God's many gifts to the world.
I swear the tree turned
More from green to gold as I
Sat and stared outside
here you are again
here you are again; bringing with you
an array of blooms bursting with colour and fragrance, each magnificent in their own right. adorning trees once more in opulent garments, delightfully dancing in the rhythm of ocean tinged breezes. bringing with you the sweet ecstasy of warmth after the long tragic cold. here you are again; your subtle exuberance long-awaited in the frigid gloom. your song staunchly memorised and dreamily echoed in your absence..here you are again; breathing life into the air once more, the reason for pretty sundresses and joyous ice cream. inciting evening strolls guided by the splendour of scattered shards of light. here you are again, at last.
Freezing. Land of cold, ice-coated,
people and animals coated
There is a crystal in
a clock, my grandfather said. That is
how they tell time, refracted light and
endless ticking. This is the time of the
Snowflake, synonym of singularity
and shining rarity, nature’s best
this silent beauty that may kill.
Wasteland of white upon first look, but look
again –the birds whistle their tweeting lives in
reflected sun, and the planet shines back, a beacon
beckoning to the source of life.
Every color vivifies against the
frosted firs, screaming in endless verve at
surviving vivacity, sparkling laughter.
As the night falls, time stops –it’s too
cold for the clocks to tick or the ticks to
clock any prey. All is sweet hibernation,
nation of sleep, yet this is the killing cold.
Clusters of cuddling warmth
in caves and around hearth fires burning
against death, coddling the little ones closer.
Celestial ice shards into
stars and moonlight drips from the gutters.
Fluffed out deer crunch the snow softly,
and a child puffs out a fairy’s dream.
A Natural Palette
The sun rose
a brilliant explosion
of pink, gold and red
easing over the horizon
as I got out of bed
out the the window
at ground level
the dew sparkled with
a million prisms of
The hedge was crimson
now only a few green
The trees are golden,
with a few deep scarlet
and the orange of
pumpkin orbs sat right
white, purple and pink
dotted the path from
door to garage
what a word,
a spelling bee killer
with their daisy like
hues in bronze, gold,
violet, almost blue,
Climbing the stairs,
I pulled the sliding door,
In came the cat,
a rush of cold air
And at the stove
with her slippers and socks,
mom in her pj's
stirred the oatmeal pot
The first month of school
was almost over
I know as the days
pick and preserve
we gather the harvest
like the industrious ants
I've been taught to survive
although I wish to be
the grasshopper, today
to play in the crisp color
of clean morning air.