This was how I spent Saturday. It was a lovely day.
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
My late-night reads/re-reads this week. such diversity. So eager to bury my nose in books (figuratively speaking).
Or maybe just greed.
I am too greedy with books.
I always want to read them all and when I'm done, I read them again and again. I never tire of reading good books.
I probably should get a kindle.
But I buy physical books of all my e-books too.
I am greedy.
Monday, December 2, 2013
When I was a kid, I used to be afraid of the dark. I slept with the lights on until I was 11 and then I moved on to night lights. I felt like such a grown up the first night I slept with the night light on. I guess that was one of the first times I felt like I wasnt a kid anymore. I guess that's stupid, sleeping with a night light doesn't make me an adult, really, it's no different than sleeping with all the lights on.
I started sleeping with the lights off the first night I moved into my sister's house and out of my parents'.
The truth is, it wasn't darkness I feared. It was more than that.
Hushed arguments whispered in the dead of night, being shoved into my sister's bedroom when the whispers gradually became louder. Muffled yellings penetrating through all the barriers in between. Shouts travelling beyond bedroom doors, walls, comforters and palms covering my ears. The hate resonating through my eardrums and goes to places deep in my mind making me feel emotions I didn't understand, not at the time at least. Somewhere in what felt like the distance was ny sister's slow voice, telling me to sleep. My solace then. Still my solace now.
It was always in the darkness when things get ugly.
It was never the darkness I feared, it's what it reminded me of that terrifies me.
I am not scared of the darkness, I am afraid of fights.
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
- Sylvia Plath.
“I do not love; I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit. I have none of the selfless love of my mother. I have none of the plodding, practical love. . . . . I am, to be blunt and concise, in love only with myself, my puny being with its small inadequate breasts and meager, thin talents. I am capable of affection for those who reflect my own world.”
― Sylvia Plath, The Journals of Sylvia Plath