Catching Twenty Two

Mar 21

My grandmother Caroline used to sing my brother and I to sleep. We always slept in the downstairs room, which I loathed, because the curtains were sheer lace and I was convinced all the monsters outside (of which there were many) were going to be able to peek in and see us while we slept. I also hated the fact that all the big people were upstairs, too far away to protect should the night demons start ogling through the window. I scared easily as a child, always over non-existent things, always because my imagination got the best of me. But anyways, the singing. It was always dark when the songs began, the lighting lowered until the room was awash in various shades of grey, and she always sang the same songs, without fail, sleepover after sleepover, year after year, until we became adults and the sleepovers were few and far between, before petering out entirely. One of my favorite memories is not so much an image as it is the sound of her voice dipping low then suddenly rising higher on a certain note as I hid beneath my blankets, content with my present lot in life. I knew as long as she sang, we were safe. No demon or ghoul or four-eyed dead kid would dare interrupt my grandmother as she sang to her grandchildren. I always hated it when she finished her songs, loathe for her to leave; she always looked us over before quietly exiting the room, whispered she loved us. We could’ve been asleep, I think we still would have heard it and known. I remember some nights in the silence between her songs, I’d become aware of my grandfather standing just outside of our door, listening to her sing. I could always tell without telling it was because he loved her songs just as much as we did, and I remember thinking that was love, to live with the same person for years on end, and still be enraptured by the sound of their voice. I remember thinking that was significant, though at eight years of age, I couldn’t have told you why. Some nights when I can’t sleep, I can still hear her and suddenly I’m there again, camped out on the floor with my sleeping brother, protected from the demons by the sound of my grandmothers voice.

I miss her. I wonder if she knows that.

Feb 19

There is nothing more sweet to me than the feel of my husbands skin while he sleeps on, oblivious to my gentle touching. Completely soft, entirely unblemished, warm like a thick blanket I could wrap myself in and day dream for hours.
I love the most late at night, when everything, the bullshit included, has gone to bed and it’s just me and the universe studying each other from across the waves of void and sloppy stars.
I love and I see what is and what will be, passing the drowsy hours alone surrounded by states upon states of sleeping people, and me relishing in the silence. The only sound I hear right now is that of the rain tinkling on the tops of cars. the only thing I taste is the richly bitter inhale from yet another cigarette, and the only thing I know is that not two feet away slumbers a man I would die for, stand up and fight for, move mountains and desecrate crowds for. 
Just the soft touch of my sticky palm against sleep-feverish skin is enough to sustain me these long nights. I love him. I love him.


Night is not for sleeping.

There is nothing more sweet to me than the feel of my husbands skin while he sleeps on, oblivious to my gentle touching. Completely soft, entirely unblemished, warm like a thick blanket I could wrap myself in and day dream for hours.

I love the most late at night, when everything, the bullshit included, has gone to bed and it’s just me and the universe studying each other from across the waves of void and sloppy stars.

I love and I see what is and what will be, passing the drowsy hours alone surrounded by states upon states of sleeping people, and me relishing in the silence. The only sound I hear right now is that of the rain tinkling on the tops of cars. the only thing I taste is the richly bitter inhale from yet another cigarette, and the only thing I know is that not two feet away slumbers a man I would die for, stand up and fight for, move mountains and desecrate crowds for. 

Just the soft touch of my sticky palm against sleep-feverish skin is enough to sustain me these long nights. I love him. I love him.

Night is not for sleeping.

There is nothing more sweet to me than the feel of my husbands skin while he sleeps on, oblivious to my gentle touching. Completely soft, entirely unblemished, warm like a thick blanket I could wrap myself in and day dream for hours.

I love the most late at night, when everything, the bullshit included, has gone to bed and it’s just me and the universe studying each other from across the waves of void and sloppy stars.

I love and I see what is and what will be, passing the drowsy hours alone surrounded by states upon states of sleeping people, and me relishing in the silence. The only sound I hear right now is that of the rain tinkling on the tops of cars. the only thing I taste is the richly bitter inhale from yet another cigarette, and the only thing I know is that not two feet away slumbers a man I would die for, stand up and fight for, move mountains and desecrate crowds for. 

Just the soft touch of my sticky palm against sleep-feverish skin is enough to sustain me these long nights. I love him. I love him.

Jan 03

Worth all six hours of the pain. Here’s to you, Seth. You are loved. You are remembered. You are honored.

Worth all six hours of the pain. Here’s to you, Seth. You are loved. You are remembered. You are honored.

Dec 30

Dec 20

Nom

I have no idea how the hell to sleep anymore. Coincidentally, my husband made gooey chocolate chip cookies while I was at work and I’m slowly working through destroying the plate while watching skinny nerds croon on The Voice. What with the chocolate infusion and the bumpin’ nerd tunes, I probably couldn’t sleep at this point if I tried.

It still isn’t lost to me how wonderfully strange it is to say My Husband. Like, woah. Here I am, all married and stuff, and still an insomniac cookie enthusiast. Aren’t I supposed to be a big girl now?

God, it’s been a while. Hi, Tumblr.
Darcy sends love. <3

God, it’s been a while. Hi, Tumblr.

Darcy sends love. <3

Nov 09

[video]

Oct 15

dogshaming:

Sadie is so gross…

I puked on a napping child.

Kid deserved it

dogshaming:

Sadie is so gross…

I puked on a napping child.

Kid deserved it

Oct 14

"For each of us comes a time when we must be more than what we are."

"And then, when she is beginning to hate her used body, she suddenly finds that she can do it- she can go on living. Not by principle, not by deduction, not by knowledge of good and evil, but by a peculiar and shifting sense of balance which defies each of these things often."