lalalala
I used to ride horses. They made me feel free... ironically. Because despite how the wind felt tearing through my hair, forgetting about the way my heart sped faster than a bullet train, ignoring the rapid start-stop of sunshine streaking through the trees, I couldn't stop myself from getting over the fact that- though I leapt over stones and raced the ticking of time itself- my mouth wasn't chomping on a bit, my ribs weren't pressed into a saddle.
I used to ride horses, and though they made me feel free, I couldn't stopping thinking that not long ago, they used to be.
my grandfather's hat has always been, as far back as i can remember, perched on the same old dress mannequin's headless neck, almost like a substitute for the missing part. it's worn and brown, the leather cracked and peeling from years of abusive use. but each crack and worn patch, each etched groove, tells a story, gives some clue as to who the person that wore the hat was- the weather he traversed and endured under it... it's just a shame that i know the hat better than i know the man.
my grandfather's hat has always been, as far back as i can remember, perched on the same old dress mannequin's headless neck, almost like a substitute for the missing part. it's worn and brown, the leather cracked and peeling from years of abusive use. but each crack and worn patch, each etched groove, tells a story, gives some clue as to who the person that wore the hat was- the weather he traversed and endured under it... it's just a shame that i know the hat better than i know man.
Let's discuss the fact that a site revolving entirely around the written word spelled a word about words wrong. Looks like I'm not the only one who's not feeling well.
The setting sun bathed us in a dreamy glow that day as the tall grass fanned and waved- an ocean of golden wheat. Tiny white flowers, daisies really, plucked loose from the arms of trees reaching endlessly for the heavens, were caught up in the August wind, cascading and parading and falling all around us like snow. Summer snow. I could feel the sun on my shoulders, the breeze in my hair, that feeling of perfect bliss that comes with being completely and undeniably innocent.
Childhood comes and goes so quickly, especially in the realm of memory. It’s a sin, almost, the speed with which time is lost, elapsed, grazed over. It’s inescapable, unavoidable. But that’s life, I suppose. A daisy chain of unfortunate events and mishaps. Of lost chances and misguided plans.
Do you ever get that feeling, that blissful warmth, of waking up under an open window, with the breeze of summer's hand brushing softly against your cheek, slipping sweetly through your hair?
i hid up in the loft for three hours, waiting and wondering how long it would take for them to notice i was gone. i slid back into the farthest recesses and sat, in the dark, waiting...
indistinct, indistinct, indistinct. the clicks of my keyboard are almost indistinct, almost indiscernible from the rapid clicks of a heavy texter two seats away. i'll try to read over his shoulder, hoping my movement will be indistinct to his focused eye.
writing since 2010 · 8 entries · 7 days shown up
each square is a day—lit means olivia showed up.
4longest streak
7days written
4entries / week
the words olivia reaches for
hatindistinctwornfeelinghairclicksrapidwaitingbreezesuntreeswindsnowlostfactword