Rosy Hued Days | Journal

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Pink Matter by Frank Ocean is stuck in my head.

It’s midnight. Even though I tire around 11, putt-putt on home around then, I still wage a tiny war against sleep, oft dragging it out past midnight.

I wrote in a notebook today for the first time in a long time. A brief, messy, scrawled journal entry. I am happy. I haven’t properly written in months. My old journal is somewhere, but I haven’t written in it. When I recall it, it holds a different type of energy. Tired, overwhelmed. Nearing the end. I wish I’d taken more photos with my friends, but I remember how exhausted I’d been at the time; there were just so many events…

This’ll probably all sound choppy. It’s late. Not writing makes me write choppy. The less I write, the harder it is to write.

Time flies. For a few weeks I lamented the number of hours in a day, not because there weren’t enough, but because there were too many. Now, it’s the other way around. I’m so happy, I wish for more hours in a day. I wish to stretch this happiness out, taut like putty. To max out on a happiness so simple that I marvel at its simplicity.

I feel as though I’m still getting where I’m going, so it’s not a sense of destination arrived when I write that life feels kind of perfect right now. I mean, it sounds facetious, or superficial, because there’s always something bothersome, right? But I’m at a place where everything feels as though it fell perfectly into place. There’s the happiness of being by the people I care about; there’s the happiness of doing something I enjoy and being well-compensated for it; there’s the happiness of pursuing something I’ve always loved.

Everything’s just woven together so seamlessly I can’t tell if…it’s just a rosy-hued haze? It’s just a satisfying combination of purpose, love, rest, and work.

It feels good to write. Sometimes I smile at people and my face will feel frozen. Or words will get caught in my throat. Or they won’t be there at all. In a lot of ways, writing’s just easier. Right now, it is more difficult than usual, but that’s only because I haven’t done it in a while.


Other miscellaneous life things, in no particular order:

– I have yet to finish Detroit: Become Human, because the series is too good. Other video games just pale in comparison.

– My arms and legs are sore from the workout my boyfriend and I did. I usually don’t like working out with people, but I liked working out with him. We did some cardio together; he worked on arms while I worked on abs; we did abs together. I nabbed some free coffee in between. Later, we got Chipotle, went to Target (hello, new nail polish and eyeliner), went to work, ran more errands, and went home. Lots of went’s. Things we usually do alone are a million times more fun when the other person is tagging along.

– I might carry my DSLR around more often. Looking at photos on WordPress inspires me to take more photos. I have a photo diary account on Instagram, where I’ve been tossing up mundane images. Sometimes I’ll post a photo of the sky. Or of shadows. Or of a person lying sideways, scrolling through their phone at an art museum. Instagram is inundated in so much fakery; where does a small photo diary fit? I don’t have the energy to be excessively fake, posting too-curated images. I just want a place to publicly vomit images, quickly and simply.

– Journaling is so pleasant. I could try journaling on here more often. Or I could simply journal whenever I felt like it. It’s been two years since I started this blog and I’m still not entirely sure what ‘category’ it falls under. A journal? Art blog? Photo blog? Creative outlet, I s’pose.

– Daily Art’s become a frenetic game of catch-up. I put too much pressure on myself to make the perfect piece, then forget or push it aside. I have to stick to it! Stick to the project. 365 projects usually get tough around the latter half.

I think a lot of it’s just a matter of working my creative muscle, continuing to take photographs, write and make art. I will admit, though, that lately I’ve been distracted by life in the best way possible, so I’ve spent much less time than usual staring at a screen. Being creative, though, is like recharging. For me, coolpeppermint is that space to express and create.


On another note, if you are reading this, thank you! Thank you for taking the time to peer at my very-small corner of the Internet. The WordPress community sets it apart from every other blogging platform I’ve ever tried, as a place for people to express and connect in a way that’s both personal and interconnected.

This is just my wordy way of expressing appreciation for your visiting my blog, commenting, contacting, etc.

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Heart

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SO you take it upon yourself to judge the content of someone’s heart without ever having the chance to rip open a chest to peer inside. Instead you look at the way their arms flail or their facial expression, the way they extend a hand or recoil in fear. On a bench or through a friend of a friend, you decide on which adjectives you’ll use to describe this heart.

You decide that:

the heart is open, the heart is cold, the heart is kind, the heart is distant, the heart is hardened, the heart is shut-off, the heart is readable, the heart is murky, the heart is big. The heart is stony. The heart is a million things except for what it simply is: a heart.

It never occurs to you that: maybe we’re all just wasting our time trying to superimpose these value judgments on an organ. But that doesn’t stop us.

Split

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Reading people. Like gleaning thin-slices. Like data points, which intuition pieces together to form a coherent, if oddly specific, understanding. A few looks, then a silent bombardment of insight.

The feisty girl in engineering with the short brown hair? She’s done hard drugs. Comes up to me, strikes up a conversation, throws in her experience with shrooms. Didn’t like them. The brunette Barbie-looking girl in class who’s only ever sounded politically neutral? Jewish, wealthy, aspires to be a Fox anchor. Canvassed for the Trump campaign, wrote about it. Interned at Fox last summer. The Caucasian man in the baggy jeans and blue hat? Patient and kind and real enough to straddle the racial line, but not without having to face shit for it.

It’s like that one quote by Roald Dahl:

“If a person has ugly thoughts, it begins to show on the face. And when that person has ugly thoughts every day, every week, every year, the face gets uglier and uglier until you can hardly bear to look at it.

It’s the same idea. That people’s thoughts, and experiences, are woven into the way they are, the way they present themselves, the way they act. That it’s all, quite literally, etched on their faces. You can sense it, from the way people talk, the way they walk, the way they wear their hair.

It sounds an awful lot like just judging people, but it goes beyond that. The thing is, peopleus, me, you–aren’t as opaque as we imagine. People are complex, which is to say that plots–good ones, at least–are oft filled with loopholes and conflicts and unexpected twists. But there’s always an overarching plot, a “what’s-this-about?” book summary in the Goodreads section.

When it comes to certain details about ourselves, or even lived experiences–we often broadcast much more than we’d like to admit.

4.4.18 | Daily Art

Purplish Abyss

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What I am trying not to face: a lurking purplish abyss.

It sits in my chest. It rises at the prospect of change. Of goodbye’s, packed bags, new cities, separation, winters, fluorescent lights. Of time passing by too slowly. I see myself trudging through snow, finding pockets of peace, but also succumbing to the abyss. I don’t want to, clearly, and most of the time, I don’t, but it’s growing louder.

This, now I know, is the cost of attachment, of love, of care, of connection, of all the soft squishy-icky-gooey things of cotton-candy existence. Indifference renders you apathetic. But things akin to the four-lettered-word, they’ll leave you with every variation of human emotion.

(That, I guess, is the price we pay.)

The Night We Met

Sometimes I’ll have moments I know I’ll remember for a long time. Years later, they’ll come as flashbacks, these fleeting connections. Before I’d never imagined how much certain people would mean to me. Then it was like something had cracked the casing around my heart like a nut and I was the Grinch with a heart that’d grown three sizes too big.

Tail-End of 2017

happy new years.jpgThe year’s winding down to an end. 2018 peeks from behind the heavy mahogany curtain: is it her turn to shine yet?

For others, it seems like every year was a salad’s mix of highlights and shit-shows. But for me, 2017 might have been one of the best. Instead of slaving away to social expectations, I did my own thing, carved out time for myself, landed a paid writing internship, visited six cities–including a beachy vacation with family, roadtrip with le beau—started seeing le beau, hit the one year blog mark, did well in my last batch of classes (all A’s so far, yay) etc. Life hath been good; I art grateful.

My favorite New Year’s WP posts that I’ve stumbled upon so far have been imbued in wisdom: what I learned this past year, what I grew to appreciate. Yet the year went by so quickly that I haven’t had the time to contemplate lessons learned or gratitude boxes checked. If anything, it seemed to be a fairly calm year, one in which the 2017 flower grew as expected, bloomed with surprising quickness, fluttered with patches of vibrancy. That, as opposed to running headlong into concrete blocks, dealing with abnormally dreary weather, or facing a lack of floral nutrients. In other words, the year somehow sidestepped the usual tricky roadblocks. For that, I am appreciative– 2014 and 2015 were growth-spurt years, awkward and painful and hasty, whereas 2016 was pinkishly aimless.

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2017 was a good year, a mellow year. As of now, 2018’s just rounded about vague goals, semi-forming and morphing–I’m not really one for resolutions. I’ll soon flesh said goals out, jot them down on paper, work towards them. The only “creative” goal I have so far is to make more art, several pieces a week. I’m considering starting up my daily drawing project again (which didn’t get terribly far in the start of the year). I’m looking for some way to consistently commit myself to fine arts, even though I’m not required to. Otherwise, in looking ahead, I’ve been told that this pocket of Youth will be a time of exploration, loneliness, uncertainty, excitement. Ah. We’ll see what it has in store.

In looking back at the year, I’d be remiss not to note how grateful I am for you, reader. Thank you for taking the time to click, like, read or comment on any posts, for being a part of 2017. If you’re reading this (as Drake scribbled on his album cover), thank you, and happy New Years. 🙂

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