Malade? Maladroite?

There's that feeling again, where the chicken I've actually been trying to catch among the millions and millions in the 'Chicken of Happiness' cage has been following me, pecking at my heels all along. The satisfaction that it was looking for me, too. I don't see much a compromise there. It's unhealthy, I know, to give up everything, turn down the white chicken, the pig dressed as a chicken, and all the baby chickens, just for the chance at spotting that one brown spotted chicken, but what if...What if you can't be happy, without that one chicken? What if, by compromising and settling for the lesser chickens, you are rendered disappointed and have the mindset of a tragic hero and can never truly be happy with the dilapidated chicken?

Chickens are not smart animals.


There will be compromises. There are going to be myriads of compromises, matching the tears rolling down the stuffy noses, the kisses on necks, stomachs, fingernails, the promises and the commas in our voices where they are being made. Nobody likes to worry. Nobody likes to think about the future. It comes soon enough as is. But when I'm falling, falling, falling into dangerous freckled places and I'm taking the risk and I'm willing to...compromise...
You'll step up. You're awful strong.

Les mots qui n'existe pas

L’esprit de escalier: (French) The feeling you get after leaving a conversation, when you think of all the things you should have said. Translated it means “the spirit of the staircase.”

Waldeinsamkeit: (German) The feeling of being alone in the woods.

Meraki: (Greek) Doing something with soul, creativity, or love.

Forelsket: (Norwegian) The euphoria you experience when you are first falling in love.

Gheegle: (Filipino) The urge to pinch or squeeze something that is unbearably cute.

Pochemuchka: (Russian) A person who asks a lot of questions.

Pena ajena: (Mexican Spanish) The embarrassment you feel watching someone else’s humiliation.

Cualacino: (Italian) The mark left on a table by a cold glass.

Ilunga: (Tshiluba, Congo) A person who is ready to forgive any abuse for the first time, to tolerate it a second time, but never a third time.

Luciole

"...you will be sent to the special circle of hell. The one reserved for child molesters and people who talk in the theatre."

Happiness is:
+ running when it's sunny out
+ making pasta sauce
+ being called a ladybug
+ breakfast cereals
+ when you laugh at everything I do
+ my dynamic-duo future modelling career with alisa
+ how mr. macmillan is in a terminally good mood
+ do you see this shiny, laughing, supportive, stable (sometimes), smiling person?
+ i hope you do. i can't see me, even though you always try to make me.
+ and i hope you know why i am this way

I'd walk through hell for you, let it burn right through my shoes
These soles are useless without you.


RIP Peachy. <3

Un llama, une embrasse

And I was made for sunny days, and I was made for you.

And you, and nothing but you, miles and piles of you.

When I'm walking, when I'm thinking, when I'm talking, when people are talking, I get all chokey-scared. I hate this feeling. Nothing is worse than this feeling. It's the standing-up-on-stage with laryngitis and no memory of ever learning your lines feeling. It's the head-pounding, faint feeling after you slam your thumb in a locker. It's the falling, falling feeling you get when you're standing on a bridge, far too high up to be safe, with monkeys picking at your cuticles.
That place is giving me nightmares. The happiness and freedom and life that seems to emanate, like a stench, from its ugly, boring, plain buildings. That I am too late for. I don't know if I'm enough. How do I know that I'm enough if nobody tells me? How do I know that I'm enough when nobody looks me in the eye? 
I'm not a trap. I'm not unforgiving. I'm not insensitive. I try not to be selfish.
I'm just cold, and willing to put my heart on my sleeve and leave it dangling for anyone to rip off.


I shouldn't say anything else.
Not a fortune-teller. I just believe in faith. And you. And me.

Plus que toi, plus que ca

no less, no more
but o,
so much more
more than you will
ever
carry?
(you carry me, you carry my heart, in your truth)
no hidden
meaning
no trump card
just me, i am here,
o, so much more
than
this

My skin won't be quenched. My hands can't be warm (except if I'm with you). This road willn't end, I keep on running, and running, and running,
And I am waiting for the last float, but it's not coming. I don't think it ever will.
The fireworks, the parade, they just keep on coming. I love fireworks.
(It's easy, repeat after me. Now you. No, you. No, you.)

Trop jeune, trop emotionnel

And it was harder than we dreamed, but I believe that's what the promise is for.
(They said we were far too young).

Revisiting scripts, the words I wrote, the promises I broke, the lines I crossed, the chords I scrabbled with, the bruises I hid away, from you, from me, from the world. It hurts me. It hurt(ed) you. There is nothing I want to do more than to take everything back, shove it into a hole and bury, bury, bury...until the sun was purple and nothing you could say could make me remember, not you say, those things, not that, I'm complaining. It's not that. It's in my heart. And you don't understand, maybe, that nothing can bring me there again, to where I hurt(ed) you. Where the universe was taking a nap. Naps are nice. Naps on you. Like a cat. Like a lion. Pet me, purr. Bless, the, dawn, someone, reach, out, branches.
Touching me, with your branches, in a nest, on that branch, where you branch(ed).
When you...when I...why didn't it...why did I...
Well, I'll wait now.
Heart on my sleeve.

And it was harder than we dreamed, but I believe that's what the promise is for.

(They said we were far too young).

Depuis mon retour au monde

I need to get out- I want to go somewhere. Go somewhere far, far away.
I want to go on a trip. To somewhere full of lights, and maybe full of ocean. I don't need sand, or palm trees, or sweltering sun. I like a good cloudy day more than you'd think. I want to lie somewhere, maybe in a field, maybe in a forest, maybe on a teaspoon. Listening to branches hit trees. Listening to waves, jostling the sea turtles around. Listening to bubble wrap burst. Close your eyes and don't breathe. Far under the water, everything is silent except the buzzing of the stinging of your eyes to the salt. Kisses are salty. Lungs are straining. You can't reach the ground.
And if you needed to reach me, I can't be reached. You, and you, and you, you, and you are already there with me. I don't think anyone else really needs to see, we can't be seen, we can do appalling things....
Double letters are my downfall. Toboggan, committee, appalling...
If you can count to four, say 'sunflower' and meet me there.

Muette

And how could I
Stand here by you
And not be moved by you?

Un retour au passe

...Don't walk in front, I may not follow. Don't walk behind, I may not lead.
If you stay right with me and we'll get there.
I promise...

And now, we're here again. I'll probably lose my thumb nail, and my mind, and I'm going to be so, so sore for a long, long time. But the fact of the matter is, this here, is what I need, where I flourish, where I stand the straightest. And your hands are so warm. I don't know what happened to those flowers. Walk with me, for awhile.

Mes pensees