Keep a Place for Me

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I can only be here. I used to make jokes, and be “the funny girl” to fill the silence, but now the laughs are more genuine. What’s been given to us in the past, is a mere reminder that we’ve handled every card dealt to us before. I know sometimes we think, “I’ve been through the worst…what else could possibly happen?” but relationships between individuals often get lost because nobody wants to be the Fish at the table. A poker reference I often used in my writing before, when I was most indefinitely the fish. I kept getting bad hands, but was so confident in them, because I didn’t think lightning could strike twice. Now, it’s not about luck. I think timing plays a big factor in this, I say we’re running out of it, I’m asking for more minutes, more hours in a day than we’re given because what’s worse than being dealt a bad hand is, is to be holding a Royal Flush and nobody else seated at the table.

It’s rare for two people to treat something like this, like it’s art. I say all the right things here, but it isn’t enough sometimes. It’s 2016 and the lovers play their favourite game, where they say everything but what’s on their mind, and there’s never a winner. So how far will you wander? Will you look back to see if I followed behind. I promise to keep up with the pace. Sore legs are nothing against how sore my stomach gets from all that laughter.

Everywhere I go I hear the lyrics to She’s Electric by Oasis.
“Cause I’ll be you, and you’ll be me.
There’s lots and lots for us to see
There’s lots and lots for us to do
She is electric, can I be electric too?”

That tune is doing its best to keep me sane, but distance is inevitable regardless of how many times you reach over and clutch onto Egyptian cotton instead of their fingertips. Your friend tells you over coffee that she barely held it together in the airport check in, because there’s an entire body of water in between where she wants to be, and where she is, but she gives it a year, and she’ll stay hopeful until then. I hear the Oasis song again.

Of course Frank Ocean has to drop two albums during this period. Probably because he didn’t want me listening to Hey There Delilah 20 times over. That last part was a joke. Maybe. Still, how are we so selective to those we let in, but we do it so effortlessly when it happens. Who’s a lesson, and who’s the hand holder? “We just consistently bump into each other,” I say bumping my knuckles together. I’m choosing to be optimistic about this, and I’m not trying to jump trains. If anything I’m buying the ticket.

PS: Frank’s voice on Self Control is heartbreaking.
Daniella

Baby Blue

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The postings here have been quite sparse. It doesn’t signify the end, nor another hiatus but I wanted to remove myself completely from a few things. Which I did.  I had this significant moment driving through the mountains in Portugal on my last night there. I was listening to Magnetized by Tom Odell, and I felt so peaceful, and what a frightening feeling that is.

Another one of those Saturdays passed. No car doors were slammed, but ironically the door I was trying to open was stuck, and once I finally got it open nobody was there. Then when someone’s asking you what the reasons are for your actions and reactions, you start to struggle in terms of finding the right words to say, that this is what you’re used to. This is how I was treated, and darling I’ve been wiping this slate clean for you but there’s still scuff marks that just won’t go away no matter how many times I polish myself off for you. So I created roots out of those scuff marks, and I’m hoping they grow into something beautiful.

When do you stop walking behind enemy lines long enough to know that you’ve found safety? Are you sure there aren’t anymore firebombs headed towards your chest? I guess once you realize your actions, you question if you made the right choice and spend the early hours of the am panicking because a moment ago you were lost in the right way and you didn’t even want to find your way back.

So I closed the car door lightly, but I could still hear the echo from somebody saying, “this isn’t a good idea” and the next thing you know it’s 2:17am and the credits are rolling to a different Robyn song. It’s the difference of 24 hours, to vintage t-shirts, and hiding your face behind your hands because you didn’t know your face could light up so much, and you don’t what it even looks like. I try not to be that way in terms of communication (hiding behind my hands, or this computer screen), I’m so envious of how brave my friends are for saying the right things. I spent 6 weeks in Portugal woeful about that. So last night I chose communication, in hopes of both ends of the phone call not going to sleep upset. Or even sleeping at all. #eyebags

Maybe I’m bad at Saturdays. This won’t be a re-occurring theme, two people can play broken telephone all they want, but sometimes you have to admit to yourself that there’s too much good in a person to not pick up the damn phone.

When that chalkboard on Augusta St said “Be open to what comes next” on that Tuesday afternoon in May, it wasn’t asking, it was telling you to. So you better be in the audience next time.
Daniella

As You Are


I think going a full month without writing became one of the most absurd things I’ve done. I’m somewhere far from home, a place where I’m supposed to be writing and creating and all I’ve done is scribble musings on receipts, napkins, and the notes section on my iPhone.

When I first got here, I struggled to better understand the meaning of home. I was homesick, but didn’t want to go home because I felt that there was still so much to see, do, and write. There was this space, it’s a tad hollow and it has been cleansed out by salt water, and literature but I didn’t feel rested.

I was under an umbrella in the Algarve, listening to nothing but different languages and the waves crashing against the shore. My friends sent me messages about the phone calls they made, and the way they chose to use their voice before someone spoke up for them. I realized that I should have made that phone call before I left. I think the lack of closure prior to my departure is what was so troubling the first two weeks.

I’m not so different from everybody here, I feel we all have the same heart. I realized that when someone reached out to me, and said “Close your eyes and just listen to the music.”  So I did what I was told and for once didn’t want to be anywhere else.

It’s 2am, the scent of Gin Tonic lingers and all the man wants to listen to is Champagne Supernova. You dance to the music you don’t usually listen to because there’s confetti everywhere and for once it didn’t matter about the striped dress, the Robyn song moment, pink nightclub trials and tribulations, despite everything that you did not deserve you are here, and you believe in what you write about again because you’re witnessing it. 

I tell him I’m a writer but I haven’t written in a month. He says that I can do and write whatever I want to but my main issue this month was trying to find exactly what it is I wanted to say. He also said not to write about him or this because he thought he wasn’t making any sense. He’ll never find this anyways but I’m grateful to be writing this so sorry! *Kanye shrug*

That you refuse to write about the past but it writes to you at 3am. And you know better so you want to do better. There will always be a part of you that just thinks maybe you did it wrong.

That for the first time in awhile I had every single family member in one room, and I couldn’t tell you how that felt. I tried to write about it, find a way to explain it but all I can say is that it filled the hollow part I was talking about earlier.

There’s always going to be that one person crying at a wedding. Not because they’ve reached the open bar too many times, but because the idea of being enough for somebody is real, and they’ll give you what you deserve rather than asking you what you thought you deserved.

Daniella

Chapter 21

To the ones who just let it be instead of changing their fate, and the fate of others. To the ones that forgot to call, or show up on time.” 

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Did I spend 21 years right? Did I appreciate every sunset properly? There’s still time. There will always be time for me to speak up when someone asks me to explain myself, but sometimes the words aren’t enough. That sentence itself took a lot to write because I feel that just like my answers, time isn’t even enough. 

Am I the woman my mother would be proud of? Am I the daughter my father hoped to have one day?
I have nothing but the utmost respect for my parents and the way they raised me. I look both ways, while crossing the street, and both ways whilst questioning my own judgement. Even when I’m down on myself, they remind me that the imperfections that I often trace along my body with my fingertips, are art.

We’re always scanning busy rooms for familiar faces. I heard my mother’s voice in my head, and spoke up and said, “I don’t deserve this.” When I got the words “deserve what?” as my response, I let my chest sink in, and knew that the flame burnt out. If you’re reading this, the answer isn’t in here. It’s still with me, and darling deep in your heart you know what it is. 

I experienced a “The Moment I Knew” scenario last week and it broke my heart. Twice. Three. Four times actually. How is she still standing after everything we’ve read on here. I’ll be honest with you, I have never felt so much in such a short amount of time. Now my taste in men may be one of my character flaws, but my lionheart is the thing I take pride in the most. Because it got me here, it taught me that emotions aren’t a weakness, and every time I’m faced with a dial tone I learn to do better next time. Even if they won’t. I will. 

If you’re wondering what’s harder than taking the courage to fight for your own emotions, it’s the other side asking why you’re fighting in the first place, and what you’re fighting for. They make it seem as though you were making this up in your mind the entire time. But I cannot fight for the people who dropped their weapons and left me at war against myself. Especially when they were the ones calling at 3am, and lighting up rooms made up of windows. There’s no warmer feeling than that I say, other than a nice glass of Tanqueray you’d say. 

Because even at 21 I’m still learning through my mistakes, but I will never forget how precious time is. I sewed on this beautiful pink patch onto the back of my jean jacket that says, “Give em Hell” and it’s not in a spiteful sense, it’s for everything ranging from anxiety and the Universe. It’s my reminder to put up a fight when I want to stay silent. It’s a sign to everyone walking behind me that this is just the beginning. 

Daniella

Jukebox Joints

Ali Benjamin, in The Thing About Jellyfish said, “Sometimes you want things to change so badly, you can’t even stand to be in the same room with the way things actually are”

I’ve never kept so silent about something, and mornings are the hardest. You get these 5 seconds of peace, and everything else after that is entirely up to you. Suddenly, the window facing a brick wall was shut, and my blinds are broken so ironically the light gets in no matter what. No one likes to admit that waking up and going to sleep are the hardest parts of their day. It’s all going up in flames because these souls keep setting fire to everything you refuse to let go of.

We say things about how we’re not supposed to miss the individuals that hurt us. But everything we touch acts like a constant reminder. Rather than their being monsters under my bed, there’s a paper bag holding my pride. Something I’m swallowing now in hopes that sleep will come easier. It’s as if wearing your heart on your sleeve is worse than having the tag stick out of your shirt. God forbid someone catches you looking at me the way that you do. Or did.

2016 and I’m not afraid to tell you that my day consisted of me staring at my ceiling, dealing with an emotional hangover. So I ripped off my bed sheets, grabbed a pack of stick notes and stuck parts of this post around my room.

I’m a broken record, I sound repetitive throughout some of these posts and I apologize but things will not change overnight. The idea of “ghosting” is absolutely atrocious because you’re leaving individuals whom were once whole, incomplete because there’s this lack of responsibility you think you have. Because you cannot fathom the idea of someone thinking you’re more than something ordinary. It wasn’t until sitting in silence with a spiked Coca Cola bottle wasn’t enough, and according to the man of his word you no longer were either. The idea that I have to stay silent in order to prove a point worries me because I write what I feel, I can’t let this go unspoken. I’ll always be the more emotional one because that’s who I am. But these pieces of me are slowly being taken, every single time I have to fake two seconds of laughter so they don’t ask questions, and so I can contain myself until I reach the end of the parking lot.

You won’t lose your youth if you hold onto something tightly. But you’re aging when you abruptly let go, and let the other person run ahead. What happens if you can’t catch up? Metaphorically speaking if I dive head first and do something out of character in a club surrounded by pink lighting, again it’s who I am, but you knew that well before anybody else.

There’s still marks left over in the palms of my hands from last night, because I did everything in my power to refrain from reminding you how insane all of this truly is. And when I came to terms with what bottom truly was and felt like, I knew that I had to start fighting like hell for myself. Even if that means staying away from the lessons I’ve already learned time before. Even if that means that you’ll never learn this lesson.

Daniella

Whether You’re 21 or 42

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Something I always have trouble understanding is why individuals rely so much on age as a response or reason for their actions. On love, they say that they’re too young to come home to someone, to engage in anything remotely consistent because now’s the time for experience.  To which home is a lonely Uber ride for 1, and a mass text to those who will answer before the sun comes out.

Many important things are ageless. Whether we like it or not. There’s no age limit to when we’ll stop over-drinking, whilst vaguely remembering our friends looking towards the backseat apologetic for someone else’s actions. We’ll always stare towards the doorway hoping for them to walk in, but as soon as the night’s over you want nothing more than to walk out. Night’s out are tricky, we get scorned for even attempting to engage in an emotional or physical Victor x Victrola moment (click this for reference explanation)

“That’s not who you are” someone yells from behind
“You still don’t know me” I yell back

I question when the emotional rejection dies down. When people use being young as an excuse towards why things are the way that they are, like we’re supposed to experience this. We’re supposed to work a 9 to 5 and use our lunch break to slam our cellphones against the wall, and come to terms with the emotional greediness people have.

I don’t really rationalize feelings or effort. I scour the city for sentimental things because I think our 20s are for this. Romanticism ages depending on the individuals you meet and the hearts they’ve come across. But my God, does my heart deserve peace. I know there’s a lot more out there waiting for me, but even with fresh wounds I still stitched myself up for the battle.

Those who are fortunate, get to know the right people at 4am. Where there’s a natural force of silence because you don’t want to wake the rest of the world up. It’s the most honest hour, where we’re conscious over the innocence deteriorating amongst two individuals. As we get older, it gets less exciting. Creaky hardwood floors know more than the outside world, I promise you that. It was quite strange, because for once I wasn’t staring at the ceiling at 4am waiting for some sort of clue. Alone.

And how did we get to, “I’m probably not going to be able to write about him that way.” To a sudden resistance to not write anything at all because you’re going to publish, and publish. I can’t think of what to say back to you because I’ll either send you a link to these blog posts or sit in silence.

Darling I don’t know what the world did to you, but I hope I don’t haunt you at 42. These posts and musings won’t betray you, especially if you met me by accident at 22. Just because we have time, doesn’t mean you can take advantage of mine.

Daniella

Choice: That Was The Thing

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Something I’ve learned over these last few months is that we neglect choice. We don’t choose the people that are choosing us, and when we do that we stop choosing ourselves in the process.

I think about versions of myself in moments, whether it’s the girl in the striped dress, or the girl who wanted out so badly that she put her fear of flying aside and went to New York on her own. There’s a moment in particular, where I was in an Uber eating a pizza slice in February, listening to a Robyn song and I couldn’t tell you how happy I was in that moment. Because it wasn’t just me choosing myself anymore.

But life likes to throw a storm your way when you’ve just started enjoying the calm. Whether the storm is the dial tone, the unread message, or the slamming of a cab door at 3am. In order to fight back I started screaming the words dancing around my mind, and let my actions speak for themselves even if it bites me in the ass.

They expect us to take risks, but restrict us because of the perceptions of those around them. They watch us dance on our own, but refuse to join us in an attempt to stand their ground. Maybe next time instead of wearing the silk dress, I’ll write in lipstick on my forehead “Not looking for things in pieces”

I don’t know how many times we can run our fingers through a person’s hair until they get it. Until they remove our hands, and tell us that the hands of time state that it wasn’t suppose to happen now. So we yell back, that we’d be damned by the hands of time because if it wasn’t for the fact that we rebelled against the notion of bad timing, we wouldn’t have been built upon the experiences we’ve chosen.

How could a person be so calming, but release such a rainstorm inside of you? Weren’t we just observing them from the inside of Ubers, or restaurant windows? That wasn’t very indirect. Oh well.

Everything about the people we choose is so liberating, but every so often we’re restricted by the idea of taking the wrong step and starting over, but that’s because we’re not being chosen. People write songs about this, but we still don’t have the answers. When is it appropriate to walk away? When is it appropriate to be dominant and state why you should be chosen. (Not to mention the freedom that comes with leaving your heart in the right hands) (I’m just saying) Why did we stop choosing ourselves along with the empty souls that did the same? What kind of twisted domino effect is this? Don’t we deserve more?

They say they’re not ready, but they’ve done it before. One bad move, and suddenly they’re veterans and they no longer want to step onto the battlefield. Emotional security and consistency becomes no mans land, and God forbid we step onto it. Do promise me that the next being that accepts every failure with patience, and “it’s okay” responses doesn’t have to stay indoors and wait for the calm, because you can no longer say to them that the last person you should’ve kissed longer didn’t choose you back.

Daniella