July 2012
9 posts

You know her by her bare feet and tangled hair.
You know her by her been-there-done-that and simultaneously optimistic laugh.
She sings to herself, in the shower, at a bonfire or perusing the farmers market.
She has a spark in her eye and a lingering hint of innocence in her smile.
You know her by her devil-may-care attitude and mischievous, toothy grin.
She’s not afraid to go there. She’s always ready. She can’t be tamed.


She’s a myth, she’s a dream, she’s standing there, right in front of you.
Images via Oracle Fox.
Dispatched from the West Coast.

It’s the waiting that kills me. The waiting, drip-dropping like a delicate, slow tricle of pleasure, at a pace that pulsates through your body.
Tell me when when when can I give it everything I’ve got.
Anticipation is bittersweet in that way- the potential is limitless, but you haven’t reached those peaks yet, you haven’t savored their sweet nectar, you haven’t fallen far and crashed yet, you haven’t watched as you decend into barely burning embers…
It’s agonizing. It’s exhilarating. It’s The Waiting.
Dispatched from the West Coast.