what is this i don't even

As soothing memories filled her head and drew a smile on her face, she sighed, "I love the ocean," and without hesitation he lovingly replied, "You are the ocean." The seas of her soul slowed for a moment to realize he wasn't just making a couple waves in her life but a steady current, yet she was afraid he might drown.

Shy Helping Hands

I seem to have come across a problem that keeps making it's way into my life every time I want to volunteer.  I constantly need to find people that can put a good word in for me so I'm able to volunteer, and this ranges from references to letters of recommendation. It's not that I'm a terrible person or anything, but I can't find any. My downfall is apparently my shyness. I've always kept to myself, and my only extracurricular activities included the time-sucking soccer. I just don't talk much. I much prefer listening than adding worthless commentary. I talk a lot more now but not to my professors. I figure they're busy with their professor like duties and classes. I don't have questions ever, because I normally understand what the lecture is all about during class. I read and listen. That's sorta how I've been making A's my whole life, but apparently it's not good making letters of reference. Geez. So here I am so desperately wanting to volunteer and help out, but my shyness has taken me down a road that will not allow for that. I swear I'm not a bad person. All I want to do is help. OH THE FRUSTRATION.

Reflection in the Distance

Sooo I was looking through older posts and realized the things I wrote about you then totally applied when you came down and visited.

It started with the first thrilled post. Then it progressed to you buying plane tickets. The closer the time came, the more I began to realized the reality of it all. Before all this happened things were happening in my mind that I either wished for or figured out, and they still stood true or actually happened when you were here. Which let me tell you, is completely mind blowing. So during that week of you, all of those things I've ever felt or that you've done, came together in my heart and mind. I am still freaking out that these things from the past still hold up or have progressed. I am so lucky, and for whatever reason you are in my life at this time, I will not take that for granted.


Every link in this is from posts related to you or these events. Those are the posts that blow my mind to look at now.

Every 9 Seconds

That's how often a woman is assaulted or beaten and that's ONLY in the United States.

I think I'm going to cry. I pray that every single woman that is being hit while I'm writing this and long after will stay strong and strive for better.

http://domesticviolencestatistics.org/domestic-violence-statistics/

My Week of You

It was a trip of
kindling smiles
ardent eye-locks
soulful embraces
gentle kisses
symphonic I love you's,
and in the morning,
it was gone.
Beautiful things are melancholic because they can't stay for long.
So I'll leave the door unlocked for more to come.
Feel free to stop by anytime you brown-eyed, luminous soul.

Corpse

When I was making this, I was recalling some extremely morbid thoughts I never thought I would voluntarily go back to. Not only my own struggle with objectification plays into this, but other women's too. While guys might be judging specific parts of me, I know other girls are judged upon things I've never dealt with, such as being overweight. Part of me is extremely glad to be going to a school where the population is overwhelmingly girls because I don't have to gawked at. The pain that comes with being bullied, rated or rejected (whether it be romantic or friendly) as a person based off of looks alone takes its toll. It's depressing, and knowing that I or someone else has to deal with that every single day eats away at me. People are like endless books, and you should not be judging their covers. So with art on the topic of depression, came the extreme: suicide. Because when you're dead, people aren't checking you out to see if you have a nice ass. You're considered a corpse. You aren't pieces anymore. Just one corpse. Ironic, because a corpse is actually considered an object unlike the living human beings our culture likes to dissect apart. Anyway, the main point is that this person has written their suicide note on their body like they were paper to get the point of objectification across. I really have a connection with hands, so I focused on that part.

This World

Whenever I get really down about life I feel sort of like all I can hear or see is this 

This world makes you feel like pieces and not a person. Sometimes it's really hard when even people in your house make you feel that way too. I'm not an object, and I'm sick of being treated less than human.

Less Than 2 Weeks

Until Ryan arrives.
Nothing too special to talk about.
Made this last night because I wanted to physically paint. The computer is all I had.