Picking Sticks

This photo was taken yesterday. The sun has been back out again but my drive is still lost and cloudy. I can't seem to shake this funk lately. It's been harder and harder for me to put up with conversation. Yesterday I met a girl who reminded me of myself when I was nineteen and didn't know better. She was so lost. There's something I've always found beautiful in lost people; I think that's why I try to run away so often. I don't want to be found. 

I remember writing this blog every day sneakily in Etan's office. I spent my afternoons daydreaming of adventures I'd take with Shay and sending out emails anticipating a new career. I remember feeling inspired. It's weird now because the word sounds undefined for me - inspired. 

What does that even mean? To envy? To want? To hope for? It's an open ended word that feels like a memory or a feather. I felt so light, feather light when I was locked in my cave and dreaming. Sometimes when I write I feel that person still inside of me, she's like this set of eyes sitting inside my bones. She lets me see myself when my fingertips type out little patterns of thought. 

She's the same eyes that used to write about the boy that wanted to be remembered and the reason I'd collect photographs of picked up sticks. 

I want to believe that every one I meet is worth collecting sticks of. Maybe that's what's lacking lately. I don't see people's collected selves anymore, I only find their pieces scattered in our conversation and their sadness feeds me. 

I feed off of people's sadness and collect stories. I used to talk to everyone about their lives but found that most of us talk about ourselves as if we're some protagonist and we're waiting to find a prince or fight wrong with right.

The real world is sad and flightless. It's lackluster mundane existence eats people away. LA is this little road trip to sadness I take every day and I go back because I love being comforted with misery.

I like my job. I like taking photos. I've been focusing so much on taking photos of who and what is beautiful that I forget the ugly things in life have more use and love and depth. 

I feel a bit wrapped up in the game right now and I miss the hobby. Writing is a hobby. Sadness is a hobby. Some hobbies are better than others. 

I hope that self that sees me sometimes is still there. 

I hope she's the one pushing these fingertips.

I miss photographs of picked up sticks. 

Stubborn Liver

Today was the first Sunday in over a month I wasn't looking for an argument. We woke up and it was raining and I made the choice to not allow the weather to affect my mood. For once, I knew the rain was going to stop and I believed it too. Today was a day filled with conversations on memory. When the rain stopped we walked around our neighborhood park and remembered. 

Memories are convenient lapses of time. I like to remember what I want to and have trouble focusing on much of anything else. I remember the last pages of 1984 and the way Orwell made me think. I remember there was a book I read in Austria that Dean gave me and it was long but great. 

I've been allowing myself to talk myself into things again lately. I can talk myself into anything which is scary most times. My mind is a powerful player. I want to remember today as a nice Sunday. 

It rained and we cleaned. We went shopping and had coffees and found new books that we could read together. We went hiking and I pushed through a workout. I want to remember how I feel when I have a good workout. Sometimes I get tiny glimpses into how strong I can be if I let myself. My knees have been aching for weeks, or has my heart been aching and my knees have been fine? I haven't felt good but today I tried to get to that feeling again. 

I want to remember that trying feels better than just letting myself give up. 

I can't disappear or give up enough times that my body just stops living. Humans are notorious for being stubborn about living. Reproduction. 

I'm less foggy again. I like to think it was a little of everything but like a recovering addict the only thing I can really admit is that it's time to begin again. 

Sunday. 

Ten Minutes

Positivity has never been something that came naturally to me. Shay likes to remind me that no matter how hard we try, a person cannot simply disappear. I have a seemingly decent life. I've worked towards a seemingly decent life. I have a great boyfriend, I'm healthy, I have a fulfilling career and I have healthy hobbies and interests most of the time. Something that creeps up on me more often than not however is this unwavering darkness. When I was younger I was always dark. I like to think that I had good reason to be since I was overweight and alone. Like most things in life, I assumed that losing the weight would miraculously make everything else go away too. As I've learned with my issues with food and problems interacting socially; it was never just the weight - some things are simply a part of me too. May has been racing by and it's been darker than usual. The weather has been dreary and without the sun, my passion and job have been fleeting. I always like to think about the way I perceive twenty four hours. Ever since I can remember I've known myself to feel an array of emotions in a span of twenty four hours. Sometimes a day could feel like ten years. It's also one of the reasons I held onto memories so closely. May felt like waking up and waiting to go back to sleep again. Not only was darkness creeping in but recently I've been bubbling with anger. 

Ten minutes. I'm trying to write every day for ten minutes. Maybe if I write about more, I can let some of some things go with it too. Ten minutes have passed so I'm going to try to wrap this up.

I'm working on positivity. I'm also working on making life easier. Today it didn't rain. Today I was able to have four shoots. After work, Shay and I went to see the babies. Today I saw Shay's mom for the first time since Thanksgiving. I didn't look at her when I saw her and I don't see her anymore the same way I haven't seen my mom in years. I used to be able to know what my moms eyelashes looked like and her wrinkles were never foreign. I haven't seen my mom in a while. I didn't wish her a happy Mother's Day. There's a lot I'm trying to work out right now. We had dinner and I didn't force down the last pieces of food. I'm sad and sometimes my progress is more of me giving up to depression than moving past certain issues. I can't slip away. Today was a good day.

If I force myself to remember things in their positive light and stop looking at everything so miserably maybe my pessimistic bones can understand why positivity seems to be vital.

Fake it until you make it.

Today was a good day.