Search

Tag

Creative writing

Nostalgia

It feels like I’ve time traveled and landed in a parallel universe.
I’m numb and in awe.

It’s you, but it’s not you.
Like I’m in a dream.

You’re picking me up in an 80’s Cadillac, no seat belt. Holding the door like a gentleman.
The speedometer trembling to keep up. A dream catcher hanging from your windshield mirror. The lights on the road, purple. It’s as if I’m in a film. I’m again reminded of the magic. The moments of whimsey my heart lives for. The words coming out of your mouth; strangely familiar. Like you traveled from another timeline, except it’s not really you. Just the semblance.

Today you put a watch on my wrist. Like he put a bracelet. It’s like I was re-living the past in a warped reality where time was outside of time. As if dimensions had been collapsed together and I’ve been brought back here with you, except it’s not you. We drove past a store with his name written on it. What? His name.But not him. You. This moment, this car…

“Am I dreaming?”

Some moments in life are so unpredictable. So magical. It reminds me what I live for.

One moment we’re exchanging glances. The next we’re kissing in your bedroom in the dark.



On the surface I’m ok, but underneath there is a volcano.

I’m afraid of closeness. Like once you know me it won’t be the same.
And vice versa. Once I know you, maybe it won’t be the same.



The roads here make me nostalgic. If there is one word that captures the timbre of my soul, that one is probably it.

Anyway, this weird abstract message is all I have for today. It’s all been so weird lately.

I think I want a husband.

Free

She throws a gentle smile to herself in the foggy mirror hoping she finally smiles back in satisfaction of her likeness. Blatant traces of her mother’s tired image stares back at her like a frightened owl in the dark of night.

There are days where she’s proud to be her mother’s daughter; a woman whose cracked and callous ridden hands are a trophy of the arduous labor that long sustained her broken family. And then there are days where she wishes she was born to a Wordsworth or a Wellington – you know, someone with power and prestige.

She dreams of one day getting away — finally being free. Free of the uncomfortable, sardine sized cages of her mind. Free of the relentless poverty that entraps her aging body and stifles her effervescent spirit.

 

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑