Calm down

Deep breaths

And get yourself dressed

Instead of running around

And pulling all your threads

And breaking yourself up

If it's a broken part, replace it

If it's a broken arm then brace it

If it's a broken heart then face it

And hold your own

Know your name

And go your own way

Hold your own

Know your name

And go your own way

And everything will be fine.

Hang on

Help is on the way

And stay strong

I'm doing everything

Hold your own

Know your name

And go your own way

Hold your own

Know your name

And go your own way

And everything

Everything, it will be fine

Everything

All the details in the fabric?

Are the things that make you panic

Are your thoughts results of static cling?

Are the things that make you blow?

Hell, no reason, go on and scream

If you're shocked it's just the fault

Of faulty manufacturing

Hold your own

Know your name

Go your own way

Everything, it will be fine

Everything in no time at all

Hearts will hold.

- Jason Mraz.

Sometimes, I'm just so tired.

la fin.

It is my last night in Paris, and I am beside myself. I cannot believe that this has flown by so fast, and a lot of me is heartbroken with the prospect of leaving tomorrow for good. I have bled here, cried here, to an extent, lived and died here. I've laughed and cringed and stressed here, been hopelessly lost and miraculously found here. I leave some of me here, a piece of me that has no other place but the streets of Paris. And one day, hopefully soon I promise, I will return to both you and that part of me here.

Paris is a city that lurks beneath the surface, and it's not until you are forced to leave that you realize its complete and utter hold on you. It is a grip that is white knuckled, unrelenting, much like a mother with her wayward child. Although that grip could deal the worst of blows, it is loving and caring even in its strength. It cradles you, envelopes you in a way that is unforgettable. For me, these streets have loved me through it all, cried with me as I cried, fell with me as I fell, absorbed the blood from my scraped hands as if it were nothing - simply a part of itself already. These store fronts watched me day in and day out, supporting me and egging me on in their familiarity, their unique sense of rightness. These statues watched me avidly, through stern, bronze faces that have gone green over time. And although they have seen thousands of me, millions of me, of students doing the exact same things as me, they remember Gioia. They acknowledge me through those glances of judgement, and nod their heads when I pass, knowing that I can't see it, but also knowing that I can sense it. These squares have housed me in the middle of the day, in the bleakest of nights, when my hopelessness was too much to bear and my elation was too enormous to contain.

This is for you. This is for the city that took me in and won't let all of me leave. I will return, one day, Paris, and I will love you in the same ways in which you loved me, and I will think of you every day of my life. You have changed me, shaped me, made me aware of not only the blood, but the steel that runs through my veins. You have weighed me and measured me and have found me deserving of your secrets, your sentiments, and your love. Always your love. I will miss you endlessly, beyond the realm of comprehension. A part of me is here, both voluntarily and involuntarily.

Je t'aime, toujours.

You are always with me.

allez les bleus

To do what you love and say what you feel. Thank you, random soccer fanatic at Montmartre, for reminding me how to be amazed by the simple things on a particularly stressful day. I absolutely love this picture.

It's so tiring to consistently write about the person you don't want to write about anymore. When you gain validation from anyone but the one you've been yearning for most. You want to throw all the numbers in their faces and scream "All of these people love me, appreciate me, understand what I'm worth. So why don't you?" It leaves such a bitter taste, as if their finger tips take on a Midas touch, turning all this ambrosia to ash, something akin to bile that doesn't stay down. You teeter on a precipice the sheer height of which you could never fathom... And yet here it is, while you stand barefoot on shards of glass. You move, trying to find purchase while shrinking back from the pain, only to be reminded anew with a fresh bout of lacerations.

I only hope they feel the same thing, the same hurt, the same constant struggle for purchase in a world that, so suddenly, dimmed. Does that make me a bad person? It certainly seems like it. The thought of that person's pain is a balm, ever so brief, that I welcome repeatedly, and I think I should feel bad, but I guess I haven't reached that level of maturity yet. I'll leave that for the future saints of the world.

I need to live for me, and I need to take that ambrosia at face value, and, pardon me, but fuck the rest. Who the hell are you to make me feel less worthy? Who are you to warp my view of myself? Because, god damn it all, I am worth it, and I'm so sorry that you haven't seen that, but I'm so bone tired of waiting around for the wool to be pulled away from your eyes.

Mommy, I love you. Thank you so much for coming to visit me, I never truly realize how much I need you until you've come and gone. I don't know what I would do without you.

Rebecca, you are the best.

"Thank you for being you -- I am grateful and blessed to have your beauty in my life. Miss you more than you know. Have a wonderful Wednesday."

That message came at the perfect time, when I didn't even know that I needed something like that. You're my best friend for a reason, many reasons, that always become evidently clear with time.

And to you, figure it out. Because, goodness, I know that I'm worth it.

There are times that I feel like I'm going to break with the sheer vastness, grand size of it all. When these feelings are so much bigger than the little body I've been given, feelings that encompass everything, like rose-tinting that seeps into my peripheral vision, a xylophone tuning reverberating through my ears. I can't contain myself, and just when I think I've reached the point of bursting, it grows larger still, and I'm baffled by the fact that I'm still here, somehow intact when I should be strewn to pieces, like a dandelion that's come into contact with a wind too strong and it can do nothing but fall apart. I only pray that my demise is as graceful, as fluid, as mesmerizing as those individual seedlings that float away, drifting back once or twice, as if to indicate their sadness for leaving, but then going along anyway because they know they must.

I will dance with the wind, frankly, I have to, my life depends on it. Because the thought of bursting is intoxicating, revolutionary. I welcome these feelings because that is what it is to live. I want to breathe every breath and taste it on my tongue, to hold the smell in my body and file it away in my mind, labeling it perfectly so that I will never forget it, not even when I'm old, cranky, and bespectacled. I want to touch it all, feel it all on the tips of my fingers. To hell with being prim and proper. I want to see my fingerprints on surfaces that will be wiped down the moment they are noticed, because, for that small amount of time, there was proof that I, in all my grubby glory, was there. That is invigoration, that is curiosity, and that, my friends, is life.

Sometimes, I just want to be a child again. To run for the sake of it, to scream at the top of my lungs in gut wrenching anger, in unfathomable elation. I am so scared that I will lose that connection, that vitality, that honest need to be free of it all. I want to look at the sky and see fantastic kingdoms, animals exotic, names of which haven't been documented yet. I want to see the world in brilliant chroma, the likes of which could not be duplicated on paper if one tried. I want the world of hurt to merely exist in the form of skinned knees and bruised pride, the kind which can be lovingly soothed by the cadence of a mother's voice. Life was easier then, mapped out by parental restrictions and playground etiquette. There was no judgement, no artifice, for we were too foolish to try. Today, I find myself envying the fools, wishing to trade in my opened eyes for ignorance, because sometimes, the road less travelled is significantly less appealing. To hell with all your sayings and proverbs, because, just for today, the path of least resistance is looking especially good.

To hurt is something words cannot describe, as there are simply too many hurts to characterize. I welcome the skinned knees, the scraped chins, because they are tangible, physical and real, something that becomes a badge of honor in the form of a scar and a good story. This internal struggle is something else entirely, a black hole that opens and closes on a whim. There is no scar tissue to follow, visibly assuring us that we're healing. Instead, it is a creature all its own, seemingly caged but prowling along the bars, watching and waiting for the moment that we are too distracted to properly lock its door. Its eyes are much too sharp, its movements too perceptive. It draws from our own existence, feeding off of broken hearts, self doubt, insecurity, expectation. In the innocence of youth, these things don't exist. The words are too big, the syllables too much for a young mind to contain, explain, retain. It's a sieve, discarding the unimportant while desperately holding on to the awesome. The smell of a mother's perfume, the feel of sand between one's toes, the exact elation of stepping off the bus when school lets out for summer. Those are the days of invincibility and super human strength, and I was both of those things. I could catch any boy in Tag, and friendships were temporarily won or lost in the heated competition.

I miss that. I miss being invincible, I miss the ability to discard the unimportant and the unexplained, because second guessing is a torturous game. We are so sure of ourselves in the haze of youth, we know things. I knew I was left handed, I knew I didn't like jello, and I knew that Mrs. Reese always smelled a little bit suspicious. I want that back. There are times that I'm even unsure of my general existence, because questions fill my mind. Sometimes I don't want questions, I don't even want answers. I just don't want it. I want life, untethered and pure. I want those clouds to give up their act and return to their original state of extraordinary, and I want the color to flood my eyes once again, for this matte is not what I am made of. I want LIFE. Vivacity, Crazy, Sexy, True. And just for tonight, I want the path of least resistance.

g.

National League Champions, World Series 2009. Harry Kalas, this one's for you.

I have an architecture midterm later today, but after seeing this, not much is going to bring me down.