I realized yesterday, walking home from the town center with an armful of groceries during the first properly sunny day I’ve enjoyed since moving to Dublin, that I am deeply, deeply afraid of going back to Atlanta and having to break in my sandals all over again. It generally happens every year that I have become so unaccustomed to the concept of flip flops that once the weather gets so warm and I have no choice but to wear the least amount of fabric or material possible that my feet go into shock and start breaking down, specifically wherever the plastic of the flip flops rub against between my toes and on my skin. Blisters abound.
Since living in Dublin, I actually think my feet have lost all memory of the concept of flip flops. Living in a city where drizzle is the rule rather than the exception and the weather rarely reaches above 60 degrees Fahrenheit even someone as averse to the sun as myself begins to be a bit of a sun-worshipper. I think that if I even tried to put flip flops on they would just fall off.
may the tide that is entering even now the lip of our understanding carry you out beyond the face of fear may you kiss the wind then turn from it certain that it will love your back may you open your eyes to water water waving forever and may you in your innocence sail through this to that
In a world full of crappy personality tests, this is one that is actually informative and useful - not to mention reliable (I’ve gotten the same result every time I’ve taken it, all the way back to the 7th grade).
Stunningly, I once again have received INFJ. It’s been the same since I was about 12 as well.
I’m making my way while the sun cannot stain me I’m watching the road with two young eyes to guide me not looking behind to ensure that the home fires are shrinking the fireflies fade as the city lights find me
Last weekend, I boarded a plane to Paris. I walked on St. Germain and bought macaroons and ate strawberries and champagne in the Jardin de Luxembourg. I climbed up the streets of Montmarte and I kissed along the Seine and pretended to smoke a cigar as we walked through the streets of Marais. It was beautiful and it is mine and the memory will never leave me.
I am too alone in the world, and yet not alone enough to make every hour holy. I am too small in the world, and yet not tiny enough just to stand before you like a thing, dark and shrewd. I want my will, and I want to be with my will as it moves towards deed; and in those quiet, somehow hesitating times, when something is approaching, I want to be with those who are wise or else alone. I want always to be a mirror that reflects your whole being, and never to be too blind or too old to hold your heavy, swaying image. I want to unfold. Nowhere do I want to remain folded, because where I am bent and folded, there I am lie. And I want my meaning true for you. I want to describe myself like a painting that I studied closely for a long, long time, like a word I finally understood, like the pitcher of water I use every day , like the face of my mother, like a ship that carried me through the deadliest storm of all.