Blooming Glaciers

Living the life of a teenage writer, rower, photographer, dancer and musician here in the Golden State. I am the kind of person that points out Mini Coopers on the street, follows certain amazing television shows, and drinks lots of tea. Everything here is my own work.

Feb 15

Unfiltered Emotion: Me

Dear Lover,

    Where am I now? Am I alone in a crowd? Have I become that oxymoron? I can’t find my way. Don’t you remember,  you were the one that led me by the hand while I kept my eyes shut. Even when I tripped, you laughed with me and scolded the uneven sidewalks. It was summer that day. I can still see the sun through the oaks, lighting your dark hair. And then the rain. Do you remember the rain? With hoods on our heads, we walked through the city’s labyrinth, but you knew the way. You always did.
    What did he mean, that man in a suit, when he muttered “Chinese boy”, eyeing our clasped hands. I laughed when he’d passed, but you stayed quiet. I still wonder what lay in your silence.
    I’m not sure what we were thinking when we decided the best place to get out of the rain was the ice rink. With one hand frozen numb and the other united with yours, we skated in time. In the center of the ice, a girl twirled on her skates. Faster and faster she’d spin, her skirt flying outward, then she would glide out of the turn with ease. What grace, I thought, then swerved into you and we went down in a flurry of alarm and arms flailing. It was a relief to leave and by the then the rain had stopped. Instead, the urban outdoors greeted us with a wall of humidity. Such an unreal contrast for our frozen figures.
    Do you remember these summer days the way I do? Or did you block out those uncomfortable moments destined to happen in any world? Did we have those? I’m certain we did but I must have blocked them out myself.
    As we walked through China Town, my eyes were everywhere in wonder. First time experiences are like that. You take in so much that all you remember while looking back is the weather. In this case it was a clear sky- a cloudless, pure, icy blue. I remember lots of people,  grim, set expressions, and diagonal crosswalks. I remember you pulling my hand abruptly, out of the way of a speeding bike.
    Now under trees, fog blanketing the city, I proclaimed that it was frozen yogurt weather. I love the way your eyebrow arches in that skeptical expression. The one you gave me then. “Strawberry frozen yogurt”, was all I could offer as we took the next bus. A very pretty girl got on after us. Her long hair framed dedicated crafted features, eyes enhanced with mascara,  tall and thin with obvious brand name clothing, everything that I was not. A moment of longing, then you squeezed my hand- subconsciously maybe- as you stared out the window. I had forgotten the girl entirely until now.
    We got our frozen yogurt and argued over which topping tasted best. By the end of the bowl though it was decided neither was any good. We sat quietly over the empty frozen yogurt bowl. I looks up to your eyes. Tell me, what were you thinking about? I always wanted to ask.
    Is there shame in reading into words? Or silence? Is there meaning behind our stretched out silences? I think that it is the feeling that cones with them. Sometimes it’s a desert, or an ocean, and I’m left gasping for air. Internally screaming that I don’t know what is happening to us. But sometimes it is just the silence as you enjoy an orchestra. A long quiet, But comfortable and connected. In fact it is those silences that bring us closer. Who ever said that a silence is an empty thing had not listened beyond plain noise.
    So it comes to another question in this collage of reminiscence,  what happens when I go home? After we turn that corner and stop before the blue bungalow, after I hug you tightly for as long as I dare, and finally, after we say goodbye, what happens then? I watch you walk down the street and meet your eye when you turn back, but nice the fairytale day is over. What is hits epilogue?  A long evening in an empty house, a late night film and reading in bed? Where are you then? Across town in your parallel night. What happened to the magic of the day? You tell me we left it with the sunlight but sometimes I still feel it. In the tips of my fingers wheb the warmth of the tea reaches them. A newly inherited word that slips off my tongue without me realizing. A pure note in a song, standing alone, that leads to a revelation. In this magic I find you.
    The story is silent for now but please, let my fairytale live on. You’re the one that sat with me on half a bridge, the one who tells me about the wonders of psychology, the one who gave me part of themselves then showed my lips the meaning of the word kiss under that pine tree in the park. When you bring me home, don’t leave me there. And when I leave, come with me.
    This is a love story. Love stories have bad endings that leaving capable people in pieces. Lets change history. Don’t let go of my hand and I will follow you wherever you chose to lead. Lets go on another adventure. So rescue me from this empty reflection and let me reacquaint myself with who I am and what ‘us’ means.


Feb 5

I want to shout
‘I love you’
From the top of my lungs

But I’m afraid that someone else will hear me

Fall Out Boy

The slap of the universe
The pencil squeaking against white paper
A world of possibility
Screeches in emergency
A flower etched a shadow
On the whistling air

In red clouds
I see sirens blaring
The universal absence
Of a place to hide
The street leaves faces reflected
In the sunset

Jan 24

One for the money
Two for the show
I love you honey
I’m ready
I’m ready
I’m ready to go

How do you get that way?
I don’t know.
You’re screwed up
And brilliant
And look like a million dollar man
So why is my heart broke?

Lana Del Rey

Jan 18

Jan 9

My Dismantled Heart

If I could

I would tell you the story
Of the withered pine
The desolate forest
My dismantled heart

I would tell you the story
Of the broken girl
The burning boy
The sneering keyboard

Oh if I could

I would tell you the story
Of the void in their eyes
The vacuum in their soul
The speechless crowd

But alas
My tongue is a script of code
My thoughts are universal backdrops
And the stories are still waiting

Jan 8
“I am longing to be with you, and by the sea, where we can talk together freely and build our castles in the air.” Bram Stoker

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