there are certain things we forget after they’re over. such is the weather in texas. it’s fall, and you think “it must’ve been so hot in the summertime, but it’s so pleasant that i don’t remember now…” you look ahead to next year, trying to make fresh the sizzling feeling of skin on fire. but there’s nothing. ned vizzini talks about the shift in terms of depression, but my theory teacher talks about it in terms of seventh chords and the circle of fifths. it’s kind of enigmatic, actually. you’re going in an endless circle and you can choose when you want to stop, but you’re ultimately going to end nowhere near where you began. one note can change the atmosphere of a musical thought process. in an instant the B becomes a Bb and the dominant is now the tonic - here we are. (i like to think of fall and winter in flat keys and summer and spring in sharps.) i don’t remember what it felt like last week. but i remember how you told me my skin was fresh red and it felt like pompeii. i remember the sunrise on sunday, the 22nd, and i remember how i curled my toes under and tried to stretch warm all the way from my neck to my soles. i remember daddy opening the windows on saturday night and i remember waking up to a cool rendition of sunlight. the first day of fall is the day where you walk outside and the sun deceives you. you are not red with pulsing heat, you are red because you are trying to keep warm. the shift is when the prominence of your frame pulls through your spine. the shift is when you want to go outside, but you still keep my sweater on because the air is just that cool.
dark amber brown eyes, brown hair, dreams with emerald green eyes, sees life in the color vintage, cupcake enthusiast, lover of British accents, left-handed, traditional coca-cola bottle lover, lavender vanilla bubble baths, sea shell collector, avid believer in Narnia, Wonderland and Middle Earth, dictionary reader, quill and ink writer, supporter of chocolate-chip cookie dough ice cream, profound quote creator, despiser of capital letters, your personal imagination station, inspired by rainy days, photographer, bubble blower.
Feast your eyes, ladies. I think after nearly seven years it isn't just a girlish crush anymore, is it? I hate the fact that the guys in the movies are always better. It's kind of just a dream that we may get someone like Peter Pevensie in real life. And if I don't, God will just have to make me a twin ;)