once upon a dream

“I awake in a house.

The structure, beautiful in all its ways, sits on a hill.

The screened in porch, patched-up just one too many times, wraps around the back side of the house.

The breeze is crisp and clear, I must be near water.

The door is opened.

I step down the stairs.

It is right at sunset-undoubtedly my favorite time of the day.

As my feet meet the ground, I hold my back with my right hand-my pregnancy is becoming more evident by the day.

I start down the hill.

My journey is full of sounds that no person could mistake-the laughter of children. I attentively dodge the ball being tossed in the air, careful to not intrude on their treasured playtime.

Running my fingers through their hair, confident they haven’t a care in the world, I continue down the hill.

Finally, tired and out of breath, I make it to the bottom. Once there, I am surrounded. Joy, fellowship, and love fill the atmosphere. The clanking of glasses is all I hear. The taste of barley and ale mix with the crisp sea air in a way that mere words would only detract. Toasts are being made, cheers proclaimed, and glasses raised in honor and memory of one another.

And I am happy.

Then, I wake up.”

-I have a reoccurring dream that I once shared with my boyfriend. This is, in his own words, his account of it.

March 1, 2013 2 notes

Future child.

February 26, 2013 3,583 notes

Miroslava Duma during New York Fashion Week, Fall 2013.

This woman can do no wrong.

Image provided by Harpers Bazaar.

February 25, 2013 265 notes

Elie Saab Haute Couture Spring 2013

February 25, 2013 7,988 notes

I would like to be walking alone in a Sirocco at Cannes at night passing under the dim lamps and imagining myself mysterious and unafraid like last summer.

—Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald, in a letter to her husband Scott, from the Prangins Clinic in Nyons, Switzerland in 1930.

On impulse, when I hear the first few notes of this song, they are shuffled right along with the press of a button—a quick skip, and it’s done. But today, I fought that impulse. And I didn’t press that button. And I didn’t skip forward. I let the chords wash over me, and I let the lyrics press into my mind, and I let the melody seep into my emotions. And I remembered what this song used to mean, and what this song still means, and what it will continue to mean for all of my life.

February 24, 2013 2 notes

It's always the same because we do the same things, we fall for the same people, and we become numb to "the same". Our lives become a routine. If you want "different" you must do different and be different. (I hope this makes sense cause it made a lot of sense in my head as I was typing it out) —by Anonymous

Interesting. Perhaps you’re right.

February 24, 2013 1 note

Same old

Same old. Nothing is new.

It’s all the same. Always.

February 24, 2013 1 note

I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.

—Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

Her mind is Tiffany-twisted, she got the Mercedes Benz
She got a lot of pretty, pretty boys she calls friends.

February 20, 2013 65 notes