Time stamps.

Time stamps.

It’s been a while. Here’s a little something I wrote. It’s about diaries and memories and tragedies. Also, wine. There’s also a few tv show references that I’d be very happy to clear if you don’t get it. Let me know in the comments. Also, tell me if you liked it and tell me about your favorite person by using their (estimate) time stamp.


“Happy stories are like glasses of wine. They don’t last forever unless you have a big bottle hidden somewhere.” – The first page of Ellen’s diary.

More often than not, even your diary isn’t the best hiding place for all your stories. Mostly because of how careless most human beings tend to be. Ellen knew this and so, she used code names for everyone in her diary. Her brother, born a year after her on May 5th at five minutes past midnight was 0005. Her parents were 0000, she’d known them forever. Do you see the pattern? Her codenames were the time stamps of her first meeting with the people the name is for. She even followed the 24-hour time so that she never ends up mixing two names. 

He was 0245. They’d met in the only store open past midnight when she’d gone to buy candies. She didn’t have enough cash so he chipped in and she thanked him by giving him a candy and her number. Later that night, in her diary, 0245 was the most beautiful boy she’d ever met. “He walked so softly, his footsteps were barely audible on the hardwood floors of the store. His eyes did not know what silence was, though. He had chocolate-dipped strawberry eyes. That boy,” she wrote on and on about him.

They started texting back and forth and often stayed up together way past midnight. They created art together about the ocean’s rage when the moon forgot to text, the lost men who lived at home, the tracks that the sun leaves behind, the songs of half-filled wine glasses and drunk people. She wrote poems and he drew. It was a happy story. There were ballroom dances in bedrooms, pizzas and tv shows. He showed her Barney, she showed him Joey. She ate the pizza, he ate the cheese-dipped crust. He drew on her, she wrote poetry on his skin.

They didn’t have a big bottle of wine. They ran out of things to do and reasons to love. 0245 was the first one to fall out of love. He was a good man (like Theon), so he knew he couldn’t hold onto Ellen, he couldn’t hurt someone he loved once. So he broke up. He drew her a candy in the shape of a broken heart and wrote her a poem about paper-cuts on hearts. Something very break-up-ish. He gave it to her on a Sunday morning and they spent the day talking about memories – finding the right ones to heal, together.

Her diary weeped that night, “I ran out of strawberries. I ran out of candies.”

She had to write about him and she had to heal but 0245 – his first time stamp – wasn’t the best way to do it. It reminded her of the start of the story. So that night, she asked to meet him in the candy store and kissed him goodbye at 02:45 – his new time stamp.


Into poetry? – Trigger alert
Instagram – @myspirals

Poetry on her skin.

Poetry on her skin.

Hey! I wrote this poem based off of a prompt I got from another poem by the same name. Check it out here: “click me”. I hope you like it! Also, I deliberately put in a reference to Marvel because Avengers: Endgame is always on my mind. Enjoy the poem and tell me what you thought!


1957,
one autumn night,
she asked me to write poetry on her skin.
It was right after I’d kissed her waist
and told her how her skin reminded me of paint –
of blue seas, white birds, yellow autumn leaves, and red wine,
every shade that made her human.
She smiled because she knew the artist in me was talking.
She took a pen and gave it to me
and asked me to color her with shades of poetry.

Continue reading Poetry on her skin.

When It Comes to Art.

This poem is partially based on facts. So forgive me if you think it doesn’t have a flow, because I assure you that it does have a point. Enjoy!


A painter from Spain made portraits of himself,
From when he was fifteen to ninety years old.
The first painting was a handsome man,
with dark hair like the night,
And lips that could’ve easily been reciting poetry.
The last painting was an abstract living being,
with darkness etched onto his skin,
And eyes that might’ve been insane.
Some people believe that he did slowly lose his mind,
And some believe that he understood the existence of a man,
In respect to time itself.
What was it, Picasso?

Continue reading When It Comes to Art.

How to: Be happy

How to: Be happy

What makes you happy? Let me know in the comments section below. Enjoy!


Come out of the metaphorical closet, that you thought kept you safe.
Wear your favorite hat and pull it off with a grin.
Lay on cold grass in the park and listen to the rustling leaves tell you stories of love and the wind whispering poems of broken twigs.
Binge-watch a tv series or cartoon. (FRIENDS, preferably.)
Talk to a stranger every once in a while and listen to their answer when you ask “What is your happiest memory?”
Wrap that cozy blanket, that reminds you of your loved one, tightly around you, and dream about sunshine and hope.
Believe in sunshine and hope.
Every now and then, when you walk on the street, do a subtle dance move and giggle endlessly. Hippety-hop.
When home alone, walk around naked and accept every part of you. Your body is a masterpiece, the finest canvas for your emotions.
Love someone endlessly and unconditionally.
Look in the mirror: Because trust me, you are beautiful.
Smile.


Instagram handle: myspirals
Previous post: Midnight.
Related post: How to: Be poetry.

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