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This is the 100th entry of this uninhibited, sprawling chronicle that was commenced a year ago, today. And I feel in the deepest abyss of my soul, that this is the conclusion, the final page in this chapter, of this small memoir, my life, heretofore. The next chapter lies still, in blank ambiguity, unfolded and biding the coming time that is to color its lustrous pages. Perhaps, not to be narrated or noted here, as it has been for the precedent three-hundred and sixty-five days, but elsewhere, wherever it may be that I gallivant on to, in the awaited, unborn days, weeks, months, years. 
For all my life, thus far, I've lived in fervent bursts, like open-ended dashes between blunted bullets of Morse code. The days gone by have been seasoned with moments of grits and gallant guts; with pluck, lipped and laced with spunk. Nevertheless, those instants have been nothing more than a lightening storm in August, painted strokes of ambition that have not, thus far, discovered how to illuminate the span of the sky for more than one glorious, glimmering second.
Timidness is but a thorn in my flesh, and I know that I cannot linger much longer in this brier patch of suburbia, with all its opulent offers of superficial satisfaction, and all its neatly stacked homes, hinged on the Eastern seaboard; whose inhabitants dress in suave suits made of virgin wool, crisp currency folded in the ironed pockets; who travel in luxury automobiles with interiors of sable black and leather, wearing simulated smiles, their artificial elation exhibited in picture windows, flaunted with extravagant embellishments and wares; their gestures and sentiments, sterile as plastic. 
I would rather succumb to the weary waters of death, than be slave to a schedule, to clocks, and to the condescending yardstick that society insists on measuring one another with. For to have such a mechanical, and empty existence would surely crush my soul like porcelain against stone.
I cannot live like that, all paperwork, and paper smiles. I cannot, and I will not. My heart won't allow it. 
I wish to be but a warm slip in the body of the Aegean sea, its fluid tapestry, azure, and freckled with ripples of Persian blue, lipped with ivory and cream capes of sea foam; to sit atop the comma of a camel's back, in an ambling parade of spindly legs, crossing the shifting sands of the Arabian desert; to behold the incandescent pin-pricks of stars, in the sapphire mantle of African sky. And I dream still, of bare shoulders rippling with infectious laughter, of intimate exchanges, and to love and be loved, until my very heart balloons with the bliss, and blessedness of it all. 
I'll take poverty, it humbles my heart, heals the crippling scars of materialism. I'll take opposition, it is but oil poured upon the fire, the flames of this blazing passion of mine. I'll take struggles, strife, and tears, they make me stronger; they are the set of keys cut for unclasping the door of triumph. 
No longer will I waste away in apprehension of all the teeth, and terrors, this world may bear forth. I am not falsely unafraid, but I have penned a promise upon the flesh of my soul, a promise to press forward into the blaze of ambition, to set upon fulfilling my dreams, bestowing the summation of my life into the magnum opus of love, the crux of justice, and the heart of human equality, of harmony. 
Please know, that you have all been delicate wings, lifting my spirits, stirring up advantageous debates in the wake of my thoughts, and setting a thousand-some smiles into the frame of my face. Each entry of this blog has been fragile, unpretending pieces of me, broken off, in hopes of leaving a tiny trail along the floor beams of your soul. And in tenderhearted, fervent hope that you will see the potential of your heart, and of your dreams, and find peace, love, and fulfillment in your time. Title Quote: Abraham Lincoln
Photos: By Edouard Plongeon via http://edouardplongeon.unblog.fr
Our home, this universe is blackened beneath the shroud of hatred and loathing, disgraced, distorted with slander, sharpness, and scorn. This world, needs no more hate, needs no more brashness, biting bitterness that leaves teeth marks on the soul, and traces of tears on flesh. 
Gentleness is a master of tempers, a treatment for broken hearts, and broken people. A remedy for war, for witless assault, aggression of the human spirit. 
Gentleness is my grandmother's fragile footsteps, arriving on the brick porch, lighter than air, the delicate lilt of her voice; soft murmuring and melodies on the radio, crawling through the pint-sized speakers, like sunbeams; the pale moon suspended over an iridescent lake, in the hollow of a forest asleep; sea foam, candle light, a whisper in the night, a mother's lullaby, summer breezes, bliss, a goodnight kiss. 
If civilization were to classify gentleness as a gender, it would be female, as it is chiefly regarded by the male as frailty, a fault, a consequential mark in character. 
It is past due, though, that the masquerade ends, for a grand finale with gentleness, a theater production, where the ruby red curtains in all their velvet strung glory are parted to unveil that the falsely masked gentleness is in truth a character of refined strength. 
Gentleness indeed is not a riddance of strength, but an exercise of strength. 
Harsh tones are wind in the wildfire of oppression and brutality. Thereupon, let us embrace a gentle nature, thoughtful with our tones, selective in what we let slip from our tongues. Extend a hand to hold, a smile to bless, an embrace to savor, even for a stranger. 
Gentleness is but a wing in the flight of love, and love, faithful love, can redeem this blackened world. 
Do you have a gentle spirit, or do you find yourself often being harsh and quick to snap? If so, do you wish you were more gentle, at times? Do you view gentleness as a sign of weakness or a sign of strength? Other thoughts?
P.S. In a follow up to my previous entry, sweet thanks to all my new followers at Tumblr, only a week in, and already 100 plus followers, you all are the best. Cheers!
Title Quote: Saint Francis de Sales
Photo Credits: Wendy Bevan for Mary Claire Italy magazine, scanned by Diciassette (17) at www.thefashionspot.com.
I'm having a go at Tumblr, focusing on all that I fancy and am captivated by, at the moment. You can see my Tumblr here. (Just to clarify any confusion: I will still be blogging here, as per usual, my Tumblr blog is not an attempt to replace Girl Meets NYC, in any way, but rather to act as a sort of supplement to GMNYC).
(Comments disabled for this entry only, please proceed to the entry below for commenting, merci!)
From the instance in which I was born, I was dying. 
Oh, how we consider our lifetime, as a line on paper, an infinite figure of points, lingering like eternity, like the immortal skyline. To not exist, and therefore to not know this is so, is a jolting, untenable notion. Even in assimilating the delicate laces of consideration, forming an ellipse to the enigma that belongs to such a unbounded, far-flung thought, I am incompetent in absorbing, in apprehending the concept of existing no more, not in any fashion or form. 
For the beloved, the departed, we scrape away soil, and tear a vacant wound in mother earth, to be a cradle for the milky sheath of bones, where the echo of a heartbeat still endures, whispering memories into the abyss of wind. And all this, a prelude to the dismantling of structure, all this, a practiced ceremony for a barren shell of bones and vessels that no longer envelope the slip of a soul. 
We do not boast the sovereignty to select the manner in which we will perish from this universe, but bestowed to us is the prevailing opportunity to live in the way that our heart pines for. 
For tomorrows are not to bear the weight we hinge on their impending promise, forevermore, and it is in vain to abide in tomorrows, or to haunt the days departed, when all we have to animate with our spirit, in any given instant, is the present. The materiality of death escapes me, most often, but I petition to die in passionate ardor for a crusade, for my breath to fade for nothing would be to suffer an inexpressible pain.
We are living, and we are dying. As seconds past, circulating with a quiet clap, parroting across the face of clock, measured still by the hushed whistle of breath, the tender humming of our heart, we are drawn nearer to an end, a final destination. This should not be a terrorizing thought, but a thought to encourage the omission of the arresting apprehension of fear, to discard the burdens of grudges and remorse, to offer love in immeasurable amounts, to be affectionate, and compassionate, in every enduring day. 
For to do this, is to die without regrets. 
Are you afraid of dying? What do you think happens to us, after we die? Do you believe in heaven and hell? Do you believe our souls continue to exist even after our body has deceased? Other thoughts?
P.S. If you haven't so kindly, already, could please vote in the poll I added in the sidebar, below the Bloglovin' and RSS feed boxes? In response to a great many telling me I should write a book, I am contemplating creating a limited number of either zines or handmade books, if I do, would you be interesting in purchasing one?Title Quote: Robert Frost
Photo Credits: www.flickr.com/photos/nalilord, www.flickr.com/photos/youknow505, www.flickr.com/photos/25997138@N06, and www.flickr.com/photos/imable.
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