Anna Karina

"Moons were meant to be admired"

A lonesome walk plaid-skirted and briskly-paced faltered my energy and concluded my self sitting amidst figures of people walking their dogs up and down that sidewalk in front of me.

A little girl being attended by her mom and dad. Was that what I was like when I was her age?

I am not sure what inspired a policeman to roll his wheels past all that concrete to simply ask if I was fine, his blue eyes so wide and true, I thought about having a conversation with him but I thought I'd interrupt his monitering.

Perhaps it was goodwill. Maybe he just got bored of being there. Then he told me. Flustered. Apparently that's what I seemed, making my way across those people having a good time on that darn big patch of grass.

Just earlier C gently pressed his hands on my forehead and reminded I needed a change of expression. A reminder, because each damn heavy step I made walking to make my mother's errand had me harshly vaulting the space that I feel has been running empty. I don't usually know where I'm going, but for once I did and I felt angry that it wasn't for anything important. It suddenly felt like all my work was just made up of careless harvesting that wasn't growing a single damn thing. What the hell was I doing? What have I? I feel sorry for ever trying to hold the moon so thoughtlessly and hopelessly that I forgot about what it truly was.

 If it really does look over me and provide for me every night the way it has, not skipping a single night when I fix my sight to it, it's not bad. Really, not bad after all. I halt my stream of fears when I rotate ideas about distance. Shuddering about its existence. I don't want it to fail me. But we all just want. All the time.

 I stole two books today from 5th Avenue, then I saw men holding hands across a window dividing them from me.

To C: I'll reach nights where I won't have to look at your sky with your enormity and assurance wrapping its arms around me.

the little sailor

I've been taking my sedatives to recuperate from the continuous anguish I felt this morning. My jaw is still swollen but I feel less of a mess. Because I still need to spend more time at home, I decided that this is would be my first post showcasing two relatively new purchases that were made -- both vintage mini dresses with collars. These photos would be of me wearing them instead if I looked the way I normally do, but this'll do.

Sometimes, I honestly feel like too much of a girly girl. I am guilty of dressing too much like an overgrown little girl, but I tend to level it off with something even sweeter beneath those short little dresses.

The left nautical dress, I'm debating to put up in my Etsy shop. It's much too short for my frame (30.5" total length) which makes it virtually necessary to wear a slip beneath. Not too sure that'll be possible considering how fitted it is, and how I'll be feeling  like I'm in an oven the whole time. Oh, the things we sacrifice just to look a little cute.

The right I absolutely adore. Black velvet Wednesday Adams goodness. Can't wait to wear during the colder months with tights.

basal demands

Bad postured on a nearly disfunctional wooden seat needing a leg change. Weak limbs, terribly swollen jaw, oily hair, and Morals by iceage on replay in the background 'cause the lyrics make me feel like I want the tips of my fingers to melt into a scurrying of brilliance to match the brilliance of the song. If only.

I thought about how I wish I could have seen them when they were here in March.

My thoughts then transitioned into more analytical realms, remembering that clear night when J spilled to me one of the most confident, yet hurtful statements which I deem too personal to ever share again. Due to the fact that my reasons are disclosed, hopefully this serves as a small hint to what I'm trying to become.

 I've been wearing the same black floral dress for the past two days. She was in a tasteless outfit when I saw her that day, and I discretely told her that she really isn't all that bad. For a moment I wanted to apologize for all the secret hatred I had snaking in me. That I kept folding and unfolding with a fear of choosing a side on either of the divide because I thought I'd be wrong anyway. I saw her, and when I did, I felt the same. She looked at me with a kind of look that told me I deserved more. But sometimes, when J looks at me in the eyes, I'm more than ready to pull that thread that was knotted between the two to have him closer and just shed fear.

Dear J, I want to ask you why.