Hello From India!

http://thewanderlustofanarthistorian.blogspot.in

A New Journey.

Hello friends!

For those of you interested in my musings, I'm temporarily on a new blog. I'm spending a few weeks studying abroad in India, so I started a new blog to document my journey.

Check it out! thewanderlustofanarthistorian.blogspot.com

Mwah!

A Must Read...

For anyone dating or considering dating, this is a must read...

http://thoughtcatalog.com/jamie-varon/2014/12/this-is-how-we-date-now/

"Love in Prepositions"

"Love in Prepositions"

"I don’t want you to love me. I don’t even want you to like me. I don’t need these abstractions of you. I might want you to want me, I know what want is and I know that after the third time ( arbitrary as three is ) you must know want, mine or your own ( mine from yours), and you will respond to want with more want, at least a second one. So, maybe then I want you to want me.
 
But more than all that, I want your prepositions. I want the little yous. I could list them here: in, on, around, under, over, between, near, next to, on top of — now it’s getting too large; the little yous is all I want, probably all I need. I’ll list them again for you, but in context, that is, with body ( validity, actors and objects of prepositions and with vigor, at least implied): I want you in me; I want you on me; I want you all around me ( forgive the little flourish there ); I want you under me ( on occasion anyway, but mainly) I want you over, over top of me, on top of me ( to flesh out that earlier, 2nd earliest, scene still more); I want you between me (-?- or more exactly in me tearing me apart); I want you near me; I want you next to NR ( fearing [ calmer, less intrusive proximities, the only actual proximities ] that near won’t be near enough, that dimond nice could get in between us), I want you next to me and nobody else; more precisely (?)— I want you, and nobody else, next to me and nobody else ( such that no body else resides on both sides of both of us, except the side closest to us; or, rather, between us [closest to us being one being (and one being too little) and not valid in a world of prepositions] so, rather, excepting the side we share between us) I want to remember you as you were in relation to me.”

- Gary Fisher, Gary in Your Pocket: Stories and Notebooks of Gary Fisher.

On Grace.

Every now and then, life doesn't quite go according to plan. 

Well, side note, if you're me, then things not going to plan is a pretty standard part of the plan, but hear me out. 

Sometimes, it's the little things that go awry in the plan. Like an emergency run to CVS for flashcards, or losing your pen. Sometimes, it's the suicide of a laptop and a tire in the midst of paper season and round two of midterms in the middle of recovering for the GRE. And there's some other stuff. 

Not that that's my week or anything.

But every now and then, it isn't the life of the philistine that interrupts the plan, but rather the people who frame the plan. Don't get me wrong, there are good things that can come from the surprises. They sweep you off your feet and provide a new alternative with a potentially happy ending.

However, there are the bad moments. The moments when the world drops out beneath you and the knife goes deep. The days pass and the knife twists deeper. And at this point comes the juncture in which a decision must be made.

Do you stay, or do you go?
Do you take a chance, or run in fear?
Do you follow your head, or your heart??

I think the common thing to do is to run. A heart breaks, and the feet fervently begin to create an itinerant existence. 

Then I go back to my proclivity for quotes. There's this guy named Andy Stanley, and he said "If you deserve it, it isn't grace." 

No one deserves forgiveness. No one is guaranteed a second or a third or any amount of chances. On the same plane, no one deserves to be hurt. 

It's a weird paradox deciding whether to stay or go, especially considering no one deserves either to be hurt or to be forgiven. At the end of the day, it all comes back to grace. 

If it were you, would you want someone to lend you grace and give you a second church? 
If it were you, would you trust someone to change and to try something new? 
If it were you, would you offer some grace? 

If it were you, would you let someone in?

"The people put in your life are not always the people you want, but they're the people you need. To hurt you, to love you, to teach you, to break you, to turn you into the person you're supposed to be."

Pardon me, for my peregrinate feet are wizened, and my grace overflows. 
Pardon me, for chances seem infinite and choices polysemous. 
Pardon me, but could you hold the door?

A Must Read..

http://thoughtcatalog.com/kelsey-hau/2014/10/why-i-hope-my-ex-was-a-once-in-a-lifetime-kind-of-love/

The Runner's Tale

Once upon a time, there was a runner.

She was not like those who run marathons and enjoy being sportive. She was the kind that all dread, for she flits from place to place craving adventure and movement. Doing all she could to avoid stasis and stagnancy, she left catastrophe in her tracks, pregnant with the need to avoid anyone holding her in one place. Her movement created cacophonies in the wake of thrashing.

All in the name of wanderlust.

The little known twist to the ever fluctuating tale is the reality of it all. For adventure was merely the guise behind the truth. Running and running meant freedom. Scampering away meant that there would be no chains. All those who held her back were no longer in existence.

The words clamored against skull as she pondered to go or to stay. It was the brief quips that maybe meant nothing, or maybe something. The words so poignantly true but so far from prose.

You can't do it.
You shouldn't do it.
It's a bad idea.
You'll never do it.
You'll never achieve your dreams.
I love you.
Follow me.
You will never succeed.
Give up now.
Please stay.

The prose rang on and on, while the runner flit from place to place.

Running meant never being hurt. Never being let down. Never being asked to stay. Running meant never realizing her true feelings behind it all. Following the thing she dreamed of at night as she lie alone, pondering if it was the right choice.

Eventually, the cacophony fell into euphony. The words faded away into the brutal realization that running was the guide she avoided for so long. That in between the plan for the next adventure was a desire to stay.

To find a home. To find a passion. To find a place to have your goddamn cake and eat it too.

But like all great runners, eventually, you can't always run. Your body will tell you to stop. The universe will closely follow in succession purveying signs. And your pugilism will get the best of you. And the universe will tell you, that it is all done.

The runner stops. The world stops. And the runner is moved to tears.

Down on her knees, she realized it all. That her life had been about looking for a reason to stay. Her life, consumed by wanderlust, drive, and sixteen hour work days, was a reason to avoid a place to stay.

And then she stops.

And she has found a place to stay.

And she is moved.

And all in good time, the universe picks her up off her feet, and puts her in her place.

And the rain falls, tainting her wine glass, but holding her, washing her thoughts away, and slowly rinsing the earth of the chaos she left.

And when the rain was done, she created a euphony. For she moved again, but not in haste.

For the hopeless wanderer slowly pulled herself up, and as she glacially let one foot fall in front of one another, the euphony created a symphony that those around her held onto so dearly as her footsteps resounded joyfully as she reaches her final destination.

For the runner's cacophony had ended, and the euphony of her footsteps told the tale of it all.

That the runner decided to stay.

A Guest Blogger

Someone dear to me wrote this for a creative writing class based on literature about love, and passed it on for me to see. It's just too good not to share, so enjoy a special guest blogger :)

____

What can be said that has not already been said?  In the course of human history, great men—artists with words, brushes, and chisels have composed celebrations of humanity that have weathered the tests of time and scrutiny with the steadfast bearing of a loyal sentry.  What difference can this small contribution of mine make to the raging inferno that beats in the hearts of all men?  To this great maw of fire then I cast my pittance of an offering—because, while it may not be enough to stir the fire to its next level, perhaps it will keep it burning until the next great man can do so.  She is everything that these men have created and more.  Even her silences are pregnant with reason enough to make me pause and listen to her.  And when she speaks—oh when she speaks!  It’s not as if a chorus of angels has descended, but rather as if the trees and grasses and all that is green and good in this world have all moved in unison to create the lush ebbs and flows of her voice.  This is all of course to say nothing of her beauty.  Her face should be hung on the Aegis—to replace the head of the Gorgon, for it has the power to turn nations and armies not to stone, but to sincerity.  And when the clouds break and a smile plays along her lips, the hearts of those whom the rays touch are stirred to action.  Cowards are made strong, the shy are given voices, the selfish are made selfless, and all around are inspired to be that which they have so long dreamt of being.  Not all is grandeur though.  In those quiet moments, those when you are lucky enough to merely sit and gaze into her, then she becomes the quiet beauty of a still, serene lake.  Which reflects all of the best of you, and all the best of the world.

The Replacement.

I couldn't have said it better myself.

http://elitedaily.com/dating/letter-girl-replaced/707040/

On Travel

Hello friends!

For those of you who haven't heard, I'm going to India! Please take a moment to check out my campaign and consider making a donation :)

http://www.gofundme.com/dbvtbk

On the Unknown.

Beware, this may be too much of a stereotypical white girl post for anyone's good, but hear me out.

You've heard the songs. They're the songs that explain how much one person loves another and the gestures that accompany it. Songs explaining the hope for something greater. A poet lyric that tries to summarize how and why you love someone.

But on the other hand, the songs that resonate more are the songs that explain of heartbreak. They tell you of the love they had and lost. A love poetic and perfect deserving of a movie. A breakup so catastrophic that Taylor Swift couldn't write an appropriate album to summarize it.

The theme running along this is that we know what love is. The idea that we can write a description of what love is, it's physical qualities, the gestures that describe it, a hopeful attempt at explaining the emotions and the feelings that come along with it. It serves as a guide for what to feel before you say those three words.

I. Love. You.

When we're young, we're told that one day, when you fall in love, you'll just know. Unfortunately, in our naivete, we think we know about 712 different times. Frank Turner said that he's meant the words each time he's said it, but it never works out.

And that's the sad reality of love, is that as beautiful as it is, it often doesn't work out. It makes you whole, and destroys you down to the tiniest microcosm of your soul. All because each time, we think we know what love is, and how it feels. We think we know what that person meant to us and what love felt like.

Until we lose someone we love, and we break in two. And we end the day thinking that we will never love again.

Yet I've come to consider that we only know what love is after we lose someone. There's some long story about how to fall in love, you must first fall in love with this series of people and fail and have your heart broken. I think the story is true, that a series of heartbreaks are what lead you to your ultimate happiness. But I don't think you fall in love with each person. I think you fall in love with the idea and you cling to it.

I thought I knew what love was, once upon a time. I thought it was what I felt and what kept me glued to a place in time. And now that I've grown up, I realized I didn't have the slightest clue. And I'm not saying I know the answer know, but I think it's a lot closer than what it was.

I don't think love is the thing found in songs. It's not the cute pictures. It's not the Facebook status. It's not what anyone ever told us it would be.

Love is that constant stupid grin on your face, all because of the other person. Love is laughing so hard you cry. Love is the little surprises, like post it notes in your lunch box. Love is waking up next to someone and knowing where you belong. Love is the safety of a hug. Love is spending your nights in reading next to each other, instead of going to the bar to flaunt your happiness. Love is never being bored by looking into someone else's eyes. Love is the thing that moves you to your highest highs and lowest lows. Love just is.

Love is a word that expresses an emotion that has so many descriptions that you could write a doctoral dissertation and not even be close to done.

Like I said, I'm not sure I know the answer, but I know a lot more than I thought I used to, and I would like to think I'm getting close to the answer.

On Longing.

Lately, I've felt the need to write, but I've found myself at a loss for words. See, when I want to blog, I wait for that epiphany to hit me so my words stream freely. 

I wait for the ephemeral moment where lightening flashes, but the affects of the thunder still shape the moment and the residual experience. 

The thing that's been on my mind most lately is freedom. Specifically, in  the forms of places and words. We live in a great big world described by a myriad of ambiguous and arbitrary words. Yet such a big world and its arbitrary descriptions have such a defining impact on our microscopic life. 

I think that we all crave freedom. Freedom from the constraints of this world, from the responsibilities of being an adult, from our personal baggage, and often our own defining thoughts. For some people, the way to quench the craving is a space bigger than one's own self. For others, it's the series of words they dream of and cling to the hopes of hearing. 

In a way, we leave our freedom and hope dependent on others. To go to another place often requires a third party to help make that happen, be it an employer, a significant other, family, etc. It's a dream to move away and start over. But the fear of it all holds us back. So the other person acts as a crutch to make our break the decision. 

But therein lies the paradox. The places where we feel free are the places we often can't be. The places in which we thought would give us freedom and rejuvenation are the chains that constrain us. Thus the never ending paradox begins of staying in the comfort of the chains or running to something new against the wishes and support of others. 

The caveat is that the support of others isn't always a physical thing. Many times, it's an intangible syntax. It's the words of approval from a family member, it's the apology from those who betrayed us, it's the confession of love from someone we hold so dear to us. It's the hope that someone understands us and can speak through to our soul. 

Yet when we don't hear those words, or when the words we hear are an adapted or abridged version that doesn't fit our imaginary thesis, we become even more confined. As much as we may desire to flee, we hold ourselves closer in hope we will hear the words we dream of. 

So here we stand at the crucial moment. The moment where we stand bonded in chains of geography and syntax. For some it could be the moment where one results in the dismissal of the other. Or the moment where we break free. 

I can't say I know the answer. It's 2am and I'm trying to wrap my mind around a concept that consumes me while I listen to the rain cleanse the city. But I know this. I know there are spaces where we feel free because we feel bigger than ourselves. I know there are words that free us because they are the very thing we dream of as we fall asleep, or the words that keep us awake as we bond with insomnia. 

My freedom is in a city. In a place where there are millions and no one knows who I am and my story. My words are those that affirm my deepest insecurities. I spend my nights of insomnia thinking of the places I want to go and the words I want to hear. 

But my freedom and my chains are not bigger than me. I can rid myself of insecurities. I can remove bondage to weaknesses in hopes of something new and revitalizing. I can move myself to a new city where I am new. I can surround myself with inspiration and dive into something greater than I've ever known. 

And as I write this, I'm still thinking of the words I want to hear and the places I want to go. Two things that are polar opposite. And as much as I want to end with an epiphany about the next step for you and me, I don't have one. 

The closest thing I bhave to an epiphany are the simplistic and profound words of Ellie Frederickson. 

"Thanks for the adventure. Now go have a new one."

On a Great Big World

Last night, I had some time on my hands, so I decided to watch the new Pretty Little Liars. Judge me later. During the dramatic break up scene in which the woman leaves her fiancee, her ex husband came to console the ex wife on her new breakup. And as he told her this elaborate story about how he loved her and how amazing she is, he said something somewhat profound for a tween drama on ABC Family.

He said something to the effect of: You don't deserve anyone less than someone who makes you realize just how big this small world really is.

I'm currently living in a college town where eyes are fixed on following the collegiate norm of meeting your true love in college and then getting married after you graduate and living happily ever after. Don't get me wrong. If the right person knocked on the door, I just might open it. If I'm feeling adventurous, I may just have a cup of coffee or a burrito with them. But if you asked me to get married within months after graduating, I would laugh at you.

But then again, I think I have plans most people don't have. I want to spend a year in Abu Dhabi, a year in India, and a year in London. Then, I want to settle in New York for a very long time before I retire to Colorado on top of a mountain in a house that's mostly a library.

Those are just a few locations. But, it's a great big world, and I want to see it all.

And let's be honest, the ex husband had it right. Now, maybe this is because I'm a sap through and through.

I guess you could call me a hopeless romantic too.
I love flowers.
I love surprises.
I love elaborate plans that are ridiculous, yet perfect.
I want to be swept off my feet.
I cry every time I watch Up.
Watching Her reduces me to a blob of tears for about 7,412 reasons.
I love depressing music.
And most importantly, I hate the thought of endings.

Put the thoughts together, and you realize, they don't go together. Joining the idea of a hopeless romantic and traveling the world ends in a paradox. It's a never ending string of questions of whether you travel, meaning you could lose people you hold so dear, or whether you settle and continue dreaming off far off places.

But you don't deserve anyone less than someone who makes you realize just how small this world is.

I'm beginning to learn (or at least trying to wrap my mind around the fact) that maybe these two concepts of polar opposite together. That maybe being a hopeless romantic and a hopeless wanderer are more compatible than imagined. I'm already in love with places I've never been and things I've never seen. I'm infatuated with the idea of new experiences and adventures. I want nothing more than to see the world with my eye pressed to the camera and a journal of adventures close by.

I would like to say there would be someone by my side on these adventures, but I don't know yet.

The thought of doing these adventures alone is frightening, to say the least. And doing something like that alone could mean a lot of goodbyes. But the bottom line is, you don't need anyone in your life who doesn't support your dreams. You don't need anyone in your life who doesn't want you to see just how big this small world is.

And whether you physically are alone in your wandering, it doesn't mean you are alone. Because if someone loves you enough to let you go on your adventure, they want you to see just how big this small world is.

Because they know that when you come back, you'll make their small world bigger.

Adventure is out there.

I was on the phone tonight, and I began explaining how I am considering a new tattoo. I want to get the house from Up with the balloons, with text that says "Adventure is out there!" Immediately, he asked why would I get that as a tattoo.

After cracking a few jokes, I explained that it's because of how important the movie and the story are to me.

Then I started to think about it.

The story of Up reduces everyone to tears. Whether it's the story of adventure, the miscarriage, love, or the loss of a loved one, it's a story that resonates deeply.

The part I love most (obviously, other than my desire to be Russell), is none other than that of Carl Frederickson. An old man, cynical and jaded, at his wits end with devastation after the loss of someone he holds so dear to him. The person who gave him the ambition for the adventure is no longer with him.

But then what Carl does is not like many others. Carl continues on his adventure despite his loss.

Loss isn't a foreign concept. It happens daily, dominating our life with various measures of grandeur.

But I wonder what would happen if loss became a motivator instead of an inhibitor. If it wasn't for Ellie, Carl wouldn't have had the idea to go to Paradise Falls. If it wasn't for the construction workers, Carl wouldn't have had the idea for the balloons. But at the root of this is his promise to Ellie.

I think we all have an Ellie. A person we've planned an adventure with and who has motivated us. Often someone from our youth, we often lose our Ellie.

And the loss of Ellie becomes the loss of the adventure.

But I tend to wonder what the world would be like if we were all Carl. If our sense of adventure dominated. If our devastation from loss withered away to be less of an inhibitor.

But maybe better yet, what if we didn't promise an Ellie? What if we promised adventure just for Carl? Just for adventure's sake?

I think adventures are scary. And as I embark on my senior year of college, and as I plan my next adventure, I would be lying if I said I was calm, cool, and collected about the thought of something new. I think my adventure would be fun if my Ellie could go with me, and if I could just stay Carl.

Don't get me wrong. I have my own dreams and aspirations, but I'm a bit petrified at the thought of wandering alone and aimlessly.

But at the end of the day, I promised myself that with or without Ellie, I would go on the adventure. With Ellie as my motivator or my inhibitor, I, Carl, would continue on to the place I promised I would go. To defy all odds and learn new things. To explore the vast unknown.

But to my Ellie, and all the Ellies to all the Carls, I hope you'll watch closely. I hope you'll stay in touch and watch from afar. I know I can't ask you to go with, but I hope you'll be proud of my adventure.

And at the end of the day, I can only hope I'll meet you at Paradise Falls.

About One Year.

It's that time of year.

At this same time every year, I ponder my life. As I pack all my belongings in boxes and move them from one place to the next, I question if life is more than a series of boxes moved from place to place. Things get packed away like jigsaw puzzles, unpacked and temporarily put on display, repacked, and moved again, all in a yearly pattern. Yet the boxes symbolize the ability to compartmentalize and rearrange for whatever reason it may be.

This year, I find the packing different.

On one hand, it's because I have to pack everything I own, move it to my boyfriend's basement, crash on my best friend's air mattress for a week, and then move everything I own into my new studio.

But I'll leave that for another day, cause homelessness and the stupidity of Iowa City apartment companies deserves its own blog post.

Anyways.

For the past two years, I've made this same move at this same time. First, into my dorm for my first year of college. Then home. Then to my second dorm. Then to an apartment three months later. Then to a new apartment for the summer. Next is bumming for a week, and then my studio for my last year at the University of Iowa (In case you're counting, when you add my move in two weeks, it's 7 times in three years).

This is my last move. I am, in fact, graduating college in one year.

At this time next year when I pack away all the boxes, it won't be for a move down the street. It won't be for a move in the same city. It won't involve boxes being moved close by and being homeless for a week in between summer and school year apartments.

It will be a long journey. Everything I own will leave Iowa City once and for all. I won't come back for the following year. I'll be on to a new journey (that has yet to be decided). Next year, I won't be three hours away from mom and dad. I won't be in college where I'm babysat by deans and cops in bars.

And I can't really say where I'll be, because as much as I want to, I don't know.

But I know one thing for sure.

All the boxes can't go. All the things I hold so dear to me as objects of comfort will become nothing but frills and excess. Instead of three boxes of books, it's five or six.

I can't even take all the bags and all the things I want to fit in them. Not everything can be folded like a jigsaw puzzle and dragged from place to place. There are limits.

In a year, I start all over. I start a new life in a new place.

And in a year, when I pack everything I own, I wonder where it will land. I wonder what I will leave behind. I wonder what I will find immaterial and inessential. I wonder how I'll feel when I wander back to my things before yet another journey.

More importantly, I wonder where I'll land and what I'll take with me.

But I'm ready to let go of the bags and the boxes and wander aimlessly and happily onto my next adventure.

Excuse me, I have a case of wanderlust.

On Distance

Lately, I've been considering the concepts of long distance relationships. They have quite the stigma attached to them that they are all things horrible. So I began thinking.

In a way, I agree that they can be quite difficult. On one hand, there is this new found distance you don't know what to do with. The person you spend every day with is now no where close to you. The physical proximity of the relationship is left out. Communication can be sporadic, depending on the distance. But the worst part is the thoughts that you're left alone with. The thought that after the extended period of time apart is over that what you thought you had could be changed. The thought that this time apart could end in two people calling it quits, because what you thought you had, you don't.

Yet this thing remains in between. Trust. Both near and far, silent and loud. Trust.

And with that, I start to wonder if long distance relationships are a good thing. Sure, it's a new adjustment knowing your person isn't there to hold your hand. But then what you learned is anything physical is not the center of the relationship. What you learn from being alone is who you are apart from that person.

What you learn is what you really want. Not having something can just make you want it more, or whether you even wanted it in the first place. Not having something can make you realize that it's the thing you've wanted all along.

It's a scary thing to be apart. It's also a scary thing to learn what you've always wanted. But then again, being scared means you'll take a leap. The leap is always worth it. For a smile, for a new opportunity, for happiness.

"Relationships remind me I'm not afraid of heights or falling. I'm scared to death of everything that's going to happen in between." - Rudy Francisco

The Story of an Art Historian

I just applied for a scholarship in which I had to write about why I chose study art history. I thought I would share my response...

During my sophomore year of high school, like many other students, I felt lost. The decision loomed to choose a career path. As an elective, I chose to take an AP Art History course. My teacher, Miss Parenti, was so incredibly knowledgeable and passionate about what she taught that it inspired me to find that passion, and thus I hoped I could spend my life as passionate about my career as her. Unfortunately, I struggled through the first part of the course, and I felt defeated.

Half way through the semester, we looked at Giotto’s  “Lamentation.” Everything I had been struggling with all along finally clicked. I knew in that moment that I wanted to learn everything I could about art history, so I could share with other students the same passion that Miss Parenti shared with me.

Thus, I chose to go to the University of Iowa to study art history. However, I realized during my studies that being an art historian was more about your service to the community than it was about calling yourself a doctor upon attaining a PhD or about knowing everything. Like my fellow undergraduates, I began pondering what field of art history I wanted to study further in graduate school. As I fell in love with modern and contemporary art, I had an epiphany.

One day, I was at the Art Institute of Chicago with my mom. As we wandered, we walked into Hito Steyerl’s video instillation, “In Free Fall.” As my mother and I watched, we were both reduced to tears as we watched the video in which two flight attendants with stone cold expressions went through the motions of explaining the safety procedures of an emergency exit in flight. Their beautifully choreographed motions seemed like a dance, juxtaposed with a background in which an airplane fell toward a rotating earth, mimicked by the rotation of the CD. All of this served as a metaphor for 9/11 with its devastation, destruction, and downfall.

In that moment, I knew that as an art historian, I wanted to study more of Hito Steyerl. I want to go beyond her work to use it as a base to study contemporary Middle Eastern art, as it fluctuates into the Western contemporary art world. My research can be a voice that speaks about the cultural conflict plaguing the US and the Middle East for years. Art and art historians can be the path for discourse begins of how to end a plague of violence and conflict.

My undergraduate degree in art history from the University of Iowa helped me to find my passions, and it will continue to give me a strong base to leave, explore, and travel to research an idea that will serve the world in conflict.

On Breaking & Healing

Recently, I had a conversation with someone quite dear to me. As we talked, we began exchanging stories. We’re not talking fluffy bar stories. We’re talking deep, impactful, and truthful. I could listen to him talk and listen to his stories for days, but there was one thought that got me.

I wish I could write down the exact words, but it was to the effect of: In that moment, I suddenly understood how much power a human being could have to break another person, and in that moment, I saw her break.

And it made me stop and think.

Sometimes, you consider relationships and you realize people impact each other. You realize that you come to assimilate to each other. You learn to like the same music, movies, foods, develop the same habits and routines, and so on. Sometimes this can go to the not as healthy extent of things in which things are forced and compliance is required in hopes of staying. Falsely, compliance implies that change could occur and that things could get better.

But then there’s a new point. A point in which two people become one until they break. It’s that tragic point when one person walks away and says, “No, I don’t love you anymore.” And it is in that moment that one human can break another human.

It is in that moment that we understand the power that we have. It is in that moment that we begin hoping for something passionate and something unrequited to fix what has been shattered into a million pieces.

It is also in that moment that you realize that as much as you can break someone, you can also fix the broken in someone else.

From being broken, we change. We go from optimism to despair, romance to cynic, whole to a part, found to wandering, and everything in between. From being broken, we find a new way to become whole.

It’s a beautiful concept, knowing that something once so broken can become new again. It’s an equally powerful and trusting concept as well.

It is from sharing how we are all broken that we heal. It is from being open and vulnerable that we come back together. It is from letting down the guards and walls and boundaries that we cling to that we heal. It is from trust and chance that we heal. It is from believing in something greater that we heal.

It is from believing that you are not doomed to your life of brokenness and despair and trusting yourself to someone dear to you that you heal, and you find that you are not as  broken as you may believe.

Brokenness is a brief moment on a path of change, and on a journey toward happiness, not a characteristic that defines you and commands you.

“Aren’t we all unfinished? Don’t we all need editing? Aren’t we al praying for someone to read us and say we make sense?” – Rudy Francisco

Unrequited Love (A Fictional Tale)

It's a cheesy girly title. I know. But I started to think about it, and I have a few thoughts.

There was an article not long ago about what happened to dating in college. And I believe it was dead on. I go to the number one party school and I do love my nights out. But my nights out consist of going with a good group of friends (guys or girls), and we have some fun and we go home. None of us go for finding a one night stand. None of us are the kind to make out with a random person in a bar.

Then you turn around and you see what college is dominated by. A series of one night stands and random make outs with people in bars. Using Tinder to find bliss and affirmation. A series of steps that make you depart from commitment and reality in an escapade that leaves you wanting more, because the thing that you think you want. You think momentary bliss from flitting experiences will leave you happy. Then when you crave more, you realize it's not the experience you want. It's the experience you're running away from that you want.

Welcome. You've met reality.

Meeting reality means building walls. You create a barrier so no one else understands your reality. You stay behind the facade with stories and maintaining the same frivolous experiences. You're happy because you think you're living the life that you want.

What happens when you meet your match? What happens when your boundaries no longer remain, and your walls are translucent? What happens when fairytales seem to be your present reality? What do you when cynicism dominates and tells you your happiness will be fleeting? What happens when you realize what you want to be as tangental as all the other times?

Unrequited love. The thing you're receiving after you meet reality. The moment when you sit there and hear all the thoughts you wonder if anyone will ever say to you again, yet leave you breathless as they hang in the dense air. Leave you staring into a blank abyss. Seeing stars and tunnel vision as the world comes to you.

So what now? It's the age old question. It's the question you've dreamed of since the first time your heart was shattered like a beer bottle on a wall after a party. The answer? Does anyone know?

Acceptance. That things change. That people are who they say they are. That happiness does exist. That you can trust someone. That there is a new life waiting if you simply walk away from the cliff you cling to as your salvation.

And that is the tale of unrequited love. That moment when you are pulled back from the cliff you hang off of with jagged edges as your salvation and safety net.

But then again, what more is unrequited love than a fictional tale?

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