I'm not that kind of girl.

But here I am, the only one awake, crying quietly to "Never Grow Up".
Tonight, it just hits too close to home.

I just realized everything I have is someday gonna be gone.


Oh, Taylor, sometimes you read my heart like a book.

the day after death

"I do love you! I do! I'll never leave you! Why won't you believe me?"

Then comes the chaos; the tide turns, and suddenly everything is so much more uncertain. It's so late that it's early, and it's cold and dark and the crowds of people are suddenly much more threatening than it ever seemed they could be. 

"Are you with him? That man? The heretic, the traitor, the madman? No? But surely - "

And the rooster crows, and your soul feels like ice inside you. The world spins, and everything turns dark. 

What's left now, the day after death? Only darkness, numbness, fear. Despair.

It's the end. He went to death alone. Now you're alone, alone with your own terror and heartache and regret. 

An endless day is followed by an endless night. 

new year's morning, under starlight

The night was heady and frosty. There was no wind and the air was cold and still. The stars were brilliant and hung low in the sky. There were so many stars that their light made the sky a deep cobalt blue. There wasn't a moon but the starlight served better than moonlight.


Francie stood on tiptoe and stretched her arms wide. "Oh, I want to hold it all!" she cried. "I want to hold the way the night is -- cold without wind. And the way the stars are so near and shiny. I want to hold all of it tight until it hollers out, 'Let me go! Let me go!'" 


She looked out over Brooklyn. The starlight half revealed, half concealed. She looked out over the flat roofs, uneven in height, broken once in a while by a slanting roof from a house left over from older times. The chimney pots on the roofs . . . and on some, the shadowing looming of pigeon cotes . . . sometimes, faintly heard, the sleepy cooing of pigeons . . . the twin spires of the Church, remotely brooding over the dark tenements. . . . And at the end of their street, the great Bridge that threw itself like a sigh across the East River and was lost . . . lost . . . on the other shore. The dark East River beneath the Bridge, and far away, the misty-gray skyline of New York, looking like a city cut from cardboard.


~ from A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, by Betty Smith. 1943.  Chapter 46, pp. 403-404, 406. 


Someday I will write like this. I want to write with the same passion. With the same truth.

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One thing I love about photography is that it lets us see,  just for a fractured second, what life looks like through the eyes of someone else. 

life goes on (part 2)

So you've had one of those days.

The sky is gray and your worries seem to pull you down like pocketfuls of stones. 

You've run out of momentum, and any forward motion is plodding drudgery and seems much too hard to be worthwhile. 

You walk through a crowd of eyes that slide on by, slipping, glancing off of you as though you weren't there at all. 

You've come to the end of your nerve and your grit, and would sell your soul for a hug from someone who cares. 

It gets better, friend. Life goes on. 

The sun might not come out tomorrow. But it will come out again.

One day you'll wake up and find that the dark clouds that dogged your steps for so long are behind you, and there's a fresh scent on the breeze that comes in through your open window.

The days turn over, the seasons change, and life goes on.  

Count on it. Wait for it. And never give up hope. 

because life goes on.

She said


"L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N.
you've got more than money and sense, my friend,
you've got heart
and you're goin' your own way


L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N.
what you don't have now will come back again
you've got heart
and you're goin' your own way."





on my last night on earth, 
I won't look to the sky
just breathe in the air
and blink in the light


on my last night on earth, I pay a high price
to have no regrets and move on with my life


L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N.

~ Noah and the Whale

this is my jam :)