On secrets.

They come in all sorts of ways. Song lyrics, photos, journal entries, cryptic text messages. I like it when people tell everything about themselves in these small ways.

A few of mine...

This is my garden. It's overgrown and blossoming out of season... most of the plants that I planted are dead now. But I love it. That's my secret. Weeds secretly thrill me. They're scrappy and hardy and persevering even in the dead of winter. I admire them for their complete lack of dignity and for their shameless sprouting.



Color.


I buy journals as inspiration to finish the one I'm currently filling. Speaking of journals...


Some days the emotional pain is too hard to take and I find myself laying in bed with my journal and my cats and lamenting the fact that I am not Sylvia Plath and my ramblings of self will never be worthy to publish. And then I usually remember that that's not the reason to write and snap myself back to the present emotional pain instead.

"I've never felt so wicked as when I willed our love to die." -Rilo Kiley



I go through my underwear drawer about once a month and throw away anything ratty/unsexy and buy more for myself. Something about wearing underthings that are new and pretty and colorful brightens my viewpoint on life.



I think lovers are the strangest of strangers and that friends are never as truthful as you wish they were. Strangers that are about to be friends are the only ones that look at you without a filter.



I like to take pictures of things around my house because they give me a sense of self and accomplishment.

"I'll be the queen of your heart, dear, you be the king of my love." -Jonatha Brooke

Secrets. I think they're all a form of life poetry.