day of mon

Monday
mon-
(adj.) french for my
-day
(noun) the time between sunrise and sunset
litteral meaning- my day.








how like me to have such a crazy day as my favorite. I'm not sure how to describe why I like mondays because I don't understand myself but I'll do my best. mondays make me think of early, quiet sunrises. of productive mornings and lazy afternoons. evenings with books and song lyrics. Thanks to my deformed schedule, monday isnt just the day after the weekend for me. It's my day. Waking up this morning with coffee and a cozy sweater could only be matched by getting ready for bed while listening to the rain. today was better than most days.

and a lot of times I have bad days. I don't talk about them because no one needs me telling them what a bad day is like, we all hae them. But today was better than most days and I want to treasure it. I want to measure my life in days like this.

there was you, there was me

Dearest Sabrina,
     I know we haven't spoken in almost a year. I know you're at college with other people and other adventures, but I want you to know that I still look up to you, and pray for you. You constantly inspire me and your advice still encourages me. I'm lucky to call you my friend even if you've forgotten me.

Dear little boy at the park,
     While I passed by you, you threw a stuffed animal a hundred feet in the air that I was sure was going to land on me. I'm still amazed you caught it.

Dear Sonya,
     I wonder how you like England. I wonder if you still sing and play your guitar around other people. If you still wear flowers in your thick black hair. I wonder if you are the picture of loveliness to other little girls just like you were, and still are, to me.

Dear Jonathan,
     Five minutes after meeting you, I wanted to travel to the exotic places you've been. But ten minuets after meeting you, you became the first person to convince me that my own backyard is one of the best places to be, because I saw how much you wanted to stay here, the place that felt like home.

Dear chef in Florida,
     I had never had a vanilla latte muffin before. I haven't found one since. And I know it's silly, but what could have been a bad day turned out all right because I had the most delicious breakfast ever.

I could write letters to many more people, but these were the ones I was thinking about today. These people will probably never receive those letters. They probably have no idea I exsist, or they don't remember me. But I remember them. They were a part of my life, no matter how small. And small details of insignificance are all I can think about.

I still remember the song Sabrina recommended to me when I was feeling lonely.

I still remember that stupid folding chair I couldn't get open and Jonathan had to help me.

I remember how a college student said she loved monday mornings as she passed by, while I ate my muffin. I still can't figure out if she was being sarcastic or not.

Details that obviously impacted me in some way so as to stand out long after.
Incidents that had no obvious significance but are cherished memories.
I don't know why I shouldn't, but I don't let them fade.

she was born in black and white

{via}   Her face was a
map of the world
the mountains
and valleys of
a well travelled soul
that could be read
between the oceans
called her eyes. She
was born in
black and white
into a world of
aquarel colors. Her laugh was
a sad song-
the only window to her beauty. Her words were
stories
and her stories were
mischievous whispers
I wish she had told. Her pain,
her burdens,
was hidden in
the corner of her
smile
as mysterious as the
freckles behind her ears. When she was here
we hardly noticed.
When she left
I looked around
and wondered what was wrong
as I do before
I realize
a bird has stopped
singing.
And in the wake
of her footsteps
the faintest scent of morning rain
still hangs in the air.