Finally got back into my tumblr after being locked out for a bit cause I couldn’t access my original email for the password reset.
They had me write “I am the drone you’re looking for”
And just for fucks I wore the same shirt as my avatar- my old highschool uniform polo.
In that short time that I couldn’t access my account, I wanted to write so much. I guess it really is the simplicity of knowing what is lost that releases that inner yearning for creation again.
I guess I’ll go on here more.
“I spent a great deal of my life being ignored. I was always very happy that way. Being ignored is a great privilege. That is how I think I learnt to see what others do not see and to react to situations differently. I simply looked at the world, not really prepared for anything.” — Saul Leiter
They say this time is evil.
The most vicious time of night.
But mankind is sleeping right now
So it doesn’t seem all that evil to me.
Cheers to 333.
I’ve been sitting in the Jazzman’s booth for almost 3 hours
Something inside me wanted to hear young Tala’s voice. I went to my archive and started reading posts from 2010. All rants. All so happy and grammar-less and tennis practice and food.
I don’t know why.. but I started to tear up.
Only 4 years ago, but it feels like I’m reading the blog of a little girl who lives across the street. Or a little girl passing by, hand-in-hand with her mother. A little girl fidgeting with her shoelaces, a little girl counting on her fingertips, a little girl with a light bookbag.
A little girl sitting in the Jazzman’s booth for almost 3 hours.
She is so lucky to have been happy. To still be happy. To be carefree, to be loving, to value and appreciate.
I’m scared of her future.
I hope she continues down the right path.
I don’t know how to protect her from heartbreak.
Why doesn’t she dream at night anymore?
What happened to her love for writing?
Why can’t I take care of her the way I used to?
Why can’t I find the time to commit to her?
Why haven’t I encouraged her to continue her hobbies?
How can I spell reality for her, in s-o-f-t letters?
I don’t ever want to let go of her hand.
I don’t ever want to see her cry.