There is an immense amount of prestige tied with the title Vogue; it automatically suggests style and class. Images of style icons of yesteryears immediately infiltrate your mind's eye at the mere mention of the word, possibly followed by the singing of Madonna's catchy tune, under your breath, of course.
The feature articles have substance; a quality that sets them apart from many others. They are well written and avant garde, the stories are innovatory and inspiring. Real women with real stories. Cutting edge fashion and cutting edge journalism. Accomplished writers such as Joan Didion once graced the pages of this publication, and she is well known to be extremely capable with words.
It's writers like these that give Vogue an immense amount of credibility which, in turn, wins it a loyal readership.
To some, fashion publications may seem to be devoid of actual substance because they seem solely focussed on the superficial.
But Vogue seems to strike a balance between the editorial authority of Vanity Fair whilst retaining the glamorous culture and free spirit of less text driven publications, making it fresh and strictly now. On the other end of spectrum you have magazine's such as Heat, which you can hardly accuse of being wolves in sheep's clothing. You can distinctly see what kind of publication Heat is simply by looking at the cover. Magazine's such as these are merely guilty pleasures.
Celebrity gossip, written solely for shock value, will not satisfy the reader of Vogue.
Nor will articles on how to get that Summer body in just two weeks, or the generic “15 ways to become a happier you” bit that often rears its uninspired head in some other fashion magazines.
The women who read Vogue are fashion and body conscious, fashion inspires them, as does travel and culture.
I'd say the average Vogue reader is in their mid to late 20's to their late 40's and 50's. The advertisements alone show a vast array of ages: Emporio Armani shows a young and flawless woman modeling their clothing whilst Dior shows an aging Sharon Stone advertising anti-aging cream.
There are many beauty and cosmetics advertisements; foundations, skin creams, tanning lotions, lipsticks, eyeliners and all manner of hair products, you name it, they advertise it. That tells us that these women like to take care of their appearance. There are a good number of Jewelery advertisements too, which just proves that diamonds still remain a girl's best friend.
Perhaps the readers are socialites, or merely career savvy, independent or its opposite, and intelligent. Whatever their various financial standings may be, these women have these characteristics in common.
Some may have the money to buy the couture on display and other's may just fantasize, or have lofty aspirations for the future, either way these women know good fashion, they would love nothing more than to wear a Chanel mini dress coupled with Jimmy Choo shoes and Miu Miu eyewear, but they also know a good read.
June 25, 2009
June 14, 2009
Red Balloon
I've recently been hired as Red Balloon's freelance blogger!
Red Balloon is an arts and crafts website which informs the public of all things arty and crafty going on in South Africa, from painting classes and supply shops to handcrafted products and markets.
www.redballoon.co.za, have a look!
Red Balloon is an arts and crafts website which informs the public of all things arty and crafty going on in South Africa, from painting classes and supply shops to handcrafted products and markets.
www.redballoon.co.za, have a look!
June 13, 2009
Symptoms
There could be all manner of explanations as to why you feel certain ways on certain days, miss. But I am telling you now, there is nothing wrong with you. Physically, you're as healthy as a horse.
And looking at her, you would tend to agree - the sight of her is something to behold.
She has immaculate skin- a pale complexion, which by no means means she is less healthy than a more tanned, healthier looking woman, quite to the contrary in fact. Her eyes are black. Natures black; a dark shade of brown.
A good looking girl, so good looking in fact, that one might say she wouldn't need much in the way of brains, because everyone knows that if you are good looking you don't really need brains. It's just a perk if you have them.
But this good looking girl suffers. Which may make some people of the jealous variety rather happy to hear.
She gets bizarre headaches almost daily. They come in all shapes and sizes, these headaches. And the headaches are just the beginning.
Thus, she sits here, in the trusty doctors room and irritably taps her fingers on his dark wood desk.
I don't understand doctor, I certainly do not feel anywhere near as healthy as a horse. Quite the opposite in fact. Have I not come to you on many an occasion complaining of these very symptoms? Surely the mere fact that they are reoccurring is proof enough that I am most certainly not as healthy as a horse?
Or are you inadvertently suggesting that I am not altogether right up here?
As she said this, she pointed to her head.
Do you think I am imagining these headaches doctor? Because I can tell you right now, there are far better things I could be imagining, I can assure you of that!
And quite frankly doctor, I'm rather appalled at the very notion that you may suggest such a thing. I am not a crazy woman.
I simply am not well. And the more you tell me other wise, the more panicked I get and I am not a very sweet lady once panicked. So please, if you'll be so kind...
And with that she got up, took off her red coat and began toward the patient's bed behind the white curtain.
There were pokings and proddings and general testings of various body parts and then the doctor said right, you may get dressed.
There is absolutely nothing wrong with you, like I said, as healthy as a...
Sigh.
And looking at her, you would tend to agree - the sight of her is something to behold.
She has immaculate skin- a pale complexion, which by no means means she is less healthy than a more tanned, healthier looking woman, quite to the contrary in fact. Her eyes are black. Natures black; a dark shade of brown.
A good looking girl, so good looking in fact, that one might say she wouldn't need much in the way of brains, because everyone knows that if you are good looking you don't really need brains. It's just a perk if you have them.
But this good looking girl suffers. Which may make some people of the jealous variety rather happy to hear.
She gets bizarre headaches almost daily. They come in all shapes and sizes, these headaches. And the headaches are just the beginning.
Thus, she sits here, in the trusty doctors room and irritably taps her fingers on his dark wood desk.
I don't understand doctor, I certainly do not feel anywhere near as healthy as a horse. Quite the opposite in fact. Have I not come to you on many an occasion complaining of these very symptoms? Surely the mere fact that they are reoccurring is proof enough that I am most certainly not as healthy as a horse?
Or are you inadvertently suggesting that I am not altogether right up here?
As she said this, she pointed to her head.
Do you think I am imagining these headaches doctor? Because I can tell you right now, there are far better things I could be imagining, I can assure you of that!
And quite frankly doctor, I'm rather appalled at the very notion that you may suggest such a thing. I am not a crazy woman.
I simply am not well. And the more you tell me other wise, the more panicked I get and I am not a very sweet lady once panicked. So please, if you'll be so kind...
And with that she got up, took off her red coat and began toward the patient's bed behind the white curtain.
There were pokings and proddings and general testings of various body parts and then the doctor said right, you may get dressed.
There is absolutely nothing wrong with you, like I said, as healthy as a...
Sigh.
June 12, 2009
A small death
I just, well, I think we, um... I don't, that is I fear we... Have come to the end of our road, so to speak. I think perhaps we'd be better off as just...Friends.
She blinks up into the late morning sun seeing only his outline. His hands are placed nervously on his hips as he shifts from his left foot to his right and back again.
She looks down at her soiled hands, full of dirt and roses. Pink. They're shaking ever so slightly giving away, but only slightly, the state of her heart.
Every break up is a small death to us human folk. It's a fact. We lose something, something ends, abruptly or its opposite. Something dies.
Of course it doesn't have the finality of actual physical death, as there is always a chance, however small, that a break up is only temporary, a momentary lapse in love, as opposed to death of the flesh, which as we all know is pretty final.
Cars whir by, somewhere in a neighbours yard a dog barks, more cars. The sun becomes unbearably warm against her bare skin. She places the picked roses down beside her and lifts the garden scissors from the moist grass and begins again. Concentrating.
He shifts again.
More cars, more dogs.
Another batch of perfectly pink roses. She inhales and finds it rather difficult to exhale, he sighs. She sighs.
She gets up off ground, roses and scissors in hand, wipes her hands on her dirty not-so-blue jeans and begins up the garden path back toward the house, to the front door. She closes it behind her and runs a bath.
She blinks up into the late morning sun seeing only his outline. His hands are placed nervously on his hips as he shifts from his left foot to his right and back again.
She looks down at her soiled hands, full of dirt and roses. Pink. They're shaking ever so slightly giving away, but only slightly, the state of her heart.
Every break up is a small death to us human folk. It's a fact. We lose something, something ends, abruptly or its opposite. Something dies.
Of course it doesn't have the finality of actual physical death, as there is always a chance, however small, that a break up is only temporary, a momentary lapse in love, as opposed to death of the flesh, which as we all know is pretty final.
Cars whir by, somewhere in a neighbours yard a dog barks, more cars. The sun becomes unbearably warm against her bare skin. She places the picked roses down beside her and lifts the garden scissors from the moist grass and begins again. Concentrating.
He shifts again.
More cars, more dogs.
Another batch of perfectly pink roses. She inhales and finds it rather difficult to exhale, he sighs. She sighs.
She gets up off ground, roses and scissors in hand, wipes her hands on her dirty not-so-blue jeans and begins up the garden path back toward the house, to the front door. She closes it behind her and runs a bath.
June 11, 2009
Caress the detail, the divine detail
I'll tell you my dear; I'd be a wanderer, compass-less and afraid of the sun. The sky would remain blue and colourless.
Another one who doesn't know a damn thing.
It's in you. The darker blue which rims the lighter in your eyes, the
details.
My dear, you see, I maintain you know me well, you know me and you love me and I know you. Every beauty spot, every mole, every mark.
Never disillusioned. I know you.
Another one who doesn't know a damn thing.
It's in you. The darker blue which rims the lighter in your eyes, the
details.
My dear, you see, I maintain you know me well, you know me and you love me and I know you. Every beauty spot, every mole, every mark.
Never disillusioned. I know you.
June 10, 2009
E.N.E.R.G.Y
Fulfilling your dreams; what an assignment, such a responsibility!
What happens when you’ve been bound in one direction but suddenly find yourself dispirited, ambling toward a future you have lost the desire to obtain?
It happens so often nowadays, we become bored with our chosen career track, a bit blasé. Stoical, we get up every morning and hoist ourselves up on that treadmill and begin the mundane working day. It’s difficult to find the energy to start over, to begin everything again and your anxiety, the inevitable reservations you have, zap even more energy, spent worrying.
Energy, besides being the name of a Taiwanese pop boy band, is, by definition, the physical capacity to perform work, the ability to make something happen.
But we’re so programmed these days to achieve, achieve, achieve! No time for error or failure, you should know in your last couple of years of high school exactly what you want and where you wish to go.
And it’s great if you do, but a lot of the time we just choose the lesser of evils and go with it. Get a degree or diploma in business when what we really want to do is write, or paint.
And then we wake up 3 years later with the stark realization that we are unfulfilled and desperate to break free.
And what comes with that realization? An immense amount of fear.
And if we have been working hard in those years we’re also left beat and burned out.
Energy, like courage, is imperative to your contentment.
Take Joaquin Phoenix, a well respected, award winning actor who has admitted that he cares very little for the acting process and has decided to pursue a career in Hip Hop music. Although rumours are rife that it is all a big joke, which I would imagine is not the greatest compliment, as his talent in this area remains to be seen, he remains hell bent on proving them wrong.
More and more I hear of people changing, or wishing to change their choices, but just how easy is it? Sure, for someone like Joaquin Phoenix it is easier because he has the financial stability to pursue his untapped dreams, but he also risks losing credibility – Hollywood is, after all, extreme in its unforgiving nature. Not unlike many other industries out there.
All we have is our energy, but where is this elusive commodity?
So often we waste energy on things we don’t need. We go through life accumulating stuff – mostly unnecessary – using precious energy in the process. We then proceed to form attachments to said things and find it difficult to discard them.
We put them in order, build shelves for them, and move them around from one place to another even though we no longer have any real use for them. Stuff piles up, almost suffocating us. Excess baggage is nothing but a burden blocking our energy.
Get rid of the clutter, you tell yourself, that Chinese inspired top you’ve had since you were 16, the one you keep around just in case such an event arises in which you will absolutely need to wear it, that friendship which isn’t so much a friendship anymore but an obligation that zaps your energy, activities which become too much. We also have more energy when we can let go of past injustice, resentments and pain. Holding onto anger takes an immense amount of energy – letting go can set you free.
You’ve been wasting so much energy thinking about doing that tax return that’s been lying on your kitchen counter for the past 5 weeks instead of just doing it; the satisfaction of having done it will unblock the energy flow for sure. So why don’t you just sit down and get started? The chores we don’t do make us more tired than the ones we actually manage to do.
So, in conclusion, adopt Nike's famous and so true slogan: Just do it!
What have you got to lose, really?
What happens when you’ve been bound in one direction but suddenly find yourself dispirited, ambling toward a future you have lost the desire to obtain?
It happens so often nowadays, we become bored with our chosen career track, a bit blasé. Stoical, we get up every morning and hoist ourselves up on that treadmill and begin the mundane working day. It’s difficult to find the energy to start over, to begin everything again and your anxiety, the inevitable reservations you have, zap even more energy, spent worrying.
Energy, besides being the name of a Taiwanese pop boy band, is, by definition, the physical capacity to perform work, the ability to make something happen.
But we’re so programmed these days to achieve, achieve, achieve! No time for error or failure, you should know in your last couple of years of high school exactly what you want and where you wish to go.
And it’s great if you do, but a lot of the time we just choose the lesser of evils and go with it. Get a degree or diploma in business when what we really want to do is write, or paint.
And then we wake up 3 years later with the stark realization that we are unfulfilled and desperate to break free.
And what comes with that realization? An immense amount of fear.
And if we have been working hard in those years we’re also left beat and burned out.
Energy, like courage, is imperative to your contentment.
Take Joaquin Phoenix, a well respected, award winning actor who has admitted that he cares very little for the acting process and has decided to pursue a career in Hip Hop music. Although rumours are rife that it is all a big joke, which I would imagine is not the greatest compliment, as his talent in this area remains to be seen, he remains hell bent on proving them wrong.
More and more I hear of people changing, or wishing to change their choices, but just how easy is it? Sure, for someone like Joaquin Phoenix it is easier because he has the financial stability to pursue his untapped dreams, but he also risks losing credibility – Hollywood is, after all, extreme in its unforgiving nature. Not unlike many other industries out there.
All we have is our energy, but where is this elusive commodity?
So often we waste energy on things we don’t need. We go through life accumulating stuff – mostly unnecessary – using precious energy in the process. We then proceed to form attachments to said things and find it difficult to discard them.
We put them in order, build shelves for them, and move them around from one place to another even though we no longer have any real use for them. Stuff piles up, almost suffocating us. Excess baggage is nothing but a burden blocking our energy.
Get rid of the clutter, you tell yourself, that Chinese inspired top you’ve had since you were 16, the one you keep around just in case such an event arises in which you will absolutely need to wear it, that friendship which isn’t so much a friendship anymore but an obligation that zaps your energy, activities which become too much. We also have more energy when we can let go of past injustice, resentments and pain. Holding onto anger takes an immense amount of energy – letting go can set you free.
You’ve been wasting so much energy thinking about doing that tax return that’s been lying on your kitchen counter for the past 5 weeks instead of just doing it; the satisfaction of having done it will unblock the energy flow for sure. So why don’t you just sit down and get started? The chores we don’t do make us more tired than the ones we actually manage to do.
So, in conclusion, adopt Nike's famous and so true slogan: Just do it!
What have you got to lose, really?
June 9, 2009
Creepy
The sound of the rain and the appearance of the rain clouds were suitably atmospheric. As is often the case with scary stories. And as he told the scary story, the crackle of the fire directly behind him added a certain element to the way in which the words lazily left his mouth and rose in the stuffy air and disappeared with the smoke from the fire, which, it has to be said, was a touch out of control as far as indoor fires go. Of course, they were in the middle of nowhere, and of course the electricity had long been cut off due to the storm.
So now Jerry took to telling some not so scary scary stories for the benefit of his three friends who were mighty peeved that the weather had turned out to be so not what they had planned when they had planned this midweek getaway to the middle of nowhere. The plan had initially been sun and fun.
Yawns could be heard, and there was much sighing and much lighting of cigarettes, because, as everyone who smokes knows, to light a cigarette is to combat complete and utter boredom for as long as it takes to smoke that cigarette, which I've heard is around 5 to 7 minutes, depending on whether you smoke the cigarette right down to the end of the tobacco road, or, if you take flimsy puffs and eventually realise you didn't feel like the cigarette to begin with whereupon there is premature stabbings of butts in ashtrays. Or, if you're not allowed to smoke inside and your smoking outside and trying to make haste because no one likes to smoke outside, especially in the heat, or the rain or the wind, you become decidedly impatient and throw said cigarette, unfinished, over a wall or drop it and squash it with the heel of your shoe. 5 to 7 minutes. Give or take.
Yawning, sighing and smoking.
The rain is noisy and Jerry gives up, and one could hardly blame him. Tough crowd.
The fire is the only major source of light in the humble little cottage. The cottage's only redeeming factor is a large lake mere minutes, the number of which you could count successfully on one hand minus your opposable thumb, walk away. To be specific.
There's jerry, who considers Natural Born Killers to be the ultimate love story. He is inexplicably fond of Poodles and is known to frequent bars of the gay variety for reasons admittedly unmentioned by his three closest friends, Maureen, Casey and Phillip, for fear of the severe silence which inevitably ensues upon any mention that he may be just a little bit gay.
Phillip aka Philly aka Phil is, unlike Jerry, proudly and openly gay. He wears a lot of Pringle and Lacoste and he gels his hair back, not unlike Patrick Bateman aka Christian Bale in American Psycho.
Maureen is pretty. Pretty in the way that Susan Atkins aka Sadie Glutz was. Is. Pretty. It has to be said that she is no hippie. She is a lawyer. Lawyers simply cannot be hippies. That's a fact known well.
Casey is, unbelievably, a teacher, of the pre-school persuasion. Unbelievable because Casey here is a closeted Nazi sympathizer as well as one of the most impatient people any of the three of her friends had ever come across and they had come to quite a bit of impatience, the three of them.
All in all, a creepy lot.
So there they sit, those four creepy friends, in the creepy cottage with the creepy weather outside.
It would seem to any sane person, or a knower, a knower who knows things like who Patrick Bateman aka Christian Bale and Susan Atkins aka Sadie Glutz is, that this foursome is just more than a little creepy. If you are not a knower of such trivialities, Google it. But what it wouldn't seem like to a sane person or a knower or anyone else for that matter, is that this particular trio plus one or twosome plus two are, well, aliens.
Now, I know what you're thinking.
At least, I can guess, and my guess is that you think I'm lying.
You would be right.
They are not aliens.
So now Jerry took to telling some not so scary scary stories for the benefit of his three friends who were mighty peeved that the weather had turned out to be so not what they had planned when they had planned this midweek getaway to the middle of nowhere. The plan had initially been sun and fun.
Yawns could be heard, and there was much sighing and much lighting of cigarettes, because, as everyone who smokes knows, to light a cigarette is to combat complete and utter boredom for as long as it takes to smoke that cigarette, which I've heard is around 5 to 7 minutes, depending on whether you smoke the cigarette right down to the end of the tobacco road, or, if you take flimsy puffs and eventually realise you didn't feel like the cigarette to begin with whereupon there is premature stabbings of butts in ashtrays. Or, if you're not allowed to smoke inside and your smoking outside and trying to make haste because no one likes to smoke outside, especially in the heat, or the rain or the wind, you become decidedly impatient and throw said cigarette, unfinished, over a wall or drop it and squash it with the heel of your shoe. 5 to 7 minutes. Give or take.
Yawning, sighing and smoking.
The rain is noisy and Jerry gives up, and one could hardly blame him. Tough crowd.
The fire is the only major source of light in the humble little cottage. The cottage's only redeeming factor is a large lake mere minutes, the number of which you could count successfully on one hand minus your opposable thumb, walk away. To be specific.
There's jerry, who considers Natural Born Killers to be the ultimate love story. He is inexplicably fond of Poodles and is known to frequent bars of the gay variety for reasons admittedly unmentioned by his three closest friends, Maureen, Casey and Phillip, for fear of the severe silence which inevitably ensues upon any mention that he may be just a little bit gay.
Phillip aka Philly aka Phil is, unlike Jerry, proudly and openly gay. He wears a lot of Pringle and Lacoste and he gels his hair back, not unlike Patrick Bateman aka Christian Bale in American Psycho.
Maureen is pretty. Pretty in the way that Susan Atkins aka Sadie Glutz was. Is. Pretty. It has to be said that she is no hippie. She is a lawyer. Lawyers simply cannot be hippies. That's a fact known well.
Casey is, unbelievably, a teacher, of the pre-school persuasion. Unbelievable because Casey here is a closeted Nazi sympathizer as well as one of the most impatient people any of the three of her friends had ever come across and they had come to quite a bit of impatience, the three of them.
All in all, a creepy lot.
So there they sit, those four creepy friends, in the creepy cottage with the creepy weather outside.
It would seem to any sane person, or a knower, a knower who knows things like who Patrick Bateman aka Christian Bale and Susan Atkins aka Sadie Glutz is, that this foursome is just more than a little creepy. If you are not a knower of such trivialities, Google it. But what it wouldn't seem like to a sane person or a knower or anyone else for that matter, is that this particular trio plus one or twosome plus two are, well, aliens.
Now, I know what you're thinking.
At least, I can guess, and my guess is that you think I'm lying.
You would be right.
They are not aliens.
June 8, 2009
Unforgotten
How lucky we are.
Lucky doesn't even begin to describe it.
Mothers smothering their babies for fear that the German officers would hear their screams and find them.
Fathers and grandfathers humiliated, beaten, ordered off the pavement and into the gutter.
Humiliated doesn't even begin to describe it.
Families torn apart, brutally thrust out of each others arms, separated, forever.
Wives weeping for their husbands. Walking and weeping, searching.
Their loves , their lives, vanished.
Torn.
No peace, quiescence.
Irrevocably and irreversibly afraid. Every bomb blast, every gun fire, every scream or knock on the door.
Burning bodies on the street, children starving to death nearby.
Trembling hands, quivering lips. Sadness.
Shamed.
Soul disfigured.
The law. Merciless, pitiless, relentless.
Savage.
Humans eliminated like vermin for a man's sickness. For a man's hate.
Those people I will remember, and love.
They couldn't possibly have died, like that, in vain.
Unforgotten.
Lucky doesn't even begin to describe it.
Mothers smothering their babies for fear that the German officers would hear their screams and find them.
Fathers and grandfathers humiliated, beaten, ordered off the pavement and into the gutter.
Humiliated doesn't even begin to describe it.
Families torn apart, brutally thrust out of each others arms, separated, forever.
Wives weeping for their husbands. Walking and weeping, searching.
Their loves , their lives, vanished.
Torn.
No peace, quiescence.
Irrevocably and irreversibly afraid. Every bomb blast, every gun fire, every scream or knock on the door.
Burning bodies on the street, children starving to death nearby.
Trembling hands, quivering lips. Sadness.
Shamed.
Soul disfigured.
The law. Merciless, pitiless, relentless.
Savage.
Humans eliminated like vermin for a man's sickness. For a man's hate.
Those people I will remember, and love.
They couldn't possibly have died, like that, in vain.
Unforgotten.
June 7, 2009
A thought on the afterlife
I don't pretend to know what the afterlife will be like, or if there even is an afterlife to imagine at all. These are things I know very little of, and by very little I mean nothing whatever. I know I am here and that is where my surety ends. I don't have faith in large amounts or, at times, much at all; I have an unending list of questions of which I have very few answers and the answers that I do have are unsatisfactory to say the very least. So. I don't know.
I hope for something wonderfully surprising.
I know how I think it should be and how I'd like it to be.
I know that I wouldn't want to worship a god who would send someone to burn in a hell for eternity.
But I believe in a God, a higher power who watches from above, our creator.
I know I can't sit in a crowd whilst a man stands upon a stage and tells me how to live and feel and what to think and do. A man who has been told by another man and that man has been told by another and so on and so forth.
I tried it once and never felt more alone. More rotten. More lied to.
I know I don't believe a book that has been written and re-written by man for thousands of years to be the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me god.
This is what I know of myself.
Of what I believe.
I'd like to think, as horribly cliched as it may seem, that soul mates merge together once they die and never leave each other, and live on. On to another life. Together. With families and friends and joy.
And all the hurt and doubt and fear dissipates and never returns. I'd like to believe that.
That would be my Heaven.
I'd like to believe that everybody, at their core, is good.
It's hard. Probably the hardest hope to hope.
Someone once wrote that one cannot go through life with one's eyes always open and that sentence has stuck with me. Though there may be many interpretations of it, I know what it means to me.
I know I have to believe in the good.
Other wise, what is there and more importantly how do we get through it?
I hope for something wonderfully surprising.
I know how I think it should be and how I'd like it to be.
I know that I wouldn't want to worship a god who would send someone to burn in a hell for eternity.
But I believe in a God, a higher power who watches from above, our creator.
I know I can't sit in a crowd whilst a man stands upon a stage and tells me how to live and feel and what to think and do. A man who has been told by another man and that man has been told by another and so on and so forth.
I tried it once and never felt more alone. More rotten. More lied to.
I know I don't believe a book that has been written and re-written by man for thousands of years to be the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me god.
This is what I know of myself.
Of what I believe.
I'd like to think, as horribly cliched as it may seem, that soul mates merge together once they die and never leave each other, and live on. On to another life. Together. With families and friends and joy.
And all the hurt and doubt and fear dissipates and never returns. I'd like to believe that.
That would be my Heaven.
I'd like to believe that everybody, at their core, is good.
It's hard. Probably the hardest hope to hope.
Someone once wrote that one cannot go through life with one's eyes always open and that sentence has stuck with me. Though there may be many interpretations of it, I know what it means to me.
I know I have to believe in the good.
Other wise, what is there and more importantly how do we get through it?
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