What Do Summer Dreams Even Mean

Loose, wet tears began to seep from the corners of my squinting eyes, burning the wind-chapped skin on my cheeks. The sound of my breath synchronized with my beating heart. Exhale. Beat. Inhale. Beat. I filled lungs with the amount of oxygen it would take to send a hot air balloon into the cumulus clouds. I knew the adrenaline thrusting its way inside me would empower my deep breaths. The flush on my face was that of an astronaut during launch--gravity taking its toll. Quickly, I glanced at my feet slapping against the terrain as if they were something mechanic, created to do nothing else but move me. The reminiscence of a movie I once watched as a child transmitted into my memory: The Ant Bully. The Bully’s feet clobbered the ant’s palace. Each stomp crashed into the intricate passages of the mound, turning the hallways into red dust. One by one, my feet mimicked this scene. My feet were leaving such an indention into the ground that I was astonished I landed feeling like a ballet dancer—so light and graceful. Each foot took marks on the earth, edging me into a stanza of hope. The stressed syllables danced in my mind, distracting me of the impending pain rushing through my tired legs: Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? The placid river beside me illuminated rays of sunlight into my view, making me feel even more surreal. If I race over water, could I float? I began to remember a time when I’d had faith like that. I once wore a WWJD bracelet with brightly colored beads, not because it was cool, but because I believed it in. My former self would sneer at this bracelet, this belief, but I had to throw those worries away for now. Quizzically, I looked into the river edge at the blur I had become. Exhaustion began to hover over my eyelids. Reminding myself of my mission, I grasped hold to the vision of energy forcing my bones to bend with speed. Shortly, I could feel the tingling of my blood cells popping sparks into the exertion of my body. Inhale. Beat. Exhale. Beat. For hours, I pressed without fail. The scenery became less mystical and more like a pasty backdrop at an under budget school play. I began to see warped waves of sparkle all around me. The trees and hills dived by my view until nothing existed but the urge to arrive. Finally with two states behind me and the dehydration of an Arabian criminal tossed into the open desert, I knew I had to obey my limbs. I collapsed suddenly under a clear sky. For the first time, I felt my whole self feel weak. I didn’t attempt to shrug this. I embraced the pins and needles ravaging from my toes to the tips of my ear lobes. The sun’s warmth wrapped me into a coma that I realized would ensue me for the next few hours. I closed my eyes and took breaths that were so ghastly, it was almost impossible to believe they derived from my girlish figure. *** The rhythm of feet stomping along with electric shrills welcomed me as I opened my sleepy eyes again. Even with all the smiling, singing faces surrounding me, I remained stationary. Feet in silhouettes and flip flops alike grazed against my legs. I made it. The crowd confirmed that the music festival was in full swing. A venomous sigh escaped my lungs and halted as a voice so familiar filled every cavity of my soul. Wide eyed, I whipped my neck to the sound of the sweet siren. Under the shade of a magnolia, he sat upon a branch swinging his feet to the music. Now stunned, I couldn’t hear a thing. I couldn’t move at the bewitching sight of him. I noticed the sign dangling above my head now: “Park of Orange Trees.” I had somehow managed to stop at the exact position I hunted. A weak, but true, smile showed my gratitude to this sacred place. He couldn’t have appeared any more beautiful. His staunch, blonde hair spiked in every direction to the heavens. I smiled at the thought of him swatting me away from fixing his hair with my comb. Ah, I wanted to brush my fingertips through those locks and lull him to peace. A wave of relief washed over me, opening my ears to the festival’s sounds. I knew distance hadn’t changed him. I knew he was mine. I watched as his lips sang along with the words of the band. I would walk 500 miles, and I would walk 500 more just to be the man who walked a thousand miles to fall down at your door.

Sick for a home

Brandon's somewhat officially a home owner. The papers and his pen meet Monday for some lovely signature one-on-one time.
House hunting gives me a domestic itch.

Now's the time to scan HGTV online and visit etsy for aprons.
Perhaps wear a bandanna and show my muscle?

Next is baby fever. Please let that pass soon.

Surrounded by Chains.

If life was like crocheting, I would pull the end of the string, creep back out of all the complicating loops, and re-start: this time making things perfect.

"My mustache' and I are happy together, thank you."

My first successful crocheted craft is a yellow bow that I wrapped around Brandon's watch. Early this evening, B informed me regretfully that the watch and his wrist didn't mesh well. When I consider the task of returning this online item, I lack a certain willingness. Regardless, seeing B with a shiny, new watch of my doing would delight my heart more than the call to straighten out the kinks would frustrate my nerves. The Adventures of Returning the Fossil Watch.

I always claimed to want adventure--then I realized adventurers blow up their arms, spend countless months solo and usually struggle with more pain than pleasure. Does the accomplish outweigh the nervous aching?
That all makes me nervous.

Nervous: adjective
1. highly excitable; unnaturally or acutely uneasy or apprehensive: to become nervous under stress.
2. of or pertaining to the nerves: nervous tension.
3. affecting the nerves: nervous diseases.
4. suffering from, characterized by, or originating in disordered nerves.
5. characterized by or attended with acute uneasiness or apprehension: a nervous moment for us all.
6. having or containing nerves.
7. sinewy or strong.
8. Archaic . vigorous or spirited.

Sara Tucker invited me to attend a spontaneous road trip to Bossier City, LA. Adventure? I wondered. Nervous again. Should adventure be as dangerous as braving the casino-filled streets and husslers? The most spontaneous force of action I've ever taken consisted of dimes and doughnuts: not your typical risk-taker here. I'm 19, I should do these things and not mind the consequences of spending a wad of cash... but the matter of fixing the car does hinder my acceptance.

What would Amandalee DeCosta do? She'd pack up a sack and travel over the Mississippi River, eager to show her nerves a thing or two about control.
Well, if I get kidnapped and transformed into a five-star prostitute while I'm away in the 71111, I better be able to choose my own show name.
..until I recalled that when dad says no, you will stay home.

Owl Say, "May your parents be FOR you."
-Amandalee

Meowy Catmas

Santa never asked, "Got Milk?" So, why don't we all leave him a glass of a Coca-Cola this Christmas? He's swiftly flying across the globe in one night: he doesn't need strong bones, he needs caffeine! Give the milk to those reindeer carrying the fat man. Help Santa Open Happiness.

That's what Christmas is, right? Happiness. Through my perspective,
every Christmas you'll discover a number of relationships tossing the knives into the ditch and silently signing a unofficial truce. Everyone eagerly halts the confrontations, misunderstandings and deep hatred. When the war hats all hang on the rack, each person takes on a tone much like that of the American Guilded Age. Humble, thankful, jolly, and amiable. Holidays mask the ugly times.

Why does Christmas hold such mystical motives? I believe this is a season to remember that we are beings of love: charity sky-rocketing in fundings, family members hugging after ten years of bickering and relationships mending. Moreover, we remember we need love; we want love.
Hermits tend to linger out of their shells for festive laughter and even Grumby kisses Snow White's cheek.

Let's use this to our advantage? Let the season of remembering love be specific for you: love your parents, love your neighbors, love the old man in the nursing home, love the fellow at the desk, love until you feel loved.
And Owl Say, "Be Christmas in everything I do."

The Difference Between Love and Lies

Wallflower or Wildflower: whichever you prefer was my old blog. The summary of the blog chalks down to the dust of a heart seeking for something real.
Someone to show me the difference between love and lies.
No more lying down on love.

Lie: a false statement made with deliberate intent to deceive; an intentional untruth; a falsehood.

Although lying fancies me not, I hold a number of secrets in my hand always. Some secrets keep my family safe, friends warm, and Brandon at bay. Will these secrets reveal themselves in time? My greatest secret? I'm not content with my life anymore. Quenching this desire of more won't be a simple feat.

Attending a junior college never appealed to me, yet I completed my first semester at one not but four days ago. My major reads Pre-English; however, taking courses of different subjects interests me. To be frank, everything interests me. Perhaps business, reality, even the fundamentals of music. Life lessons seem more intriguing than talents. English, if you will, is my muse for living. I lust languages. Rosette Stone anyone?

Greater than the lust of literature is my devout yearning to help.
All I do is pretend to crochet well and watch movies. How can I be of service with so little to give? (May I have more sir?)
Owl say, "Life is an occasion, rise to it."-- even though that's that quote from Tuesdays With Morrie.