The Hall of Infinite Possibility

I had this crazy dream. 

I was in a room filled with stars, which led to an endless hallway lined with sparkly, shimmery doors. At first I thought I was in the hall of akashic records, but then my invisible guide said to me, telepathically, “no, child, it is not history you will find behind those doors, but possibility.” 

I then understood that each door opened into a different reality. I became instantly filled with a kind of overwhelming excitement that I hadn’t felt since my childhood. The doorways were infinite. The possibilities were infinite.

My imagination ran wild envisioning all the magical and mysterious worlds I could discover. Would there be benevolent creatures beyond anything dreamt up in the movies? Would there be fantastical alien landscapes with pink skies and purple clouds you could float around on? Which door would lead me to utopia? 


I couldn’t contain myself any longer, and threw open the first door on my right. I was sucked, (quite literally, as if being vacuumed up) into its reality, and a moment later I ‘woke up’ in my childhood bed. Before I even opened my eyes, I knew who and where I was, and instantly felt disappointed with the familiarity of my surroundings. 

I was 10, living in a shitty outer-suburbs duplex with my mother, and she was very angry with me for reasons I couldn’t tell. Everything seemed to be normal, except for two things: one, my stepfather was nowhere to be seen, and two, we had moved out of that particular house when i was 8. It then hit me; in this reality, my mum never met my stepdad, we never moved, and my brother was never born. That ain’t cool, I thought, and closed my eyes and willed myself back to the room of stars.

I experiemented with a few doors in close proximity, and quickly found, to my dismay, that they all led to slightly modified versions of my predominant reality. In one version, my grandparents had died early in my life, leaving my mother and I a sizeable inheritance. So we had money and an increased quality of life, but the abscence of my grandparents left a large void in our family unit. In another version, I stayed in my hometown, married my high school boyfriend and had three kids by the time I was 21. 

After going through several doors and versions of my life, I became frustrated by the lack of diversity in my human experience. “How many doors do I have to open until I find a completely different reality, seperate to myself?” I shouted in desperation to my unembodied guide. “I don’t want just another version of my own reality, I want to experience a new reality!” I wanted a new family and body and ancestry and personality and desires. I wanted to experience life as someone else. “But, child,” said my guide, “that is the whole point of being alive, of being a person, of having an individual and unique human experience.” 

“What do you mean? What is the point?”

When our eternal being decides to separate from source to become embodied and live out a human life, we do so because it gives us the opportunity to manifest and materialize our infinite possibility.” I still wasn’t getting it. “So why can’t I explore some of that infinite possibility?”

“Because for this life cycle, you’ve chosen this body and this path. You chose this one specifically for a reason. You need to fully explore all the potential of this particular life… before moving on to another.” 

I got it. It finally made sense. I still wasn’t thrilled about it, but I understood why I was confined to this body and it’s variant realities. I needed to remember my original life intent and make the steps to restore my path before I could even think about moving on. Prior to this moment, I’d been stuck in inaction; my guide showing me this room was her way of giving me a gentle nudge, a friendly reminder of all the potential I was squandering and all the possibilities of this human life.

I woke up. 

Tell me your tales

Calling all psychonauts, trippers, truth seekers and inter-dimensional travelers! 

So I’ve had this idea for awhile and I think it’s finally time to put the wheels in motion. I want to curate a book of DMT experiences and spiritual journeys, using anecdotes and trip reports, side-by-side with artistic depictions of various DMT-inspired imagery. Other worlds, distant dimensions, the Tryptamine palace, Hyperspace, entities, swirling fractals, mandalas, infinite galaxies, all of it.

The aim is to acquaint the reader with a taste of the strange and mystical world of DMT. I’m particularly interested in the parallels and recurring themes of life, death, and rebirth, and sharing other people’s insights. I want it to be as wonderfully weird as the experience itself! My vision is kind of a psychedelic coffee table book-meets a modern ‘Doors of Perception’.

 This will be a long-term project but I’ve decided to open up for collaborative submissions now. If this sounds interesting and you’d like to be a part of it, please submit your trip reports, artworks, or any DMT related creativity to: littlepsychonautpublishing@gmail.com

Your work will be fully credited and promoted via various social platforms, or you can remain anonymous if you so choose. All selected submissions will be notified via email well in advance of the books publication. Thank you and happy travels to you all!

Synchronicities 

Remember that movie from the early 2000s, ‘I Heart Huckabees’? The main character, played by Jason Schwartzman, is curious about the constant coincidences in his life, so he hires a unorthodox duo of detectives help him figure out what they could mean. 
At the time, I found the premise pretentious and confusing, but right about now, I totally get it, for my own life has begun to resemble a Wes Anderson movie, albeit without the helpful existential investigators and dreamy pastel hues. 

So in the spirit of attempting to make sense of them myself, here are some examples of the synchcronicities I’ve experienced lately.

 
NUMBERS
At work, I’m a busy person. I’m rarely idle and I don’t clock-watch, but still, almost every single day, I find myself looking at time at 11.11, 1.11 and 3.33. Usually, those times are the ONLY three times I’ve checked my watch. In fact it’s so common that if I happen to miss one, like the other day when I checked my phone at precisely 11.12, it feels like something is off.  

RUMI POEM

A few months back, I was listening to a psychology podcast on my 45min commute to work, as I am apt to do. The topic was mindfulness, a concept I’m reasonably familiar with, and the segment closed with the guest speaker providing a quote by the poet Rumi, who’s work I am also reasonably familiar with. This, however, was a poem I had never heard, called ‘The Guest House’. For those unacquainted with this particular piece, here it is:

It is a lovely poem and I enjoyed hearing it, although to be honest I didn’t give it much more thought once my drive was over. 

One of my daily work duties is selecting the store’s music playlist, and that day I randomly put the latest Coldplay album into the rotation. Now it is important to note that I have never heard this album, nor had much inclination to as I’m not a huge fan of the band (although I did admittedly enjoy a few of their earlier songs). I don’t know what inspired me to choose it that day, but I did, and around 1pm it started playing in the store. 

A few songs in, while performing duties out on the floor, I was stopped in my tracks. The music had ceased for a spoken word interlude, which in itself is not remarkable, but the words themselves gave me goosebumps. “This being human is a guest house,” a booming, authoritive voice declared. “Each day a new arrival.” Its recited in its entirety, and I later found out that Chris Martin discovered the poem while going through his divorce and loved it so much he decided to feature it on his album. 

ENTROPY IS UNAVOIDABLE 
Earlier this week, after finishing work for the day, I was sitting on the couch scrolling through Facebook. I came across this meme:

Like most memes, it provided a feeble chuckle and I swiftly moved on. The only line that stood out was ‘entropy is unavoidable’ as I didn’t really know what that meant but didn’t care enough to look into it further. 

About an hour later my boyfriend and I settled in to watch an episode of ‘Animals’, an absurd but hilarious cartoon on the comedy channel we’d just gotten into. In this particular episode, the band 311 guest star, and in one scene the main character is singing one of their songs lyrics back to them: “You can’t stop entropy so why even try, observe the conscious flow and don’t mystify.”

 So the message I’m getting is that entropy is unavoidable and you can’t stop entropy. Now I just need to figure out what ‘entropy’ actually fucking means. 

SPECK OF DUST 

Two nights ago, my boyfriend wanted to watch the aforementioned Sarah Silverman stand-up on Netflix. One of the bits in her routine included a monologue on the insignificance of individual human life in the grand scheme of the universe, likening us to a mere ‘speck of dust’. 

After the special was over, we retired to bed with an old episode of ‘The Office’. Just as I was drifting off, I heard Michael Scott’s character justifying calling a staff meeting to talk about the planets. “Because it’s a big universe,” he says to Jim. “And we’re all just tiny little specks of dust.”

So there we have it- numbers, a 16th century poem, an unusual phrase and a common quote. Some patterns I can see from listing these are that every time, the synchronicity has occurred within the same day, sometimes within hours. It’s always delivered via seperate and unrelated mediums, i.e.: educational podcast and music cd, Facebook and cartoon, stand up comedy and scripted television. Beyond that, I’m not sure. I’ll guess I’ll just continue to list them as they occur and see if more patterns emerge. 

Is my subconscious trying to tell me something? Is my higher self attempting to communicate through various mediums? Am I reading too much into it? Are they all just stupid coincidences and I maybe smoke too much weed? Who knows. I wish I had Jason Schwartzman’s number. 

Tolerance Break

It’s no secret that I’m a raging stoner- always have been, probably destined to always be. 

I received an early education from my stoner mother and cemented my habits with stoner friends throughout my formative high school years. There’s this weird anomaly that most long-term pot aficionados can attest to, which is that stoners can always seek out and attract other stoners, no matter where in the world or in their life they happen to be. It’s a gift really, like a special extra sense is activated through the THC receptors or something. 

We tend to surround ourselves almost exclusively with fellow greenthumbs, because they’re usually the only ones that don’t hassle us about our bummer of a habit. They’re also the only ones who’ll sit and smoke a quarter ounce and watch two seasons of rick and morty and devour a diabetes inducing amount of sugary treats with you and not think anything of it. Basically, fellow stoners are the only ones capable of the extreme level of chill required to hang out with us. 

I never thought I’d say this, but I’m starting to think I’ve had too much chill. Smoking weed has been my primary hobby for the past fifteen years. It’s been great, don’t get me wrong, but now that I’m in my thirties I’m wondering if I should expand my interests some. 

The problem with a chronic addiction that it leaves little time or money for anything else so it literally becomes your whole life. Attempts to introduce new habits and hobbies are usually an exercise in futility because one week you won’t have enough money to get weed and pay for whatever activity you were planning on, so a choice has to be made, and that choice will always be weed. Another week you’ll be too stoned and forget to go. After that you’re just too embarrassed or bored with the whole thing  that you simply drop it forever, and resume your glassy eyed sloth pose on the couch, watching Gilmore Girls reruns and scooping milo out of the tin.

But  then one day you emerge from your hazy-brained fog enough to remember you were once a kid who actually wanted to do shit with their life. You were bright eyed and shiny-haired and you had the world at your dainty little feet. You dreamed of being a famed author, an Olympic runner, an astronaut. You even promised your dad that one day  you’d bring him back a piece of the moon, you lying little shit. You wanted to travel to faraway places and do strange faraway things, and now you barely go outside, not even to score your precious drugs, as your dealer now does house calls. 

I’m content with my life, but can I honestly say I’m living it the best I could be? Possibly not. Probably not. 

So I’ve made a decision. Starting next week, I’m going to take a little break. I’m not calling it quitting because that’s too big of a commitment and that word is heavy. But I’m setting myself the challenge of a minimum of seven stoned-free days, a weedless week. That feels achievable, and if after I’ve completed it I feel like I can keep going without it for longer, I will. And if I can’t, a week is still a good start, and I still will have completed my goal. 

If nothing else it’ll be a good tolerance break, and I’ll enjoy a more intense high when I do resume smoking. 

I’m secretly hoping, though, that this will mark the beginning of a break in this deeply rooted, and ultimately destructive habit. I am so attached to the ritual of getting stoned that it feels bigger than me somehow, and beyond my capability to cease. I need to prove to myself that this isn’t the case; surely, deep down inside, there’s some untapped source of self-discipline, even just a little nugget of willpower that will fight its way to the surface if I just try. 

So try I will, and I have a plan to boot. Luckily my fellow-stoner boyfriend is on board- it would be near impossible to attempt this without him. Our tolerance week will commence on Feb 1st, which feels like a nice clean date, and happens to fall on a Wednesday which is payday and score day. Every night we will have a scheduled activity for the after work hours, ranging from the gym, to going to the movies, to trying out new restaurants. On the Thursday I begin a 3-week meditation course which I’m hoping will assist with clearing my thoughts of weed. I’ve recently started doing yoga and I plan to step up my classes to three times a week. We will also have wine and sleeping pills on hand in case of insomnia. 

I’m both looking forward to, and dreading it. One thing I keep reminding myself of is that if boyfriend and I can avoid buying weed for just two weeks, we’ll collectively save $500. That’s ridiculous, and when you go deeper into the economic reality of our combined habit it’s outright anxiety-inducing. I guess that’s why we largely ignore it. But if I really want to make changes, I need to wake up to these harsh realities. I can’t afford to keep burying my head in the mull butter anymore.

I’ll keep you all updated on my progress, and I’d love to hear about your experiences with anything similar in the comments. Any advice is welcome! 

Wish me luck, lovely readers, I need all the good vibes I can get. ✌🏻

A Better Son/Daughter

For the first and probably last time on this page, I wanted to post something- specifically, a song- which was not actually written by me. 

I’m not in the habit of sharing other people’s work, as there will always be an infinite amount of better writers than myself to quote and praise, and I feel it takes away from the authenticity of my personal blog.  

However, this is not just any song. 

 I discovered this obscure little indie gem many years ago, and the lyrics could have been plucked directly from my soul and written in my blood and tears. It is closer to my truest self than anything I’ve ever read or written; the words resonate within me in a way I can’t entirely explain. 

I had the tremendous honour of meeting Jenny Lewis, the singer/songwriter behind this track, about three years after I first came across it. I got to tell her how much the song meant to me, how it simultaneously inspires and deflates me to hear my innermost struggles so beautifully articulated by someone else. “It pleases me that you love the song,” was Jenny’s response, “but it saddens me that you relate to it.”

So without further ado, I present to you my life’s penultimate theme song- I hope you get something out of it.  

“A Better Son / Daughter” 
by Rilo Kiley

Sometimes in the morning I am petrified and can’t move
Awake but cannot open my eyes
And the weight is crushing down
on my lungs, I know I can’t breathe
And hope someone will save me
this time

And your mother’s still calling you insane and high
Swearing it’s different this time
And you tell her to give in to the demons that possess her
And that God never blessed her insides

Then you hang up the phone and feel badly for upsetting things
And crawl back into bed to dream of a time
When your heart was open wide
and you loved things just because
Like the sick and the dying

And sometimes when you’re on, you’re really fucking on
And your friends they sing along and they love you
But the lows are so extreme that the good seems fucking cheap
And it teases you for weeks in it’s absence

But you’ll fight and you’ll make it through
You’ll fake it if you have to
And you’ll show up for work with a smile

You’ll be better you’ll be smarter
And more grown up and a better daughter
(Or son) and a real good friend

You’ll be awake, you’ll be alert
You’ll be positive though it hurts
And you’ll laugh and embrace all your friends

You’ll be a real good listener
You’ll be honest, you’ll be brave
You’ll be handsome, you’ll be beautiful
You’ll be happy

Your ship may be coming in
You’re weak but not giving in
To the cries and the wails of the valley below

Your ship may be coming in
You’re weak but not giving in
And you’ll fight it you’ll go out fighting all of them…

Tired, Stressed and Existentially Depressed

 The lights are out and the curtains have finally been drawn on the shit show that was 2016. The audience waits with breathless anticipation as the next act is ushered in- a new year filled with new hope, new fears and new problems to be played out on the worlds’ stage. Everyone’s hoping 2017 will provide a better, more positive performance, but personally, I didn’t find the past 12 months to be as evil and arduous as the public en masse seemed to.

There was a kind of collective condemnation of the offending year, as if 2016 was a storybook villain wreaking havoc on the innocent citizens of the world, rather than the intangible measurement of time that it actually was. 

For me, it was a period of transformation and awakening. I reached the milestone age of thirty, and surprisingly didn’t haven’t a breakdown about it. I began experimenting with altered states of consciousness and entheogens, which unexpectedly propelled me onto a path of spirituality, and discovered a lot of new things about myself, the world, and this reality which I inhabit. I found several of my long-held beliefs challenged and subsequently smashed to smithereens.

Now, its been awhile since I’ve added any updates to my DMT Diaries, and I must explain that this is not due to a shortage of things to say; rather, my silence has been the result of a recent ‘spiritual fatigue’, for lack of a better term, that has washed over me.

I spent most of the last year on a quest for deeper knowledge, embarking on fervent esoteric research and experimentation. I’ve attempted to document my experiences and findings and connect with the psychedelic community. Some would say my fascination bordered on obsession. The result of all this has been, at best, a mystical, eye-opening journey into the realms of the unknown, and at worse, a frustrating exercise in mind-fuckery. Frankly, the whole thing has been quite exhausting.

So now, I’m a just a bit over everything. I’m bored with reading about interdimensional travel and Planck time and sick of trying to raise my vibrational frequency. I’m tired of monitoring my thoughts and trying to manifest positivity. I know I have so much left to learn, I’m just lacking the passion to do so.

But it’s not like immersing myself in regular old 3D reality is overly appealing, either. I know too much now; I will never experience the bliss of ignorance again. I can’t just plonk myself down in front of a sitcom for hours and chuckle along with the laugh track anymore. I can’t just scroll through my Facebook feed and read the endless mind-numbing expositions of my friends and acquaintances or be bothered weeding out the click-bait from the genuine articles. Everything just seems to tedious and irritating to me, and I don’t know what to do about it.

So I’m stuck in this uncomfortable state of restless dissatisfaction; itching for change, but unable to see any viable opportunities for it. I want things to be different, better, more exciting, but I don’t know how to make that happen. 
I think I need a mentor. 

Someone to guide me through this period of transition, to re-motivate and inspire me, to help illuminate my path. 
I must remind myself that I’ve come pretty far on my own, and even give myself props for that. I not only ventured out of my comfort zone this year, I came tearing out of it, naked and screaming, like a bat out of hell. The past 12months have seen me shed a huge amount of negative constructs in my life: for example, I no longer rely on pharmaceutical drugs to regulate my moods and sleep, which is huge coming from a girl who has been heavily medicated since 16.

 I’ve also shed all the external artifice that for years acted as armour against my insecurities, and no longer get the costly and painful hair and eyelash extensions I’ve worn since I was 19. I barely eat fast food anymore, and I drink liters of water a day, something which might seems simple and insignificant to those who naturally embark on these basic healthy habits, but no so to myself, a soft-drink and takeaway addict. I’ve also started weekly yoga classes and regularly practice breathing and mindfulness meditation. 

However, I still smoke what is probably considered ‘too much’ weed, have the odd cigarette if I’m feeling particularly nervy, and divulge in heavier drugs occasionally. So I’m far from being a holistic temple of purity, but I still like to think I’ve come along way. 
I have a good life, all in all. I’m in the healthiest place I’ve ever been mentally, my relationship and home life is filled with love and stability, and I have a job that pays a decent wage and allows me to spend my days around music and movies, two of my favorite things. So what’s the problem? Why do I feel so empty? Why, on most mornings, am I filled with dismay upon waking? 

Maybe it’s because I’ve had a glimpse of something more, something bigger, something divine, and it’s difficult to readjust to the mundanities of everyday life. Maybe I’m experiencing a ‘dark night of the soul’, a period of tumultuous inner chaos that many report suffering while on a quest for enlightenment. If this is the case, it means I’m embroiled in a kind of tug-of-war between my spiritual self and my ego, both fighting for dominance over my consciousness. 

If anyone has experienced a similar feeling, or had overcome a ‘dark night’ of their own, please reach out to me. Any and all advice, tips, stories etc is welcome! You can comment here links to your own accounts, or email me at little.psychonaut@gmail.com. Thanks in advance, and safe travels to all of you in 2017. ✌🏻

The End of Anxiety

Oh hello there anxiety, my oldest friend
Back for an unwanted visit again?
I thought I told you, I no longer have fear
I’m stronger than ever now, didn’t you hear? 

You were like a cloak that I wore all year round
Heavy and stiff, always weighing me down
But I cast off that cloak and I’m learning to breathe
So if you don’t mind now please, I’ll ask you to leave 

Oh what’s that, anxiety? You’re Constricting my throat? 
Reducing my voice to a whimper and croak?
And now comes the part where you get in my head
Try to convince me I’d be better off dead

But I’m smart now, anxiety, I know that’s not true
The days of you poisoning my mind are through
I won’t let your vitriol dictate what I do
And the only thing better off dying is you 

So I’ll let you visit this one last time
But then you can fuck off out of my life
You weren’t invited, and won’t ever be
So thanks for the memories but now you must leave.

2 am is for lovers


 

Let’s together be wild and disgraceful 

Allow ourselves to come undone 

Though our passion may overwhelm us 

Though our fire may blister the sun 

 

Let’s escape to our secret universe

Where our entire existence is us 

Where outside of these four walls

Nothing is or ever was

 

Though sadness once seduced me 

And melancholy held me tight 

Now 2am’s for lovers

And Lust’s reclaimed the night
 

Let’s embrace these sacred moments

Share lungs and single breath

And when the daylight hour approaches

Together die a little death.

@totallyborderline

The Little Psychonaut

Some of my more eagle-eyed followers may have noticed that I recently published, then  removed, a series of posts related to my DMT experiences and transformation into a psychedelic moonchild. 

I started totallyborderline as a way of dealing with my mental health diagnoses and reaching out to others with similar issues. It’s been an incredibly cathartic, albeit narcissistic journey, and one that will continue throughout my life. As such I will continue to document it on this blog. 

I realized after 3 DMT-related posts that I had more to say on the subject- so much more. My mind has been opened to a whole new way of thinking and a lot of weird existential shit is flowing through the floodgates. In fact, I had enough material and thoughts on the stuff to fill its own blog.

My current fascination with spiritual pursuits is certainly intertwined with my mental state, however it is such an intense subject that I decided it best to seperate the two. If anyone cares to follow that journey, please head over to Little Psychonaut and check out my DMT Diaries. 

For everyone else, I’ll try and refrain from clogging this feed with trippy ramblings of transdimensionsal time-lords and star children- no promises. ✌🏻️ 

A Most Unlikely Love 

I’m not usually one for romantic displays, neither giving or receiving. I find them mostly to be unbearably cringey and I’d just, like, rather not

I’m also terribly inarticulate when it comes to writing on matters of the heart, so I don’t normally bother, which is why I was surprised to come across a love letter to Boyfriend in a secret folder on my phone. Apparently I wrote it six months ago while in a particularly wistful mood, and promptly forgot all about it.

My usual reaction to finding something like this would be to either delete it, or put it back in its hiding place forever. But its resurfaced right on the eve of our one year anniversary, which seemed quite serendipitous, and in lieu of an actual gift I thought it would be nice for me to share it with him (and the Internet, I guess). 

Dear love, 

I’ve recently come to a realization about you, and us, and the effect you have on me. My life was always full of chaos but since we’ve been together, I’ve felt surrounded by a calmness, a sense of rightness, a profound feeling of being home.  We’ve known each other forever, although it’s only been the last six months I’ve actually started to know you. Since then I’ve written poems for you, essays about you, and opened up in a way I haven’t been able to for many years. To say you’ve influenced me positively is an understatement. 

Up until now, I took for granted that this creative resurgence was attributed to the newfound romance in my life. Now I understand that it was not just the act of falling in love, or the warmth of being loved in return, but it was the lover himself that was my muse. 

I’ve been deeply affected by love in the past, the emotions it’s stirred within me, the layers of myself that have been revealed, but the object of my affections was never really the source of inspiration- rather, my feelings and internal responses to the act of loving, and then the recovery from the emotional annihilation of heartbreak, was always the catalyst to my creativity. 

This is because until now, my lovers have all been of a certain ilk. They fit the ‘bad boy’/ alternative/ slightly damaged mold that I had cast for myself as an ideal partner; I now understand that this was largely due to my poor sense of self-worth. I didn’t see any value in myself so I instinctively picked under-achievers who wouldn’t challenge me (or themselves). I never thought i was nice enough for a ‘nice guy’. 

But through the thick ashes of failed relationships, I emerged at the end of my twenties slightly burnt, but also a little wiser, a touch more self-assured, and completely content to forge ahead into my thirties as a single lady. My newfound confidence and lust for life was pure, I wasn’t seeking to please anyone but myself, and I guess all these subtle changes over time was now resulting in me sending out vibrations on a higher level, and thus becoming attractive to a similar (aka better) quality of person. And that’s when you came back along, quietly and effortlessly slotting yourself into my life as if there was always a special spot reserved there for you. 

We’d always been on the periphery of eachothers lives, and once we became an ‘us’, it felt like I’d been wandering the cold for countless winters, frostbitten and pneumonic and searching for warmth, only to discover I had a box of matches on me the whole time. A chance reunion, a few almost-missed advances, a clumsy seduction; all the little moments leading up to that first kiss are etched in stone in my memory, because it was such an unnasuming beginning to something so life-changing. Our compatibility caught a us both off guard, but from that first kiss, from the very instant the match was struck and the sparks flew wildly, we knew we were inevevitable. 

When we first met eight years ago, I had no idea who I was or what I wanted from life. You were in university trying to figure it all out. We were both with unsuitable partners and would have saved a lot of time and heartache if we’d just ran off together then and there. But instead, you just asked to take a photo of me and I couldn’t think of anything I would rather do. 

The picture I eventually got to see was a revelation. For the first time, I was able to see beauty in myself, in the image of me you created. Instead of obsessing over blemishes or messy hair or any of my thousand perceived flaws, I was able to admire the shadows and light as it bounced off my face, enhancing certain features and pronouncing my youthful vulnerability. For once I could look at myself as something other than  repulsive. That photo now resides in a frame, above the actual antique chair pictured in it, in the home we now share together, and it’s still my favorite photo to this day.

This lovely bit of serendipity was the catalyst to my realization. Its presence makes me reflect on the notions of randomness and destiny, and reconsider my thoughts on true love. Because now I know that you haven’t only been a positive influence on me this last amazing year- you’ve actually been inspiring me since the day we met. 

It’s not always obvious, it’s not always grandiose, but every single day, my life is better because of you. I’m better because of you- more genuine, less reckless, softer. My carelessness is countered by your perfectionism, my impulsiveness by your sensibility. 

I used to think it would be the highest honor to be considered someone’s muse, to be alluring enough to inspire a work of art, but now I realize that the true gift is to have a muse of your own. To be blessed with the company of someone who motivates and inspires you, someone who makes you understand the love songs, and sing them without a trace of irony- that’s an honour. To have Someone who gives you the courage to lay yourself bare, even though you’ve been hurt in the past, even though you know you could be hurt again. Someone you can feel so connected with, you lose yourself a little bit. A person to miss when you must be apart, and make your heart swell up impossibly big when they come back. 

So I say thank you, my most unlikely love, for affecting me. For letting me in on the secret of secrets, the reasons the movies keep being made and the songs keep being sung, for knowing me and letting me know you and for giving me the most wonderful us.