When you scrape your knee, the initial sting is soon flooded with itchy, searing pain. Flaps of skin come off and the wound is bright and red; vulnerable and exposed. Even when there's something to muffle the pain--warm water, Neosporin, and a bandaid--it still hurts to walk, and so every step offers a reminder that your knee is scraped and won't be quite complete again until it has healed.

When your heart is broken, the initial shock is soon superseded by lonely anger and misery. You cry some and the wound is bright and apparent; vulnerable and exposed. Even when there's something to dull the pain--pep talks, kisses, and the promise that things will in fact get better--it still hurts to be alive, and so every breath offers a reminder that your heart is broken and won't be quite complete again until it has healed.

But it will heal. I know this to be true.

If all men are free, how is it that all women are born slaves?

the Poetress.

I would love to be a poet.

Not by profession, but by nature. To have the inherent gift of playing with words, spinning t hem into music, and printing them onto crisp white paper where they could dance eternally. Those who are born with the inclination to be poets are among the luckiest in the world, in my opinion--sandwiched between those who are born to be happy, and those who are born to be loved.

peradventure

And so September came. Not abruptly, the way winter comes with frosted fingertips and swift icy breath, but slowly—creeping up from behind and tapping us on the shoulder. September came and the sun didn’t feel like a luxury anymore; it felt like the enemy. September came and everyone went back into their houses, returned to their quiet lives, shutting the window shades and ignoring the blue skies. It seemed like such a waste.

September came and she still noticed the puffy clouds, the painted watercolors of the sunset, the especially bright twinkle of the stars. September came and she still felt like herself—but everything else had changed.

“When can I see you?” her favorite statue in the park murmured, flirting with her as he had done all summer.

“Mmm,” she replied coyly. “Soon?”

But soon didn’t mean the same thing in September. September came and “soon” could be a million miles away; it could be as dim as twilight; destined to a peradventure arrival. September was a kidnapper. A thief. A felon, on the run, stealing daylight and joy and laughter and boyfriends. The statue didn’t move, but September moved around him—cornering him like a wolf and its prey.

“Soon,” echoed around the statue’s solid figure. “Soon.”

And so they danced the dance of Alphonse and Gatson, trying to make time and to fit in, until slowly—as slow as September had come—they started falling out of each others lives.

Mosaics.

Mosaics are like people. Jagged, imperfect, and weirdly strewn together up close--but somehow art from far away. I've always liked mosaics with pieces of broken mirrors in them, so that you can see little slices of yourself when you look closely. People are like that, too.

I don't often understand art. (Perhaps taking AP Art History this year will help, but I doubt it--I've always been one to interpret things for myself.) Likewise, I don't often understand people. What I do realize, however, is that everyone's mosaic is made up of the things they surround themselves with: laughter, literature, and good company are all on my list. And in retrospect, I'm so glad that my mosaic is finally coming together with things that are genuinely beautiful.

Like, my newfound spontaneity and willingness to do wild things.

Or the list of books I've read this summer--the best literature I've ever touched.

And the boy who tells me "you grow more beautiful every day." <3

There are lots of little pieces in my mosaic and from far away, I suppose it looks a lot like a normal human being. Under a microscope, I think you'd see something different. And you know what? I've become quite proud of those shattered little pieces; the things I surround myself, the people I welcome into my life, and the activities I involve myself in. It's beautiful.

What are you made of?

Funeral of the Summer Sun.

The summer reaches its peak: a golden orb of sunshine rises four fists above the horizon in the sky, melting into the oceans and rivers below it and dripping its yellow warmth onto me and you and everyone else.

There's still a solid month left, sure, but a solid month has already come and gone like a cheetah with wings. We're wedged in the middle--the peak, really--of golden rays and long days and staying up late and waking up whenever. And the sad thing about being at the summit of summer is that the downfall is next to come. It's winding down, my friends. The sun will be setting, soon.

So what can be done in thirty days? How do we prolong the bliss of sunshine on our faces and alarm clocks that never speak up? How do we preserve the way it feels to have a summer fling without making things stuffy, serious, or void of fun? How do we slow down time, the way Salvador Dali melts clocks in his paintings (references to AP Art History homework not intended)?

It seems to me that something must be done--before September rears its dreaded body. Before 5:00 alarms are reinstated. Before we lose the late night calls and midafternoon dates. Before the moon and then sun go slipping through our fingers. Join the crusade, friends. Save summer while we can!

I have some mean karma & apparently it's not a good idea to give your number to cute guys who work at coffee shops....