I Do Believe in Magic

Today, just for a little while, I experienced magic. Perhaps it's because this week marks the release of the final Harry Potter film that I am especially nostalgic about all things magical and muggle in nature. As one of my most beloved stories comes to a close, I will surely relive in the final moments of the film the heartache and longing for more of J.K. Rowling's world, as I did with the books. As I have with all books that have transported me into some other world for however long the pages last. These kinds of stories are the kind that convince me that magic is real. Not the kind of magic that comes from the end of a wand, but the kind of magic that is born inside when one finally realizes that there is something greater, some epic purpose to our lives, something beyond our understanding. This kind of magic is awakened someplace deep within and grows like tiny branches of lightning until it reaches my fingertips and toes and eventually my eyes so that I can no longer hold back the tears. This is the kind of magic I experienced today. For a few hours I was immersed in stories yet to be told. Stories that traverse worlds I have never seen, encounter people I have never met, but that hold truths that harken to the world in which I live, all the while begging me to explore that which I don't know. Movies are magic. And today I was completely overwhelmed by the magic that comes with working in this industry.

I Am Not a Robot

Dear Chelsea,

In case you were wondering, you are not a robot. You are a human being. You cannot be programmed for perfection. You can be expected to make mistakes. You wear your heart too easily on your sleeve, so yes, you are bound to be hurt. You will move on though and time will take care of everything. You can stop freaking out now, because you are human, and that's okay. You are not a robot. Remember this.

Delusional Expectations of an Aging Millennial

Because I couldn't have said it better myself:

I will develop a “bedtime routine.” I will make a diligent effort to wash my face every night before bed. I will dab anti-wrinkle cream on my fingers and gently trace circles onto my aging skin, like I’ve watched my mother do. Once a week, I’ll apply a facial mask that will require fifteen minutes of doing something else until it dries; something noncommittal like fixing a cup of tea.

Bedtime will arrive at approximately the same time every night, and I’ll wear something soft and feminine. It will probably be a cotton teddy with lace trim; it will be something I would wear out of the house if I were a few years younger. I will not sleep naked or in an ex-boyfriend’s t-shirt or in whatever outfit I wore to work/ the bar/ a date. I will sleep in my own bed. I will not let exhaustion/ laziness/ contentedness become an excuse for sleeping on the living room couch. I will not let the lull of infomercials carry me in and out of dreams.

My friends will get married, and I’ll attend their weddings without a date. I won’t lament attending weddings without a plus one. There will always be one good-looking bachelor, slated to be my partner in flirtation for the duration of the reception. We’ll both know how to slow dance. I won’t feel clumsy or out of place.

I’ll live alone, maybe. I will learn the correct way to paint a room. I’ll own a tool kit. I’ll never spend the day just existing, just doing nothing but breathing in and out and flipping through channels. There will be too much to accomplish. I won’t waste a Saturday. I won’t meet friends for brunch and find myself closing down a bar eight hours later. I’ll go to the Farmer’s Market before that happens – or the flea market, or the supermarket. I will have an income that will allow me to knock out all three in one weekend, if that’s what I want.

I will always have friends in my city. If one of them calls me up and asks me to come shopping or get a pedicure, I won’t have to turn them away. I will always have plans for the holidays. My parents will always send me a gift on Valentine’s Day with a card reminding me that they’re, collectively, my first Valentine(s). This will happen regardless of my romantic status, how old they get, how old I get.

I won’t remember what it feels like to have a broken heart. I will stop caring about the people I could not be with when I was younger. I will not wonder what they’re doing or feel empty when I hear that they’ve succeeded in building a life without me. I won’t “check in” or sob over photographs of them living new lives. I will fall in love, one final time. My parents will like him. We’ll take road trips to nowhere and dusk will be our favorite time of day.

Someday, skinny jeans and towering heels will go into storage for nine months. My closet space, once reserved for plunging tops and backless somethings, will belong to empire dresses and pants with elastic waistbands. I’ll be bloated and sore and fatter than ever, but everyone will say I’m “glowing” and I’ll accept it. My breasts will blow up, engorged with mother’s milk. I’ll give birth, and I won’t be mortified/amused by what excrement my child causes to escape/ is wearing all over its veiny, bloody little body. I’ll breastfeed myself down to a size 4; motherhood and stress and a boozeless 270 days will whittle my figure down to something it never was before. I will never wince at cellulite again.

I will pay off my student loan debt before I die. Eventually, I will stop thinking about how my monthly payment could’ve been better spent. I will be able to afford to go on trips that aren’t work related or paid for by someone else. I’ll be free from worry, from dread about the future. I will make a living. I will have an IRA. I will have CDs. I will invest in gold. I will have health insurance. I will have life insurance, because someday, other people will depend on me.

If I had to guess, I’ll live for another 60 years. I will grow wiser, more graceful. I will never hurt someone I love. I won’t die suddenly or tragically. It will become what other people expect of me; every passing year brings me closer to my temporary home at the crematorium. I’ll be sprinkled on a windy day, somewhere insignificant. My ashes will fly back into the face of the person releasing them, burning their eyes and affixing to their tongue like bitter, grey snowflakes. They’ll feel both scarred and grateful to have a funeral story to repeat at family dinners and after-work engagements. My final gift to the world.

Written by Stephanie Georgopulos. Re-blogged from Thought Catalog

Fight or Flight

We have two instincts: fight or flight.
I want to think of myself as strong.
I want to think of myself as a fighter.
But I only want to fight if it's with you.
I'm tired of fighting alone.
I'm tired of fighting the same battles.
Familiar scars.
Familiar tears.
I'd rather fly.
I flap my wings harder and harder, but feel no lift.
They've been clipped.
No new horizons.
No new landscapes.
Same faces.
Same eyes I must stare into and try not to feel anything.
Same battles.
Instinct surrenders to the concrete around these ankles.

All the Best Cowboys Have Daddy Issues

Few things can entrance and enrapture me like a good story. Whether it be told through film, on pages, or in the lyrics of a song, I believe stories are the most powerful gifts we as human being possess. What I love most about a story is the arc that the character has to go through. It's not a straight line to the end. There are ups and downs along the way the prevent or stall the character from his or her goal. Any basic scriptwriting class will teach you that this element, a character not being able to achieve a goal, at least for a certain period of time, is the key to writing a successful screenplay. This dynamic of the story is what keeps us tuning in to our favorite television show or sitting on the edge of our seat during a movie. In a very poetic and cliche way, I like to view the course of my life as a story. New years and seasons as chapters, people as characters. I want my life to be a good story, one that I can reflect on fondly and that will be retold when I am gone. But every good story must have its ups and downs. So why am I always surprised when my idyllic plateau falls into some deep valley? That's the way of it, I shouldn't be so taken back. But I am. I think I'm just now accepting that this is the way of my story, of any story. It's funny too how quickly the ups are met with their decent. How a single email can ruin an otherwise lovely day. How you can meet a person and feel all kinds of excitement and emotion, and a few weeks later feel alone and confused. Up. Down. But what I am also learning is that sometimes the most beautiful moments in a movie or a book are those low points for the character. That's where the transformation takes place, or the lesson is learned, or the due is paid. This week I received a letter from someone who was part of my deepest descent, and I realized that even from that blackest of darkness, light can be found and beauty can come from the mire. Luckily there is no plateau, lest we ever be caught in a constant down. And at the end of even the longest valley road, there is another peak to climb. Such is any good story. So will be my story I suppose.

Confessions of an Introvert

I feel that there is an entire group of people who must think I am incapable of speech. It's a strange feeling, the desire to speak is as strong as the physical need to remain silent. Somewhere along the way, I assumed my childish tendency to retreat into silence would dissipate and a confident, witty storyteller would emerge. Like a bright, colorful chrysalis in an Eric Carle book. Instead I find I am at war with myself. A war of words.

Time Stands Still

There are days I wish time would stand still

So I could stand in one place all day long, all eternity long

So I could breathe in the sunshine

So I could hear them playing in the yard

So I could feel the breeze blowing in across the fields

Alas, these photographs are all I have.