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the slivers.

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after the rain, the sky went pink everywhere.
2am and flashes of lightening marred the stars and the clouds with dust and thunder and flash.
i took this shot 27 times before deciding this unedited first shot was the one. The One. but with every subsequent photo, the light would vanish from the image and i thought: why?

the first try was the best, and the true beauty of the moment lost in the pixels of technology. so i set aside my phone and just watched. I watched. and it watched me back.

slivers of light through the cracks. that’s what she revealed to me. all of it.

 

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his heart.

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nothing trumps a man’s beating heart as she falls asleep.

so much.

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so much fire
and so much time
so much confusion
and so many lies.

so much absence
and so much weight
so much desire
and so much debate.

so much heartache
and so much to say
so much unspoken
and so much in the way.

so much disaster
and so much pain
so much to live for
and so much in vain.

so much love here
and so much to save
so much to conquer
and so much they are brave.

so much of so much
and so much more
so much isn’t easy
so much on the floor.

so much for someday
and so much for lust
so much for secrets
and so much is a must.

so much for tomorrow
and so much for today
so much for forgiveness
and so much they stay.

-sandy.

words to die by

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“Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake”
-Napolean B. (maybe)

shit to know.

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1. always keep a bottle of red wine on hand. actually, make that two: one in the fridge to chill (very euro trash) and one in your secret hiding spot.

2. if you smoke weed (i admit nothing) then carry a freshly rolled doobie in your cig pack, and don’t even fake you don’t smoke, because even smoking cigs in a weed circle makes you part of the club. get real.

3. don’t wear socks. not even in the winter. seriously, just suck it up and try. game changer for sure. give that a whirl and let me know. otherwise, don’t hate.

4. always keep a bottle of proseco, cava or (if you’re fancy n all) champagne, like, the real stuff, chilling in the refrigerator. you never know when it’s time to celebrate or entertain– and that’s about as martha stewart as it gets from here.

5. always thank your parents. for nothing, just because. at least monthly. seasonally if you live out of town or have tattoos, which in that case, you asshole, they should hear from you weekly. recognize.

love it.

-sandy.

she flies.

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talked to a woman who said the heaviness came back today, the pain in her guts, the ache in her chest, the explosions in her mind. all too well she knows the reverberation, the tempo, the rhythm of the angst. she coddles it, welcomes it and lets it take her completely down. but she weeps for the emptiness, the sound of silence and for the times she should have known better. she contemplates the end of it all, and the beginning, and where it started, because. she delivers the punches, but emptiness delivers the blows. it’s a dance of ruin, a tango a last waltz, and it’s the degeneration of her being here that makes it seem like it never happened at all.

she is destined for greatness, she says, a dream never known, but she keeps searching for that something to make it all worth while and okay. she is consistently inconsistent and known for it well. the flaw that will make her famous and bring the lights, misguided by a desire to belong somewhere only to find she is still standing alone behind the brick wall.

devastated, she weeps. and i know not what to say to comfort her, bring her back alive. she is broken in parts, strong in others, the cracks revealing her leaking soul. on the floor, there it is, trampled by time and circumstance and depleted in all things that are good. she is starting again however, bringing anew. and she is ready to take on the world she says, now that she knows where to go.

she was once here. remember me, she says, and i do, will forever, knowing that she is somewhere better than here. she is a star now, one that flies, and there isn’t anyone that can have her while she’s up there now, touching the sun. so i’ll wait here and tell her story, word for word, breath for breath and wonder: where is she? is she happier? free? repaired? i might see her flying some day and let her be. a distant memory of sadness and melancholy and the most perfect version of anything that ever was.

-sandy.

“the love that remains”

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