People Aren't Lists

It’s really strange to me that people make these specified lists in their heads about what they expect to find in a lover. Brown hair and a perfect jaw line. A sense of humor that makes me belly laugh. Romantic but not cheesy. Works out but isn’t obsessed. This. That. Frankly, it’s bull. And irritating. It puts limits on people. People aren’t lists. They can’t morph into one. Do you expect them to assist you in checking off all of their have’s and have not’s? People who think they know exactly what they want are fooling themselves. You have no idea what lies underneath the skin of a human being. Establishing a petty list can force others to try and conform to these standards that aren’t necessarily attainable — leaving them uncertain of who they are and how much value lies within them. Don’t be that person. 

I think I’ve always wanted to be the type of girl who made someone realize that. I want my life to merge with someone else’s who has a list of preferred qualities, traits and characteristics in their head that in no way line up with the person that I am. I think there’s an adventure in trying to show someone what they didn’t even know they were searching for. 

Everyone is so uniquely designed. Beauty and humanity are one and the same.

I Guess This Is Living

The weather is finally changing, along with my aspirations. The cold weather is finally beginning to welcome itself as the brisk winds kiss my cheek. Everyone seems to be searching for jackets in various, untouched boxes. People walk around with their hands in their pockets, but it never seems to help. The cold brings loneliness along like a close friend. The cool, crisp air blows the random strands of hair behind my ears so that I don’t have to. Meanwhile, the last of the Autumn leaves fall and dance slowly to the ground. I decisively mimic them as I dance in the back of my head instead of the sidewalk. As much as I’d love to, my quirky self could never move gracefully like the leaves do when they fall from the trees. The way my lungs feel when I breathe in the cold weather is pleasantly renewing; it’s all so alluring and I can’t seem to shake the sense of joy it brings. I guess this is living. I’m just trying to be someone that the light of the sun would crave to illuminate – someone it would love to untangle; strand by strand, thought by thought. I’m just trying to be someone worthwhile.

Fallen Leaves And Broken Seashells

I think it’s so heartbreaking that so many people today are spending an unnecessary amount of time dying for acceptance. I wish I could grab them by the hand and tell them that it’s okay to feel deficient sometimes. It’s okay to feel ugly or happy or sad or whatever you want to feel. Other people feel like that, too, sometimes. Everyone seems to be forgetting that they aren’t alone here. I’ve never understood how society –  a collective entity composed of people, manages to alienate an individual. Everyone is so starved out for human consent. We’ve forgotten that the concept of acceptance doesn’t always have to lie in the hands of perfection. When did we get off track thinking that it was okay to spend our entire life chasing after something that we aren’t capable of attaining? When we focus our energy into being perfect, that is when we begin to lose ourselves – that is when we lose our beauty. We can’t forget that there will always be people who actually appreciate messy hair and summertime freckles – people who pick up the the fallen leaves and take pictures of broken seashells.

Winning At A Losing Game

They won’t love you for the freckles on your nose, the seven different laughs that you have, the journals that you kept three years ago or the body that you’ve beaten and bruised so hard into shape. They look past the scar on the side of your nose that looks a whole lot like a freckle. They won’t know that you actually ran into a freshly sharpened pencil on accident in third grade. They won’t ask about the scars that are on your kneecaps. They won’t know that they’re from falling down the steps of a tree house when you were nine years old. They won’t understand that these are two of just a handful of things you can remember about your childhood. They’ll miss the vein on your hand that’s in the shape of a heart. They’ll also miss the smile that creeps on your face every time someone notices it, too. They might notice that you have a nice body, but they miss that you braid your hair when you’re nervous. They won’t know you even get nervous. They won’t ask about the story you spent so long writing today, so they’ll never know that it was true. They will love your taste in music, your wittiness, your sarcasm, but miss that you never turn to them, but rather to a long drive or a shower to cry. They won’t know that you actually hate the very things about yourself that they tell you they love every day