Is That Alright, Yeah

Warning: Uncertain, angsty, love-ridden, midnight-produced musings to follow.

I spend a lot of time planning my independence, which makes me feel like I've been inwardly independent for some time now.

I'm trying not to plan so much and to pray more. Mostly because worrying as much as I've let myself is not healthy. Plus I trust God more than I do me, which is always a good place to be in.

If I spend enough time away from someone, I can usually convince myself that I don't miss them anymore. After a while, I remember why I feel so helpless.

New favorite song: "Details In the Fabric" by Jason Mraz.

Maybe someday I'll meet someone who would write a song for me.

I place myself on a lower tier than the beauty I find all around me. Maybe that's how I assure that I'll always humbly work towards beauty and appreciate what's naturally beautiful.

I've created a playlist that will get me through heartbreak. Jeez, I hope it will.

I got really close this one day to deciding that I have the ability to let go of my heart and let it feel what it feels, as deep as it can. I felt as though I was knowingly throwing it off of a cliff. I reined it back in.

http://dearoldlove.tumblr.com

"I used to kiss your shoulder when we’d walk or stand side by side. No one else’s shoulders measure up."

I found this site today and found myself thinking of things (like this example) to submit. Then I remembered I have no one to direct them to. Yet.

I hate that word.

White Lightning

Stupid cats. They're so slinky and curious and stubborn all the time. Darting out of door cracks and into yards, sniffing all the moving bushes and almost-big-enough fence slats-slash-escape routes, increasing my heart palpitations and provoking above my breath cursing. Apparently, cat treats are only enticing within the confines of suburbia. But in the wild? Oh no, my friend. They don't smell better than grass or chipmunk trails or trampolines. Cats don't climb into bags so you can carry them back inside, and they don't hop into your arms when you whistle. Cats do, however, decide that the smell of a strange, smoky man completes their adventure. They waltz back through the screen door and under the table. I then close doors that confine them to three rooms, one of which houses their food, water, and litter box. I leave harried, hairied, and mosquito bitten. Stupid cats.