Effortless Ruminations

I want my father to come back to life. I want to ask him some questions. 

I want to ask him about all the stories of his life he either chose not to share with me or just forgot. 

I want to read him the poem I wrote about the watch he left me. The same watch I still wear even though it no longer tells time. 

I want to tell my children about the adventures with my father in Santa Monica. 

I want to know his last thought before leaving himself. 

I want to know about the hardness of his life growing up. 

I want you to listen to me. 

—-

I want to be remembered as a good man. 

I want to be remembered as an inspiring writer, an unsuccessful yet ambitious writer who attempted the art besides all odds. 

I want my faith to bring me even more hope. I want hope not to come on the same platter as pain or loss. 

I want my friends and family to be proud of me. 

I want my wife to live as happily as life makes it possible while married to me. 

I want my kids to take on their father, yet have their grand-father’s wisdom.

I want, badly, for you to love me. 

—-

I want to learn to be a better cook. I want to perfect my French. I want to learn the history of every civilization. 

I want to look back on my life and remember good nights like tonight, when I wrote this poem because life is presently good. 

I want to read more books than hours spent on insignificant past times. TV truly rots the mind and soul. 

I want to stop looking down at my phone when so many people with interesting lives are walking by me, wondering what my story is. 

I want to enjoy my friends and not make best friends. My true friends are worth keeping and truly the best portions of me. 

I want to hug strangers. I want to hug my family with purpose. 

I want to open up to you, allow you in. No one has entered here before. 

—-

I want to go back to third grade, when no one hurt me nor was anything as difficult as learning to write in cursive. 

I want to have recess time and not care about kids said about me. 

I want to go back and tell my mother that she was wrong the whole time, you don’t have to make money to be happy. 

I want to go back and give every gift I received to a child less fortunate; I got bored of each one. 

I want to go back to middle school and not be afraid. 

I want to go back to freshman year of college and enjoy each lecture. I want to tell my seventeen year old self my dreams of being a doctor was actually a family dream. 

I want to go back to the pool and swim another 500. 

I want to go back to Santa Monica with my father and talk to him as if he were my friend. 

—-

I want you to know that I love you. 

I want to know that you are loving others. 

I want to look back at my depression and not see it as a sad time in life. I want my depression to be part of the happy man that I am today. I want to use all of my sadness to be a better writer. I call my muse Sadness. 

I want to people to feel encouraged by my actions, not my I love you’s. I want my friends to feel inspired by the life they already have and not the one they dream about everyday. 

I want you to enjoy a good cup of coffee or tea and not worry about $5. 

I want to travel and learn that I am just a spec of dust in this large and beautiful world. 

I want to see beauty in the ugly. 

I want to love you. 

-JF

04.07.13

(Source: thetieguy)

#coffeeshopvibes

Sundays best

Jake (24) travels around the world to third world countries and shoots documentaries. 

Brandon B. (27) works in homeless shelters, helping anyone with needs.

Brandon V. (24) shoots promo videos around the world & leaving for Ghana soon.

Jason C. (23) is a self-published author and freelance writer. 

My house is full of caring & creative minds. 

I found home. 

(Source: Spotify)

A/C and Beethoven full blast. 

i love everything about my new home #LA #silverlake (Taken with Instagram)

i think that missing piece that i long for everyday is back in france where i left it.  

The house in the distance is black against the sun

Set on a hill

It looks docile.

But inside.

Inside there could be more

Than a picture can depict

Of a house black

On a hill.

They would never understand the bodies

At the far edge of town

In a house black against the sun.

The bodies understood each other

And they understood the cellar

And they understood the cider

And they understood the termites

Eating away at the wood

On which they slumped

Against each other eyes closed

And half smiles on their mouths

Knowing smiles on their mouths

In a house

black

with the sun

set on a hill.

Cory Doctorow

that awkward feeling when you love the idea of Fanny Price and Edmund ending up together because he’s the nice guy every girl wants….

….then you remember that they’re cousins

….who end up together. 

Splendid hot days that end in hot nights,

Hours of tossing in bed and forehead wiping, 

Unbearable summer nights we wish would end,

Days to run in shorts and wear tanks, 

Long afternoons that turn into countless adventures, 

Ode to summer’s delight; our winter foe cringes in heat, 

Plastered on top of shaded grass, I squint and see life

sprouting before us. 

Rolling over, we marvel at the sunset and know 

It’s time to go home and anxiously await tomorrow. 

Like every night, I won’t know how to sleep as 

Sweat flushes out of every tiny pore. 

Knowing nothing will cure the frustration, I stand—

Switching the lights on, I grab shoes and leave shirtless. 

I run run run…

I run to their homes and slap their chests awake;  

I run and know they’re following because I hear 

Moving brushes and branches that break under their shoes. 

We see the dark water and jump impatiently into relief. 

We laugh and swim faster and farther out. 

A hot summer night stifled by night swim. 

I know i’m in Provence

 When my coffee is black though smells 

 perfectly sweetened upon the first whiff. 

I know that I’m in the city, 

 Surrounded by commotion,

 When ten packs of sugar won’t do. 

I know everything is wrong, 

 And nothing is right

 When my coffee has been salted by

         life’s weariness.

each day i saw you

with books, clutched tightly
in your hands,
pressing close to your heart—

and i wished i was fiction.

I never reblog other people’s work (to maintain the blog simple and clean), but i LOVE how short and powerful these words evoke imagery & meaning. 

(Source: thedustdancestoo, via thedustdancestoo)