a letter to the little girl lost

Dear me, 

You are sixteen. 
You are invincible.
Seemingly you are against the world and you stand eight feet tall.

But can I let you in on a little secret?
You really are only 5'1 and a half and you are only sixteen. A child, even if you believe otherwise.

Can I tell you that what you think you know now will phase out and that the world you believe in is just a dab of what is in store for you? 

The boy you are seeing isn't the one you swear you are going to marry. Stop crying over him and know that one day he'll break your heart, over and over again. 

The experiences you are going through isn't what shapes you. 

That your friends will not always be there through thick and thin. 

And the friends you hold onto and promise to grow up with are not the ones who will be by your side when you give birth to your first child. 

Your parents are not the enemies as you believe they are. 

That sneaking out makes your mothers heart palpitate in ways you could never imagine until you yourself become a mother. 

Would you believe me if I told you that one day you will find comfort in the walls of their own home, have a glass of wine with them once in a while, and that sometimes you'd rather hang out with them instead of a night in the club. 

That one day you will realise that your biggest bully and critic was actually yourself.

Yes, one day you will understand that blaming others for the depth of your insecurities was nothing more that your own despair for acceptance. You don't want to die like you think you do and your self worth is more than that you believe it to be. 

That your curves will make you the woman you are, that your dark hair and olive skin will one day be called exotic, that the perfection of beauty will never be as important as you believe it to be.

That one day a man will fall in love with your little legs that you hate, your thunder thighs that you always cover up, your love handles that you despise, and one day the man that you marry will believe you are the most beautiful girl he's ever laid eyes on. 

Can I share another secret? 

You don't know it all.

You really don't. You got to stop thinking you do.

And you know, one day you will miss your teenage years and wish that time didn't move so fast. So please stop wishing the time away, it really does go faster the older you get.  

Oh, and those baggy jeans and black lipstick you sport? Yeah, that phases out too. Believe me, it wasn't very attractive.

You are sixteen, darling.

If only you knew then, what you know now.

me {your thirty two year old self}

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But words are things, and a small drop of ink ...

"But words are things, and a small drop of ink, 
Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces 
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
                                                  - George Byron
I'm writing again. Not pressing keys beneath my fingertips. Not watching words move across the screen as they come through my head. Not seeing letters disappear one at a time with one delete button as I decide the line didn't make sense and wasn't even worth keeping on the screen.


Pen and ink.

Remnants of the blackness of the ink and a slight dent on my right ring finger from pressing too hard. 

Embossed paper, the depth of the letters causing a slight curl to the page.

 I trace my hand on the back of the page that was just written on and the familiarity of it all is overwhelming. Its the same feeling I get when I finish drawings, the same rush of emotions, the same creative satisfaction. And yet, my journal has been sitting on my shelf, untouched for a year. March 2011. That was my last entry. We are now into March of 2012 and my pages are still blank. Too many excuses, too little writing. That is an overpowering description of procrastination if you ask me. Either that or I made up to many excuses about not having the time to write. Perhaps I needed that time away, perhaps I needed to find the voice or perhaps I had nothing adequate to say. Or perhaps words weren't what I needed to focus on last year. 

Pen and ink. 

It's definitely essential for these elements to be a monumental part of my year.

 I know it.

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Moleskin edition: Javier Pacheco

Inspiration emulating.
(e.x.t.r.e.m.e) Moleskin envy.
Strokes of a creative mind.

Pages from his moleskin that look like pieces that could be hung up my wall. 
Javier Pacheco has made me smile this one Tuesday afternoon and has reminded me that 
sometimes its not about getting that one piece perfect.
Sometimes it's doodles in a little sketchbook that can be the ideal piece in itself.
Reminds me that being a perfectionist may be part of my procrastination.
And he reminds me that perhaps letting loose once in a while shouldn't be too bad.

tonights tune:

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I'm gonna rouge my knees and roll my stockings down and all that jazz

An unexpected evening in a little road just off the centre of the city.
Who knew that a place like this existed, with a cabaret fit for Vegas {okay, maybe not so grand} but nevertheless, one that made a very happy person last night. They constantly brought their audience into their world of glitz and glamour, from the roaring 20's to scenes from Miss Saigon. With men who moved their hips like the ladies they were dressed up to be, with legs that went on for ages and bodies that put me to shame. 

My trusty iPhone captured as much as it could, but I would have loved to have had the big camera with me to capture the fantastic glitter of the costumes, lighting and all else that mesmerised on this one Saturday night evening in little old Manila.

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Along the sidestreets

{ When you don't look, they come.
When you don't search to find, you see.
When you don't desperately want to know, you realise.
When you accept, you live. 
This is when ordinary moments become an indescribable memory.}
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mentored from across the oceans

Three courses in three years.

Two August breaks.

One woman.

And I can't even begin to explain in words how much she has made an impact to me. All this through a simple online platform, across the oceans, different timezones.

So who else could I possibly turn to when I felt like I was sitting in the middle of a blog rut?

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tropical tugs on my heartstrings

Sometimes when I miss London and ponder on the the reasons why I chose to leave to move back home, 
I think of our time spent outdoors where Cameron can run around playing in the
 football field behind my parents house.
Think about how we sit sipping our wine at the end of the day in the 
warmth of the tropical breeze.
I think of our summer that is fast approaching that allows us to look forward to a
 beach holiday on one of our 7,107 islands. 
I think of my quiet moments sat by the pool watching the sun creep behind the eucalyptus trees and the sound of the travelling palm swaying as it shades the strength of that intense sun.
 I think of days like yesterday where the clouds in the sky barely cover up the striking blue tint and 
the heat pounds down on my golden brown skin as I play football.
I think of how my city has its arms wide open for me, 
and how I must allow myself to fall  straight into its endearing embrace.
To remember all these reasons is the only way that I know that I chose the right path three years ago.

Ahhhh, okay fine. 
Maybe I need to persuade myself a little less because I know that really and truly, I chose correctly.
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