Every town in London is so beautifully lit up at this time of year!
I’ve been visiting Camden for about two years now, and from the market to the food stalls, to the tattoo parlours and the packed streets at night, it is one of my favourite parts of London to visit.
I don’t think there is anything more beautiful than the city of London during the festive period. The atmosphere buzzes with excitement and tourism as Christmas draws closer by each day, and although the crowds get bigger, there is nowhere else I’d rather spend Christmas than in my home city. A truly spectacular sight at night, too.
…you are all the books you read,
And all the words you speak,
You are your croaky morning voice,
And the smiles you try to hide,
You are the sweetness in your laughter,
And every tear you’ve cried,
You’re the songs you sing so loudly,
when you know you’re all alone,
You’re the places you’ve been to,
And the one you call home,
You’re the things that you believe in,
And the people that you love,
You’re the photos in your bedroom.
And the future you dream of,
You’re made of so much beauty,
But it seems you forgot,
When you decided that you were defined,
By all the things you’re not.
as you stare up at the stars.
as my gaze falls on you.
“We are moved around by the force of what we love
You can see that some of us are half ocean and some are half sky
Some chase the sun and some make love to the night.”
For Charles T. Scott,
Gatsby was never quite real to me. His original served for a good enough exterior until about the middle of the book he grew thin and I began to fill him with my own emotional life. So he’s synthetic – and that’s one of the flaws in this book.
F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ellerslie, Edgemoore, Delaware, 1927
Every sunset will be witnessed with someone’s thumb over the pulse of my right wrist, watching the fiery glow softly caress everything it sets its sight on. I’ll be standing in the middle of a storm as the scent of our youth crashes into the ground, leaving behind a mess of broken ambition and ecstasy. Intoxicated with the idea of mystery and adventure, I’ll follow my happiness. Submerged in my freedom, I will live how life should be lived; with no limits, no expectations and no rules.
Everyone who terrifies you is sixty-five percent water. And everyone you love is made of stardust, and I know sometimes you cannot even breathe deeply, and the night sky is no home, and you have cried yourself to sleep enough times that you are down to your last two percent, but nothing is infinite, not even loss.
You are made of the sea and the stars, and one day you are going to find yourself again.
I’m sorry that all of my words roll off my tongue in metaphors and my sentences string themselves together like needles and thread but I read too much poetry and over time, I have picked up the tiny habits. I’m sorry that I never stop talking until my letters have formed works of art and I’ve finished describing my thoughts and emotions in a way that nobody understands, but somehow they understand anyway. I’m sorry that it takes so long to get things done when I’m around because I spend half my time staring into the distance, wondering what the clouds would taste like, and how I would put that taste on paper, and you spend all your time snapping your fingers in front of my face as though that will scare the poetry out of my mind to slip onto the street and seep through the gutters where nobody will ever find it. My apologies could go on for miles but I don’t have the space of time to tell you all of them, and for that, I am sorry, too, but sorry will never change the fact that I have let the poetry creep down my throat and claw itself into my bones, take apart my every being and replace my heart with words I have no trouble saying but you have trouble listening to. I know that eventually, you will grow tired of it, but until then, I will hand you love letters when you least expect it and write your name into my lungs so that even when I cannot breathe, I will remember the sound of your voice. I will surprise you with afternoon picnics and concert tickets and movie nights and even though while you are rubbing your thumb on the back of my hand I am writing a poem in my mind about the feel of it, I still have not managed to write a poem that describes you perfectly enough because you are not merely something that can be put into words, and no poetry will ever be worthy of you. My love for you is a sensation that only I will ever get the pleasure of having because although my mind is filled with beautiful words, none of them will ever be beautiful enough for you.