Journalist. Musician. Christian. Elephants. Vegetarian. Reader. Writer. Editor. Coffee. Spanish. Exploring. Old books. Barefoot. Dark chocolate. People-watching. Running. Independence. Chips and salsa. Klutz. Rain. Grits. People. Turtles. Photographer. Green pen. Getting lost. Sunflowers. Traveler. Publishing. Subtitles. Smiles. Fast talker. Overthinker. Compulsive quoter.
Catching Elephant is a theme by Andy Taylor
What if we still ride on, we two /
With life forever old yet new /
Changed not in kind but in degree /
The instant made eternity
Robert Browning
“Love writes a letter and sends it to hate. “My vacation is ending. I’m coming home late. The weather was fine and the ocean was great and I can’t wait to see you again.” Hate reads the letter and throws it away.“No one here cares if you go or you stay. I barely even noticed that you were away. I’ll see you or I won’t, whatever.”Love sings a song as she sails through the sky. The water looks bluer through her pretty eyes. And everyone knows it whenever she flies and also when she comes down. Hate keeps his head up and walks through the street. Every stranger and drifter he greets. And shakes hands with every loner he meets with a serious look on his face. Love arrives safely with suitcase in tow, carrying with her the good things we know: A reason to live and a reason to grow, to trust, to hope, to care. Hate sits alone on the hood of his car without much regard to the moon or the stars, lazily killing the last of a jar of the strongest stuff you can drink. Love takes a taxi; a young man drives. As soon as he sees her, hope fills his eyes. But tears follow after, at the end of the ride, cause he might never see her again. Hate gets home, lucky to still be alive. He screams o’er the sidewalk and into the drive. The clock in the kitchen says 2:55, and the clock in the kitchen is slow. Love has been waiting, patient and kind, just wanting a phone call or some kind of sign that the one that she cares for, who’s out of his mind, will make it back safe to her arms. Hate stumbles forward and leans in the door, weary head hung, eyes to the floor. He says “Love, I’m sorry,” and she says, “What for? I’m yours and that’s it, whatever. I should not have been gone for so long. I’m yours and that’s it, forever.” You’re mine and that’s it, forever.”
Sigh.
You never touch just one heart. Because once someone is loved like that, they’ll go on to touch countless hearts.
Karen Kingsbury
Never lose your childish enthusiasm, and things will come your way.
Under the Tuscan Sun
If you laugh, you think, and you cry, that’s a full day. That’s a heck of a day. You do that seven days a week, you’re going to have something special.
Jim Valvano
I know the difference between “your” and “you’re,” and I spawn one gray hair every time I witness the two being misused. I feel like I’m sinning if I don’t read at least 3/4 of the newspaper, and I often find myself reading yesterday’s news to cure my guilt. I have feelings of anxiety when I’m sitting still, because I’m worried I may be missing an opportunity. I can fit everything I own into my two-door Honda Civic. I eat a lot of peanut butter and jelly. There are days of despair when my dreams are light years away, and then others when I am so sure of my destiny that it feels as though I’m walking on a cumulonimbus. I’m a 25-year-old college graduate who despises career lectures and any mention of the words “real job.” I’ve (almost) accepted that the path I’ve chosen will take time and will not result in any sort of great wealth. I hope my friends get rich, because I never will be. Those close to me worry about my fate a great deal more than I do. More often than not, I am certain that the only people reading what I write are my parents and my younger sister. I make them proud, and that is enough for me. I don’t have a salary, benefits, or a 401K. I don’t even have an office, an engraved nameplate, or a reserved parking space. I’m wealthy when I have more than three digits in my bank account. I work two jobs, and I don’t even get paid for one of them. I’m new to all of this.
I am an editorial intern.
Journalism without a moral position is impossible. Every journalist is a moralist. It’s absolutely unavoidable. A journalist is someone who looks at the world and the way it works, someone who takes a close look at things every day and reports what she sees, someone who represents the world, the event, for others. She cannot do her work without judging what she sees.
Marguerite Duras (via thenovelapproach)
(Source: 9shadesofporn)
You mustn’t let men drive you to mangling the English language, no matter how sweet they are.
Marisa de los Santos (via thenovelapproach)
