lettersfromahopelessromantic - Tumblr blog

[lettersfromahopelessromantic]

“Finish them,” she scrawls on the weapon.

Them. A colorful people whose souls are alight with hope for a powerful future. “A just peace, not just a piece.” When the bulldozers come and their villages are razed to the ground, they stay. Their existence is a powerful resistance. They are cactus roots that are impossible to ever fully pull up, as steady as the olive trees that have been tended by their patient hands for generations. 

Them. Jesus was one of them. Brown-skinned, born in a manger in the Occupied West Bank. His family fled from a genocide on a donkey, downtrodden and fearful. He flipped the tables of injustice; he didn’t obliterate them. “Let the little children come to me,” he said. Their little children are scared. Orphans. Starving. 

I am guilt, sympathy, and empty words. I am hopeful and hopelessness coexisting. I have no wise words to bandaid a wound that has festered for more than 76 years. I am not equipped to comprehend, and I have never loved my home and community enough to die for it. But I have heard the wail of a father as he holds his lifeless, headless baby boy on Instagram. I have seen their livestreams, their pleas, their crowdfunding videos on TikTok— “PLEASE DON’T SCROLL”—to ask for one minute of my attention in this dystopia. Enough.

You arm your worldview with a twisted biblical narrative. Your thirst for Heaven has you encouraging Hell on Earth. I’ve traced the veins of your gospel, and its heart is not beating. I am suffocating in the presence of your Jesus. I want no part of your Savior who dazzles with his military might, his muscled arms firing armaments destined for a besieged city that is 40% children. As if the annihilation of God’s children is all justified by a few Bible verses taken out of context. If we cannot—and will not— see God in the faces of our Muslim brothers and sisters, have we not missed the point entirely?

Them. Palestinians. A colorful people whose souls are alight with hope for a powerful future. We must act. For injustice against them is a threat to justice everywhere. Our humanity shrivels, sputters, and chokes. 

[lettersfromahopelessromantic]

First of April. 

A group of children practicing a choral piece on a Monday afternoon. An organ’s powerful notes echoing in the cavernous cathedral. The 528 steps to the top, my hair whipping around my face frenziedly in the crisp air. Oh, what great heights.

Then.

Two young girls, their phones clasped tightly in their hands screaming and sobbing for help. Then, a gallery of whispers, “What happened?” Those who, like us, stopped to watch a tragic scene unfold before them, caught in intrigue and suspense and a strange desire to do something. Anything.

A few streets removed, Londoners went about their normal lives. Rushing, rushing, rushing. Next meeting. Next coffee. Next task. Completely oblivious to the suffocating blanket of grief that enveloped the cathedral whole.

I can’t claim to know anything about him except for the few paragraphs posted online, but I still think of him and his leap often. He is a chaotic reminder that grief often exists in a vacuum that should never be weathered alone. 

[lettersfromahopelessromantic]

I expected to sink under the weight of this goodbye, but instead it sits feather-light in my chest. It’s an outreached hand pulling me closer, an excited grin on its face and hope shining in its eyes.

Maybe goodbye can be an unproblematic, non-dramatic goodnight of sorts. A changing of the guard. A soft shift as Day hands Night the reigns.

Of course, this doesn’t mean the absence of fear, but that I push forwards. Regardless. In spite of.

For the first time in a while, I eagerly step forward and greet this goodbye with a simple

“Hello.”

[lettersfromahopelessromantic]

Did I ever tell you?

The bus from Prague to Frankfurt. I listened to “Between the Bars” for 7 hours straight after you told me that Elliott Smith was one of your favorite artists. I put it on replay and slid into a restless sleep. I was drunk on disappointment, broken over someone I wanted who did not want me.

That song still tastes of longing and letdowns. And a side of addiction. All of these years later. Knowing we weren’t right together, but desperately trying to make it so.

I drank up, baby, and found myself intoxicated by unrequited feelings. Isn’t that the way it goes?

[lettersfromahopelessromantic]

Going back to “normal” doesn’t hold the comfort that it used to. It’s no longer a safe space, but a slow regression instead. A soft slide so gradual you just might miss it. It feels like a deep betrayal of the pain I’ve gone through in the past year and the surrendering of a brighter future. Normal once marked the finish line, but it now neglects the teary-eyed nights and question-filled days. “Normal” sounds like avoidance and weakness.

As I stand in front of the mirror, I simply ask, “Where do I go from here?”

After a few beats, I whisper to myself, “Forward. Courageously.”

[lettersfromahopelessromantic]

Oddly enough, I dreamed I went to your funeral last night. I walked up to the edge of the casket, saw a sliver of your face and I halted in my path. Your close family and friends surrounded me, along with scattered sobbing and an immense, impenetrable sadness.

I stood there as an imposter, and no one knew. No one asked me why I stood in the midst of your quiet chaos, despite us having not talked for a few years. It appeared that I was the only one questioning my presence in your past tense.

It wasn’t regret, but shame. An unshakeable feeling that we never properly closed a door that needed to be closed. It’s almost as if my subconscious brought me to your death so I could finally utter the words to you that we never exchanged in life. But I hesitated, the words on the tip of my tongue. I couldn’t even fully look down at your lifeless body, my feet refusing to take those final steps.

I opened my mouth. I floundered. Stuttering, stumbling, staccato.

Then, I woke up.

And, I assume, you did too. Somewhere in the world.

I was left with an impression of how sour tears and unsaid words taste when they linger on the tongue, and a sincere commitment to do better.

[lettersfromahopelessromantic]

There—in the space between the headboard and the ceiling—you’ll see it. A jagged crack in the wall. Normally, it’s not something I’d notice. But I’ve had time to stare, thoughts a-tumble and hair unwashed. I’ve had time to turn my mind inside-out and dump the contents onto my bedspread.

This crack in the plaster feels like a familiar fissure. An eclectic echo of internalized emotions. You see, I’ve always thought of change as a betrayal of self. A wagging finger. A smaller version of myself shaking her head in disappointment. A shame-soaked “No”.

There—in that small space between my headboard and my ceiling—you’ll see it. An unlikely symbol of chaos and transformation. And a question that lingers long after the doubt and shame have dissipated: What’s the point of being covered in chains when my fingers curl around the key in my pocket?

[lettersfromahopelessromantic]

Five years ago, a cute guy sat across from me in the cafeteria while I was reading alone, spurring a journey of writing letters across continents.

I’ve written letters to the boy who broke my heart first. To the boy who was soft and sweet and manipulative as hell. To the boy with brown-paper packages and a listening ear. To friends and enemies and all those whom fell somewhere in-between.

I’ve written letters to families slowly splintering. To imperfect families who have shown me perfect love. To winding streets in a storybook cities. To feelings that I’ve hungered to know, and to feelings that I’ve yearned to forget.

And here we are, a hundred letters later and I’ve never written a love letter to myself. If there was ever a letter worth writing, it’d be this one. And if I did write myself, it’d go a little something like this:

My dear, you step towards approval like you are Cinderella and the shoe fits just right. Your roiling emotions and sensitivities are their own powerful entity, and you’re not-so-secretly afraid that they’ll be too much. Too sensitive. Too much. You can’t help but step into relationships with your heart in your hands. Vulnerable. If you were a cafeteria lady, you’d heap a large serving of Grace on everyone else’s plate and leave none for yourself at the end of your shift. You place others on the pedestal of “Winning At Life”, and somehow wonder why you feel so small and helpless when you look up. At times, life feels like an endless highlight reel of others’ successes, and you can lose yourself in the scrolling, hearting, and liking without taking advantage of the beat in your chest and the breath in your lungs.

But you’re courageous. You jump into uncertain and uncomfortable situations like a boot-clad kid unleashed outside on a rainy day. You shoulder others’ emotions as if they are your own. Their tears are your tears, their joys are your joys. You thirst for unique individuality, and push yourself to dream in color in the midst of a monochromatic upbringing. It’s not always easy work. You thrive in the challenge, in the surprising ups and downs. You craft worlds from words, and paint kindness on the hearts of those you know. Others’ passions are infectious and you find yourself wishing you could master and learn all of the things, but you’re getting more comfortable with the knowledge that you can’t master everything. You still find this upsetting. Above all, you know that you are loved by Him. Everything else--all of the labels and the sideline comments--is just icing.

Dear You. You are a maze of emotions, and a bundle of nerves. You are too hard on yourself. Loving yourself started yesterday. It’s about damn time.

[lettersfromahopelessromantic]

Uncertainty arrived a few weeks ago with half-packed bags and no departure date. Now it has made himself comfortable at my kitchen table, and it eats all of my ice cream.

Uncertainty gleefully clapped its hands as his car flipped and tumbled and cried when his chest rose afterwards. Now it spends its time taunting us with what ifs, and poses rhetorical questions deep into the night when I’m trying to sleep. It lays in my bed and hogs all of my covers.

Uncertainty took my flimsy crown from me. Uncertainty pried the illusion from my eyes and reminded me that I am not in control here. I have never been.

Now I’m working on unpacking its bags and making it feel at home. Feeding it my leftovers. Sharing the bed. I’m finding comfort in the unanswered questions whispered past midnight. I’m mourning the loss of what I thought I had. I’m learning how to live differently.

It is inevitable; Uncertainty will leave. I’ll appreciate my newly available space, and relish the full carton of ice cream in my freezer. I’ll pick up my crown once again, and fall back into old habits. And when Uncertainty decides to grace my doorstep with its presence in the future, I’ll offer a genuine smile, open the door wide, and beckon it inside.

[lettersfromahopelessromantic]

I saw a glimpse of myself three years younger when I looked into your brown eyes. Back then, I wore innocence like a blaring neon sign, somehow surprised when you passed by and showed interest. You worked on buying me with sweet lines like I was on sale, but we both knew that the true price was something you’d never be willing to pay.

“Ella es de él,” they say under their breath as I pass. No. It has been three years and I don’t belong to you. I never did, not quite. We both know that I always danced just out of reach of your fingertips, but this gray city has a way of reminding me of what could have been.

What could have been. We sit among friends at a sushi restaurant on a warm August night. You puff up your chest and pretend not to care. I feel silly. Sad. And I have this unreasonable desire to sit a bit longer with my younger self. You hold a piece of her that I am no longer capable of holding. But when I said goodbye to you after dinner, I said goodbye to her as well.

I made peace with the loss of you years ago, but this is a loss that I was not expecting.

[lettersfromahopelessromantic]

I suppose I’ve never felt old enough for a deeper love. I’ve felt young and carefree enough for giggling over the shy slurping of fizzy sodas and sly looks when you’re looking elsewhere. For the soft, sweet rumors of who-likes-who and the I like like yous. For the perfectly polished, rom-com misunderstandings, breakups, and makeups.

But I feel so young sitting beside you in this car. Blazing the small roads in the Scottish Highlands. Breaking bread over the insecurities that scar my past, and the questions laid on my heart. I’ve never felt so vulnerable.

It has been awhile since I’ve had this much to lose.

And yet, it has been awhile since I’ve had this much to gain.

[lettersfromahopelessromantic]

I’ve found my fingernails scratching against this blackboard a few times only to find color under these brittle nails. Darling, don’t you know? Haven’t you seen? Evil prowls in the pews and goodness unfurls in the darkest of hells. The first color TV was invented in 1954, but you prefer to live in black and white polarity. You can dot your i’s and cross your T’s, but that specific cross you wear around your neck is only the prologue. Not the whole novel.

You taught me that, you know. A title is only worth the strong character that backs it up.

I find yours wanting.

[lettersfromahopelessromantic]

In my universe, the stars never shouted our history. You never lassoed the moon for me, drunk on the love we shared. My feet walked away from yours, and I worked on not looking back.

In my universe, only friendly sentiments lie in the galaxies of space between our bodies. When I told you the truth the first time, you listened. You let us fade into nonexistence. You didn’t fight it.

Please do not forget the universe I reside in when you invite me to visit yours.

[lettersfromahopelessromantic]

We beat the sunrise. Our lungs burning, legs shaking, skin hot to the touch. The city laid out at our feet. We danced on those streets the night before. Before that, soft sand between our toes and sangria bubbling through our veins. Strangers offering wild potions if the price was right. Now, my head on your shoulder. Our hands intertwined.

I've been called many things in my 23 years. Creative. Zany. Loved. Funny. Ridiculous. Spontaneous.

And now, yours.

This is new. This is difficult.

And yet, in the midst of it all, I remember the feeling of the morning cold slipping off of my shoulders. Peace and sunlight settling around my body like a blanket. Silence. Then, soft, featherlike voices like two starry-eyed kids at a sleepaway camp. A world of wonder not simply tasted, but inhaled. Swallowed whole. Until it was not separate from us, but a part of us. Until we became the privileged gatekeepers of it all.

This is worth it.

[lettersfromahopelessromantic]

"You spend too much time driving behind you," my driving instructor critiqued, brunette and weary, her hands gripping her fast-food sandwich like a lifeline. “You’re going to get in an accident.”

It's only years later that I realize that her words were not about driving. A life lived in the rearview mirror is no life at all.

[lettersfromahopelessromantic]

In the past year, these baby feet have taken me miles from my home. They’ve traversed the cold cobblestone streets of London and basked in the white sands and crystal blue waters of Cozumel. These baby hands have grooved to jazz beats in Barcelona and mapped out the fantastical adventures of students abroad. This baby mind has tossed and turned over adult decisions. Over and over and over. This baby surely cannot be identified as such anymore.

And yet, criticism follows me wherever I go like a stalker hiding in the shadows. As if I don’t possess the same license to go forth and succeed as I do to make mistakes and learn from them. As if I cannot make decisions. As if I am incapable of breaking out of this delicate box in which I’ve been unconsciously placed.

I don’t crave indifference, but certainly don’t patronize me with your worry. These baby eyes have had nearly 24 years to learn the difference between worry and erred judgement.

[lettersfromahopelessromantic]

How many love stories were started with a split headphone jack?

Romeo and Juliet, lovers from alternate realities, warming the same seat on the #3 Bus. Want to listen?

Snow White didn’t know that Prince Charming secretly enjoyed Taylor Swift until they talked tunes. Tristan’s sad soul found companionship in Isolde’s private Spotify playlist. Scarlet O’Hara blasts Evanescence on rainy days when Rhett is not around.

I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but I bought a split headphone jack the other day. I was sort of hoping that you would let me into your head for a few minutes. Hours. Days?

I want to listen.