May 28, 2012


So, I just watched The Virgin Suicides for the very first time. 

I absolutely loved it. But I always wondered why I never cried when it was over, I mean I wanted to. I could feel the pain build up inside me ready to release but I suddenly come to a halt, feeling what the boys must of felt in the movie. 

The girls didn’t want sympathy. They didn’t want attention. They were just desperate for way out. The story leaves you with questions no one but the victims can answer. I think that is why I find suicide so interesting. I mean that is what suicide is a death with no answers. In murders, car crashes, natural causes you can sometimes get answers. However even with a note left after, you never really get an answer because it died with the victim. 

I love reading books or watching movies like The Virgin Suicides, because it actually makes you think. It makes you wonder into a world so disturbing and beautiful all at the same time, kind of like the Lisbon Sisters. 

"You're a stone fox." -Trip Fontaine {love that scene}

May 20, 2012

Why do you look sad?”
“Because you talk to me with words, and I look at you with feelings.  
Anna Karina, Pierrot Le Fou

A Thought Of A Dreamer #16

May 9, 2012

A Thought Of A Dreamer #15

Home is where the heart is.” You told me, and my heart waned and waxed and dropped its petals. 

I’ve never really had a home.” I had told you quietly. 

Never had your definition of a home.” 

But oh, how could I tell you, my midnight boy, that my postal address was in the floods and wildflowers of your chest - that I’d been meandering aimless roads and words and street-side margins without a home to return to, without a welcome mat to greet me. 

How could I tell you that it had hurt to stand outside underneath dripping clouds for sixteen years - believing, so desperately, that I’d be content as a drifter, as a girl held to the ground by strings. How could I tell you how easy it was to breathe knowing that you’ve unlocked your door for me, ushered me inside, kissed me dry besides the warmth of the hearth? 

Maybe that’s all I was looking for, for someone to take in these wide eyes and unruly hair. I’ve made myself home in the crook of your elbow, in the hollow of your neck, in the dip of your hip.

 I’ve planted gardens between your lips and I’ve grown roses beneath my kisses. Ivy climbs your limbs, and I’ll lay dormant in the comfort of your palms. I’ve hung up my hat and have put my slippers away. 

You’re home. I’m home.

Maybe all I needed were walls to believe in...