What Cancer Cannot Do

Author: Unknown

Cancer is so limited...
It cannot cripple love.
It cannot shatter hope.
It cannot corrode faith.
It cannot eat away peace.
It cannot destroy confidence.
It cannot kill friendship.
It cannot shut out memories.
It cannot silence courage.
It cannot reduce eternal life.
It cannot quench the Spirit.

They Came to Stay
I Dream a World Foreword by Maya Angelou

I
am a black woman
tall as a cypress
strong
beyond all definition still
defying place
and time
and circumstances
assailed
impervious
indestructible
Look
on me and be
renewed

-from “I Am a Black Woman,”
Mari Evans

Black women whose ancestors were brought to the United States beginning in 1619 have lived through conditions of cruelties so horrible, so bizarre, the women had to re-invent themselves. They had to find safety and sanctity inside themselves or they would not have been able to tolerate those tortuous lives. They had to learn to be self-forgiving quickly, for often their exterior exploits were at odds with their interior beliefs. Still they had to survive wholly and healthily as possible in an infectious and sick climate.

Lives lived in such cauldrons are either obliterated or forged into impenetrable alloys. Thus, early on and consciously, Black women as reality became possibilities only to themselves. To others they were mostly seen and described in the abstract, concrete in their labor but surreal in their humanness.

They knew the burden of feminine sensibilities suffocated by masculine responsibilities.

They wrestled with the inescapable horror of bearing pregnancies which could only result in issuing more chattels into the rapacious maw of slavery.

They knew the grief of enforced separations from mates who were not theirs to claim, for the men themselves did not have legal possession of their own bodies.

And men, whose sole crime was their hue,
the impress of their Maker’s hand,
and frail and shrinking children too
were gather in that mournful band.

-from The Slave Auction,
Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

The larger society, observing the women’s outrageous persistence in holding on, staying alive, thought it had no choice save to dissolve the perversity of the Black Woman’s life into a fabulous fiction of multiple personalities. They were seen as acquiescent, submissive Aunt Jemimas who showed grinning faces, plump laps, fat embracing arms, and brown jaws pouched in laughter. They were described as leering buxom wenches with round heels, open thighs, and insatiable sexual appetites. They were accused of being marauding matriarchs of stern demeanor, battering hands, unforgiving gazes and castrating behavior.

When we imagine women inhabited by all those apparitions, it becomes obvious that the women themselves did not hallucinate, but rather that they were national, racial, and historical hallucinations. Those contradictions stump even the most fertile imagination, for they could not have existed despite the romantic racism which introduced them into the American psyche. Surprisingly, above all, many women did survive as themselves. In this book we meet them, undeniably strong, unapologetically direct.

The photographer, Brian Lanker, possesses an acute eye and a brave heart. He has discovered women whose images show us the high cost of living and the rich reward of thriving. Lanker intends to capture the viewer with the twin magic of his camera and the women’s faces. These women regard us, understand us, gaze through us into a beyond, alien to our most common view. Each seems to know something we have not known. The sameness of their gaze informs us that they will not be removed, that indeed although they are shaken, bruised, and uprooted, they are determined to remain.

This foreword does not mean to be an explanation of the Black woman’s stamina. Rather, it is a salute to her as an outstanding representative of the human race. Here, in this book, educators, athletes, dancers, judges, politicians, artists, actresses, writers, singers, poets and social activists dare to look at life with humor, determination and respect. Their visages do not entertain hypocrisy. To those who would desire chicanery, they honesty of these women is terrifying.

The heartbreaking tenderness of Black women and their majestic strength speak of the heroic survival of a people who were stolen into subjugation, denied chastity, and refused innocence.

These women have descended from grandmothers and great-grandmothers who knew the lash first hand, and to whom protection was a phantom known of but seldom experienced. Their faces are captured here for the ages to regard and wonder, but they are whole women. Their hands have brought children through blood to life, nursed the sick, and folded the winding cloths. Their wombs have held the promise of a race which has proven in each challenging century that despite threat and mayhem it has come to stay. Their feet have trod the shifting swampland of insecurity, yet they have tried to step neatly onto the footprints of mothers who went before. They are not apparitions; they are not superwomen. Despite their majestic struggle they are no larger than life. Their humanness is evident in their accessibility. We are able to enter the photographs and enter into the spirit of these women and rejoice in their courage and nearness.

Precious jewels all. Thanks to their persistence, art, sublime laughter and love we may all yet survive our grotesque history.

~Maya Angelou

If i were to imagine love, i would see calm blue shadows dancing smoothly to the songs of hummingbirds singing wild and free. Laughter mixing with marvels, silly moments gliding smoothly into debates because today, neither of us is able to stay in one mental space for too long, so we float, together and free.

If i were to imagine love, i would imagine peals of laughter floating from my lips creating curls of ribbon I use to wrap around my waist to make me feel pretty, the way you do every time you’re near. The sun shining brightly, allowing our glow to radiate heat. Coasting gratefully along this ocean of us. Happy here. Warm and full.

If i were to imagine love, it would look like quiet afternoons stretched out on cushions and fluffy carpets. Tea and fruit pieces laced between moments carrying mountains of conversations and silence. Ideas. Poetry. Art. Life. There would be no questions there, only anticipation and conclusions. Fingers tracing the outlines of faces, hands reaching for hands, lips pressed against palms, safety conveyed with the slightest touch. Smiles. Sacred. Us.

Where there was once fire, there are now carefully crafted melodies, hummed in harmony, blended by us. i imagine meals baked slowly in glass dishes, placed on a towel in the middle of the living room floor, a fork for you and a fork for me, shoulder to shoulder, feet rubbing and warming feet, heads bent with laughter as lips rest on the bridge of my nose, briefly, softly, sealing the moment solemnly. No words exchanged. I love you too.

I am the questions that linger by chance and implant wishes on moistened lips.

I come from widened hips and outstretched arms spread out below the shadows and the petals falling from orchid stems, too beautiful to be suspended in air, and that place of urgency to fly free is where you will find me.

I come from cocoa butter on soft necks. Hair curled freely, wise thoughts behind long eyelashes, the breath before a confession, the dizziness that appears when the feeling is too good to verbalize, forcing giggles to spill into laughter and every word that floats by becomes a piece of this poetry.

I live here. Where the answers remain between my left hand and my right and questions define the shape, and smiles begin to build themselves out of stone, instead of sand.

I come from dusty book pages, littered with the freedom that can only be found in the relationship between the pen and the pad, the words, the sounds of thinkers that came before the motion the wind makes and the birth place of definitions.

I am from the space between the lines, full, available, free. Where forehead kisses meet the taste of fresh ginger and music climbs into your soul and sweeps it clean.

I come from possibilities, quests, answers, journeys, respect. Fear, doubt, redemption, belief. Drive, desire, resistance, intentions, reflections, discovery, truth. Compliments, missteps, yearning, burning, wanting, more. The sound of language interpreted by the poet and knowing that yes… is real.

I come from the notes that spill from the lips of the musician that sings, grunts, plays, and releases a tribal scream from their guts. Where the currency is creation and completion and suddenly that is enough. Where growing, exploring, expanding is worth more than notoriety. Tight afro puffs, and the moment a poem whispers to the poet that the time has come.

I come from the place where the fullness of satisfaction begins to bloom.

This is where you will find… me.

Fresh pages

New stages

Clear focus

Me

Now you

The weight of your words

Light enough to allow me to shake myself free

I had to find the part of me that had gone missing

Learn to smooth out the rough edges

And blanket myself in peace

Take off the glasses that only allowed me to see you

As my savior

my hero

the one who would take away

The hurt that I allowed to build up

On my own 

Now my eyes are clear to see

The power in me

My ever present ability

To slow dance back to me

Please pardon me

While I remove the titles of more and than

And leave us as simply friends

Allow me to make the introduction

Of me to you

and allow you to see

My newly discovered capacity

to smooth out the rough edges

blanket myself in peace

and slow dance my way

Back to me

It is noon on a Saturday and I am drinking pomegranate wine and listening to Amy Winehouse. I should be feeling happy, quiet, just fine, but my mind is racing and so I write. I am contemplating putting my apartment back together. The boxes are beginning to cause me stress. Subtle but very real stress. I am placing the books back onto the shelf, making room for the new books I bought to make myself feel better, but only managed to make me feel guilty. Guilt has become my new best friend, one I can't get rid of, so I just hide myself between the pages of my journal and the covers of my new books and wait for the feeling to pass. I'm still waiting for that feeling to pass. The boxes are being folded up and stored into the closet because I will need them soon. Its just not time yet. The time has not come. But it will. [I keep telling myself.] [because its true.] [right?]

I am searching for my home. The one place where I belong. Where I will blend and become a part of the life around me. The place where I can be settled and free. The place where my blossoms can fully unfold and bloom. I am anxious all of the time. Anxious for more. Anxious for the chance. Anxious for the answers. Anxious for peace. I am anxious for separation and closeness; questions as well as answers. A chance to recreate, hit reset, begin this thing called life. I am ready.

Where has my confidence gone? My ability to make decisions for my life that are solid and firm. When did I need to seek council, advice, confirmation? I am going to unpack. Put my life here, where I am in this moment, back together and find my peace...here.

Focus on the great things. Focus on the forward movement. Focus on the day, the moment, this moment, because this is all there is. Everything that is supposed to happen, will happen when it is ready to happen. Just be. This is all we have.

I need:

• Arms around me for longer than a moment

• Sleep that is sound and deep and does not appear with the aid of a pill

• Company

• Quiet

• Love

• Breathing space

• A good, long, hard cry

• The chance to feel

• More pomegranate wine

• A place to call my own

• A fresh start, a new leaf, a new chance

• A moment in the sunshine

• Connections that don't cause pain

• the chance

• A hand on my thigh and a face nuzzled in my neck

• A back rub

• a chance to rebuild

• A belly laugh

• A reset button

• Better movies from Netflix this weekend

I believe:

• The release will come

• The time will come

• The snippets I create in my mind and in the pages of my journal and in my mind will someday gel together and fully explain all of these things I … feel.

• One day I will find the place where I belong

• One day I will deal in reality and not what I hope one day will be

• One day I will get my body in order

• I meant to say finances, but the truth shall set you free

• Someday it will all make sense

Its time for me to unpack.

“.... came to me in my dream sleep, when I see must pungently and richly. I'd moved from the Lower West Side of Manhattan to make my home in Houston, yet I wandered Texas as a blind woman. I saw , but could not make a connection. I touched, but felt unmoved. I dug soil, looking for roots, finding none.” -Ntozake Shange

I had become a puppet, raising my arms and waving my hands to the motion of the strings being pulled but a force that was unknown to me... until she came... using her words to guide me toward my light. Spiritual hands gently nudging the loosening of my wrists as words flow freely, purposefully onto this page. Creating foundations... discontinuing the search for roots in someone else's garden. finding roots in my own. planting flowers that I like and sipping peppermint tea in the twilight waiting for them to bloom. The questions remain clear and I feel wise enough to answer them. Finally embracing my womanhood/curves/sexuality/all of me. Lying down patiently to wait... for the presence of my words. finally listening to the voice inside that has been humming low and clear, waiting for the moment to sing. Each note pushing itself further into me, creating roots that are purely my own. I see them and I smile...

This sense of calm has become familiar...Defining peace for myself... embracing peace within myself... acknowledging the moments of fullness for what they are...mine. Standing on the inside of a moment I have only witnessed from out, this calm is delicious and welcome and mine...

Suddenly I can breathe. I want to live so choose to. The emotions flowing freely, wildly inside and outside of me are welcomed and truthful and raw, pouring themselves lovingly down onto the space of this page are bringing back the hope I used to feel within myself. Comfortable in my thoughts. In my process. Celebrating the consistencies of the day. Looking forward to the horizon coming in to view. “...came to me in my dream sleep, where I see most pungently and richly...” My dreams are beginning to blur into my truth.

I am a student. Constantly studying the effects of the words on the soul. The power questions have on the mind. The wonder the sound of a voice brings to the ear, I want to know it all. I am moved by thoughts. Mental images painted with words. Documented somewhere between the pen and page where the thoughts of a stranger somehow speaks to your soul. Tell me my secrets. Create a place for me to hide. Place my hidden thoughts onto the page and allow me to fly free there.

Poetry: I understand the confused organization of words meant to define the undefinable and describe the indescribable. The language taunts my guts and enables me to see/discover/uncover/believe that much more of myself.

“...oh thunder and lightning is not the devil beating his wife, its the sky bleeding flowers...”

My lips have been bleeding flowers grown in my thoughts. Painfully wonderful moments that create sensations I want only to last forever. The interest and questions of the moment create pathways for the truth. The ability to remain the same has been stretched over me and wrapped around slowly, making me feel secure and warm. The thought patterns are new and bold and begging to be explored.

Being present in the moment: shadows dance on the page as I write these words, not trying to compete, but just trying to be noticed....kisses being blown toward my face, I catch each one and store them in a jar. Watching them dance and flutter like fireflies... I see them and I smile...

Being present of the moment: I see you and I smile.

For once in my life, I don't have anything to say. I am learning that a lot of my work is derived from angst, sadness, confusion, love. All of the swirls of emotion that dance through my head, I have to capture them between the pen and the page. But today, today my soul is quiet, calm, peaceful, at rest. Today I have peace. Words from others just like me have been floating toward me and wrapping themselves around me like a kiss. Sweet. Soft. Necessary. Filling in the empty spaces I did not realize was missing. Wind songs. Crucial elements of music and light and the moments when clarity presents the only sound. This feels amazing. Sweet. Soft. Necessary.

I don't mind being quiet, I rather like it here. Smooth lines unleash peals of laughter and kindness and smiles. My moment to breathe and believe in the goodness of the moment.

I am quiet today. Feeling the rhythms of hips swaying to the beats in my head. Dance break. Feel the wind on my face. Love. Yes. This moment is what I need. The quiet and the colors and the light and the leaves and wind and the sun and the sounds of expectation of goodness to come. The vision basking in the sunlight. The quiet of my soul feels right and I will sit here in this moment and feel every sound that surrounds me, embracing every good thing that is preparing itself to come my way. I am ready for you. Ready and quietly waiting for you to come my way.

["Usually there's a deeper truth submerged inside, often imprisoned by his most constant enemy-himself. That truth, for better or for worse, is sometimes most difficult to find. So few of us manage even to know ourselves during a lifetime. Shifting from course to course we search for a hunger to keep us moving, frightened of whatever it is that keeps us so unsure of ourselves. Finally we fall exhausted, entangled in a bed of remarkable excuses from which we are unable to extricate ourselves."] ~Gordon Parks

I've been told that life is about the high highs and low lows. As an artist, it is my job to capture those moments, and all of the moments in between, and preserve them as gifts to share with like /open/artistically minded people who want to know that they are not alone. That these feelings of doubt, hurt, fear, questions, rage, empathy, over-the-moon elation are not new concepts. That they are valid. Real. And worthy of acknowledgment, just like the art inside of us.

[“Perhaps it was while I was alone and half drunk on the windswept deck that I first sensed myself gradually changing clothes for another kind of life.”]

I have found art to be very strategic. It lies in wait, like a cat ready to pounce, jumping at you and changing your life at the exact right moment you need it. Just under a year ago, I found myself walking through Barnes and Noble, checking to see if my books were on the shelves and smiling when I saw them there, taking a moment to soak it all in. I am a history buff and an absolute lover of memoirs and soon found my way into the section, happening upon “To Smile In Autumn” by Gordon Parks. I have seen lots of his work, but did not know much about the man, the journey, the legacy. The presence of celebrity and fame has never interested me; I always want to hear about the path. Find the answers to the questions; How did you get to this place? What struggles did you encounter? How did you escape them? Did you escape them? How does your art reflect your story? How does art reflect you, the person behind the artistry?  The mystery behind the man on the cover spoke to me so without reading the description, I purchased the book, took it home and set it on the shelf where it rested until last week.

[“I had returned an unlikely loner still driving failure from my dreams, still being pulled by something up ahead- something hinted there was more luck in store, but that first I would have to pay for it.”]

As I examined the book in my hand, I realized that I am on a desperate search for comfort. For a common knowledge and understanding in knowing that the emotional and physical trials I encounter for my art are not in vain. That my sanity indeed has a price tag dangling from it and it’s up to me to maintain the value. That the blood I donate in each piece I create will supply life to the audience. That my voice is important and necessary. That this, all of this has a purpose. While sitting on the floor in my bedroom as I have taken to doing lately, I glanced up and saw the book, forgetting that it was there. I picked it up, read the back and was drawn in by one line. “It was not always an easy journey, but by age thirty-six he had overcome many obstacles to be a well-known photographer and writer for Life magazine.” I opened the first page and was captured instantly.

["Eventually I was an island unto myself, stretched taut over the dream that was now fulfilling itself. No more ill-cut Harlem suits; no more barbeque joints; no more warm black laughter. Only an inexplicable loneliness."]

I am weeks away from publishing a new book and this time around, for some reason, there is more fear, doubt, worry, than excitement about this new project. During this process, I have had to reevaluate why I do this. Why do I pour myself out onto the page, flawed and all for people to critique, judge, examine, love, hate? Why do I continue to produce hoping to… to what? That is the question. I am proud of my work. Proud of this new collection of everything I am, but something is holding me back…For so much of my day, every day, I feel invisible. A nameless, faceless presence that fulfills tasks, answers in the affirmative, reflects light in darkness, but is never actually… seen. The art is appreciated, but rarely are the real raw feelings that were necessary to create the art acknowledged. The poem you read about hearts being broken, came from a broken heart. From pain, and rage, and tears and laughter and contentment and peace. I am a human. Who bleeds and cries and melts into hugs and folds herself into smiles. I am emotional and moody, and I believe that I am so aware of all of this because I am spend so much of my every day being…invisible.

[“Foreigner to myself...”]

So many times, I have wanted to reach out to the people in my circle. The people who understand me without any explanation, jokes or fanfare. The ones who would listen through my ramblings, frustrations and tears and understand, but I feel like I have said these words before. I feel like these words have become worn down and ragged from exposure, leaving nothing but holes and broken thoughts. I can't articulate the why, the how, the who, the what, it just is. I just feel. It’s rather simple, but I don’t know what to say. So instead of trying to force the feelings away with a joke, or funny anecdote, I choose to sit with them, feel all of them, and know without a doubt that it is temporary. Painful, heavy, confusing, but necessary.

[“Even during the worst times there was always a feeling of promise deep inside me-a feeling to either grab at or let fall away. Such feelings seemed trivial then, but now I realize how important they were to my reaching out for whatever I would eventually become.”]

I have stopped trying not to be melancholy, learning to allow it. Stopped trying to avoid these questions, understanding that it is better to simply face them and learn, grow, stretch, reach. Each tug at my soul is valid, and scary, and exciting, and everything I’m feeling will be worth going through the trip if I can force myself past the emotions and create it out.

["My lack of education had also helped perpetuate the fear, and perhaps that is why i eventually tried so many different things to stay alive. If one failed there would always be something else to fall back on. I imagined all the possible nightmares I might have, and I thought up ways to escape them. If I went blind I could still play the piano well enough to make a living. If I lost my leg I could still compose music or even take pictures. Nothing was overlooked.”]

This book is right on time, exactly what I need in this moment. Validation that what I am experiencing is not new. People I respect and admire and whose careers I dream of, traveled down their respective paths, but were met with similar branches causing familiar cuts and bruises on their faces, chests, arms, legs. These feelings will produce scars that will become my badge of honor. Reminding me of the courage it takes to live out your art. Live out your dream. [I am] Living out my dream.

[“…but loneliness, I knew, was a small price to pay.]

Loneliness, fear, anxiety, all of it, is a small price to pay. I understand without a doubt, that no matter what I am feeling, and forever how long I am feeling it, nothing is going to be big enough to stop me from creating. Even when I try, somehow, someway, my pen begins to move again, my mind begins to create again and after a few pages, a few stanzas, a few lines, all is right in my world. These feelings mean that I am vulnerable. That I am open to the possibilities and sensitive enough to reshape and create. I am where I’m supposed to be. I am feeling how I am supposed to feel. James Baldwin said that “Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up.” Love [art], is a growing up, but in the end, the pain is always worth it.

 Excerpt from the Upcoming Project: "dreams are not concerned". Available June 2011.

The Way I am

Standing in the kitchen

One sock on

The other on the living room floor

Eating cold pasta

Blended together with whatever I could find

In a coffee mug

That is chipped on one side

I like the color

So I refuse to ever let it go

Even when you laugh and joke

At the feathers in my hair

I remember the smell of your scent

As you stood too close

To pull each and every one of them from my curls

You looked down at me and I could feel your need

To simply be close to me

You were always there to catch me

Even if it was with a laugh

I love you

The way your body seems so in tune with mine

And how your precision fits in with the

Stutter

Stumble

Step of my rhythms

And how you loved every awkward piece of who I am

I’m standing here thinking of you

And how much you love

The way I am

Photography by: Nican Robinson 

(my amazing and talented cousin!)

Dear Rahsaan

It’s raining outside and for some reason I feel good about it. My apartment is clean [enough], warm, and I am resting in my favorite spot in the house, my dining room table. This space that is warm and clean and mine is where I write, paint, draw, think, fidget, do all that needs to be done, just in that moment. Here I can clear my mental space, regain my footing and find that quiet place where my smile lives. Sometimes there is only the sound of music playing, and sometimes I will leave the atmosphere perfectly silent with just the sound of my fingertips dancing along the surface of my keyboard and on nights like tonight, the sound of the rain dancing outside of my window is the soundtrack.

I went to see your show last night and as I witnessed you leave us all behind and slip into the world that only true artists understand, something inside of me shifted. There is something magical about seeing an artist, in their element, diving past reality and into the world they created. The sounds, the lifts of the notes, the runs of the notes, the make your toes curl and want to slap somebody of the notes…all of it. And you sir, with your signature loud claps to the side, your eyes closed, dimples flashing, did everything you could to take me there and allow me to witness…passion. The  moment that transcends money, celebrity, expectations, just give me the mic…or don’t…I don’t need it…just let me sing moment. I love that. I crave that. You live that [like I used to]. My eyes are open now. [gratitude].

Lately, my life has been 100% business. Readings, signings, managing appearances, interviews, swallowing fears, hiding behind a full time job, not allowing myself to admit that this is all brand new and I am afraid to let go and leap. Voices, concerns, people. Will they like me? Will they love me? Will they get me? Will they see me through my art? Will I finally be freed from the scrutiny and be allowed to fly free? The pressure has folded the celebration down into a page that I cannot read and I miss it. The creation and artistry. The desperation and losing track of time of it. The expectations, elation, can’t wait to scream it out at the top of my lungs of it. I miss love [art].

So Rahsaan, thank you for reminding me of what passion looks like. You helped me rediscover my core again. The artist in me, the writer in me, the painter, singer, dancer [in my living room exclusively] in me.  You make me want to believe in myself again. In the vision and the possibility. In the lessons and the tears. The questions, the bruises, the bumps, the scars, I trust it all again. Between you and me, fear has paralyzed my pen to the point where ideas would present themselves timidly before being shuffled into the maybe later pile and watching you I realized that I am being unfair to them. I have a story to tell in a voice that is uniquely mine. Questions to answer, walls to knock down, lives to inspire, patience to refine, all of this is within me. Only I have the ability to use my voice, tell this story, stumble, tumble, and climb past my own insecurities and simply live it. I cannot hold myself back any longer. I must dive into my own artistically passionate world and set my voice and my dreams free. You taught me that the only way to truly define myself, is to simply let go, and fall back in love with my craft.  You helped me get back to myself. And for that I am eternally grateful.

Sincerely Yours,

Brandelyn N. Castine

*Excerpt from the upcoming Poetry Project: dreams are not concerned (Spring 2011)

Always Be True

 “I know who I am and I am always me, although I can be really intense at times …Sometimes I’m a sullen girl, disillusioned with the world’s backwardness, angry at the wrongs, can’t get pen and paper in my hands quick enough. Sometimes I’m thoughtful, calling my loved ones to pour out why I appreciate them, singing my thanks. Sometimes I’m shy, painfully transparent, sharp at times, at others silly. I am one intense adjective at a time, and while I’m there, I don’t resist those feelings. I rest in those moments. I try to taste them, wrap myself in them as hard as I can. I call it freedom, and I suppose if I wasn’t the way I am, I wouldn’t have the careers I do. Maybe I’m nuts (probably), but I notice that when I fight myself, suck myself in, I lose all the stuff, the fruit, the core of me that I enjoy the most.” 

~Jill Scott

Sometimes I am complicated, unable to accurately articulate the reason for the tears, the laughter, the attitude, the quiet. Sometimes I want to be silent in my feelings. Acknowledging each emotion as it comes, allowing each one to pass by as slowly as a rolling cloud, giving them a perfect space to breathe. Sometimes I get emotional over moments that most allow to pass by without thought; the sight of my brother dancing in my living room; the perfect moment of sitting down in the quiet of a genuine conversation; the crisp crackle of the cover opening on a brand new book. I live for these moments, sometimes.

I am a giant contradiction: Loving attention while fearing it. Traveling on a constant quest for human contact all the while thirsting for solitude. Choosing books over movies, live shows over iPods, thrift stores over major chains, I live for originality.

I am classic, yet evolving; comfortable, yet unsettled in my intensity. I choose love. Always. I tried, fell, slipped, tripped, landed into my own arms, melted into my own embrace, resting safely in the first place I could find that was simply enough to carry the weight of all that I am, all that is me; finally I understand how important it is and what it truly means to fall in love, all over again.

I choose to enjoy the days that bring life, the light moments, the bright moments. The truth that lies in between the dark moments, I can breathe there. Be there, observe who I choose to believe there; I am liberated in the comfort of my own skin. Complete. Comfortable. Aware. I choose to grow here, constantly show, improve and believe here, respecting the contradictions, remembering that I need to believe in who I am and who I was meant to be.

Anaïs Nin

Once again... This woman has stepped into my life and blown it up. I don't even have much to say. *sticks nose back into book.