Spring Sprang

The sun is a wonderful thing. I don’t think I’ve felt so comfortably warm in a pair of jeans in a long time—the last time I remember comfortable sun like this was before the time I wore skirts for a year and a half.

I went to bed at 11 for three days straight—that’s impressive, in case you were wondering. I am a night owl at heart, and for some reason no matter how many times I try to reform myself I always seem to slip back, because its comfortable and exciting, in a weirdly head throbbing sort of way. For some reason, as the clock ticks closer and closer towards dawn, I feel more and more invincible. I’m sure it’s false doctrine, but I believe it anyway.

I believe in wearing Portugal: my ring, my corações da Vienna, my own heart. I don’t think I’ll ever escape it. To be honest, I didn’t realize that I’ve been trying to wear an entire country for the past 103 days. It’s scary that I’ve already missed 103 jaw dropping sunsets, where the clouds fan out above the haughty cathedrals and the hushed oranges and loud pinks span the sky behind the resolute castles. How can I not be there?

I didn’t realize I’ve been trying to wear an entire country until I realized that my friend wears dead people. Her necklace is for her grandparents, her bracelet for her brother, and her ring for her grandma’s best friend—she told me they were tight.

Why do we wear what we can’t have? Why do we try to convince ourselves that we’re not broken and not missing when we know that we are?

And while we're at it, why not talk about big decisions. They're just that: big. It’s like an elephant in the room. You know at some point you’re going to bump into that wrinkled grey hide at some point, yet you hide in every corner except the one that it’s in, trying to keep away from it. Who said that magic 8 balls aren’t a viable source for answers? Or maybe we can just spin the bottle? Who decided that a 21 year old should make these kinds of decisions anyway?

And the sun. It shines, illuminating every corner of my muddled brain, my knotted thought process. Who knew this little head of mine had so many corners for questions to cower in? If only sunlight could turn into mental light bulbs, illuminating not just confused space but concrete answers. If I squint hard enough, do you think I could see them on the rays?