welcome to new york is for the modern day explorers armed with polaroid cameras and endless optimism and trying to make everything into an adventure even if you are just going out for groceries and bright neon signs and glossy magazines and walking through a crowd and realising that you are just a background character in someone else’s story and collecting maps and tickets and tacky memorabilia from every city you visit
blank space is for the guests of life’s great masquerade ball and their forced smiles and private journals and the string of pearls caught around their necks like a noose and airport waiting lounges and holding a stranger’s gaze in public and for just a moment imagining a world where you stop them in the street and talk to them and stopping for an espresso at inner city cafes and deep red lipstick and walking with your head held just a little higher because you know you look good today
style is for the unlikely girl gangs and the photos you take in bathrooms on nights you hardly remember and effortlessly messy hairstyles and the stillness and silence in the air when you walk around at night time and screenshots of old text conversations and stumbling home when your family is already asleep and making extra effort to let people know what they’ve been missing and the traditional melancholy of a drive home from a concert
out of the woods is for the daydreamers sprawled on top of freshly changed bedsheets and staring at the imperfections of your bedroom ceiling and worrying about the past and the future more than the present and flowers and patterns and stars in the margins of lined paper and dancing past the point of feeling tired when you can feel nothing but the music and that feeling of missing a step on the stairs that wakes you up when you are only half asleep and old bookshops and tiny house plants and the realisation that you have fallen into a routine
all you had to do was stay is for everyone checking their phone every three minutes for a message they know is never coming and 11.11 wishes and realising that some people have little parts of you that you can never get back and long lazy sundays alone and staring out of the window on public transport and making up stories about the people you pass and wanting to tell someone something and remembering that you don’t speak anymore
shake it off is for the ones who are starting again and your already forgotten new years resolutions and to do lists and never truly knowing what other people are thinking about you but not letting it worry you and wearing clashing colours and laughing at your own insecurities and singing really loud in the car with the windows rolled down and pink lemonade and not saving nice clothes for special occasions and smiling with your teeth and multicoloured strings of fairylights
i wish you would is for unconventional lovers who are slightly crooked and never fit the mould and that feeling of clarity you sometimes only get at 2am and wishing and hoping and putting all your faith into shooting stars that are probably just planes passing overhead and all the lights of the city and the way they blur when you drive really fast into the heart of it all and every soft shimmering person you let slip through your hands like smoke and the ones who shine so bright today but could be gone next time you open your eyes
bad blood is for those who can’t say certain names because they leave a bad taste in their mouths and leather jackets and friendship bracelets beginning to unravel and doing things just to spite those who said you couldn’t and missing someone you know you shouldn’t even think about and photographs ripped in half and laddered tights and waiting on an apology and thinking of a clever comeback three hours too late
wildest dreams is for the cynical hopeless romantics who’s head and heart are constantly are war and looking at the moon and realising that everyone looks up at the same sky and mentally taking a photograph because no camera can do a moment justice and the fear of slowly being forgotten and the need to leave not a mark on this world but a stain and falling in love just a little bit with anyone who’s even the slightest bit nice to you and family heirlooms and keeping others people’s clothes
how you get the girl is for anyone who deserves a second chance and confetti and soft pink chapstick and renting dumb romcoms to watch under four blankets and coffee shop encounters with strangers and home baking with someone you care about who has flour in their hair and 1950s love songs and pretending you’re not staring at someone and the moment you realise your heart isn’t broken it was just under repair
this love is for the children of the sea who got washed up by the tide and spend all their lives trying to get back and candles at dusk and anything vintage and lacy and driftwood and holding your breath without realising and letting people float away from you because you don’t want to trap them like butterflies behind glass and messages in bottles that never reach their destinations and being asked by adults what you want to do with your life and not having an answer
i know places is for the star crossed lovers who have all the odds against them and suddenly feeling like your life is a movie and having a soundtrack playing in your head and being the underdog and secret handshakes and private jokes and all black ensembles and meeting someone’s eyes across the room and it feeling like home and walking walls instead of pavements and fairytales that sort the world into good and evil and feeling invincible and being short of breath because you’re trying to laugh and run at the same time
clean is for those who became the hero of their own story and who greet each morning with a small smile because they weren’t sure they’d ever see it and scrapbooks of all the people you’ve ever been and jewelry from people you used to love that you don’t wear any more but can’t throw away and tear-streaked cheeks and hand written notes and floral soaps and being treated like you might break and the music he didn’t like but you did and waking up at the right time without your alarm and dressing in metallics and sheer blouses
Listen y'all, it’s been a rough couple of days, but damn if I didn’t wear something that made me feel fantastic through it all. Even the ever-increasing pain of my four inch stilettos.
My friend called it “professional pajamas” and even though I’m pretty sure she meant it as a jab, these pants are silky like a dream and I’m gonna take it in stride. The buttons on the blouse are metallic rose gold. I feel luxurious as hell, and I bought this whole outfit at Target with a gift card.
P.S. this is shot in the bathroom of the community theatre I work at all the time and I am definitely the reason the doors are painted orange.
(As an aside, thanks to @wizzard890, because usually my sartorial sense is “I mean, yeah it’s great, just not for me?” but she has really helped me embrace the idea of “You like it? Wear it.”)
This started out as a gift to my friends at the USS Caryl. Many, many, many people have asked me to write a caryl love scene. And I was always uncertain. I tried over Christmas, but it didn’t gel. Somehow, this week, an idea captured my interest. It’s pretty tame by fic standards, but perhaps not something you should read out loud at work.
I give to you, my friends, a one-shot I’m pretty proud of, called “The River.”