by Maia Wheeler
Everyone's lives start and end at a certain point in time and history. Everyone lives a life, some lives more similar to each other and others extremely different. Some people follow the crowd and others do their own thing.
I am always intrigued by the ones who don’t follow the pack. The curious ones, the adventure-seekers. The people who follow their passions and create who they are from defining experiences.
Certain people, you can tell they are unique. It radiates off of them. It is held in their smile, the way they express themselves, in the passions they pursue and the ways they pursue those passions. Their heart and soul pours into their moments of inspiration and passion. These are the ones that I want to be more like. The ones I want to love and laugh with. These are the souls who create a beautiful world to live in.
Blossoms in the Eyes
She sits in the cafe sipping her almond milk latte. Computer open, ideas wondering. I admire from a distance. Not a far distance, but a distance apart from her. Feeling like I had met her before. Her eyes covered by the light wisps of her hair falling out of her two twisted ponytails. Lips pressed against the cup leaving a lipstick stain: “City Chic” is the name of the color. She reminds me of the city. The beautiful people, the rushing ideas and artistic expression exploding with envy. I stare in curiosity of who she is. Face slowly turns, eyes meeting mine. I know those eyes. A sparkle like the stars on a clear night. Her mouth opens just enough to let out a word. A word of silence. Blossom she mouths. She picks up her things and walks out of the small cafe. All was left was her name in the silent air. Never knowing why she seems so familiar, but a word that will never be left, but admired in my mind. Blossom is her name, and she is the woman I know without knowing why.
At ease, she took a step back from the half-naked painted women. Her mouth slightly opened as the tip of the paintbrush entered her mouth and was bitten on. She could still feel the fingers, the light strokes of her brush against the canvas. Long, light strokes when content, harsh, short strokes when anger took over the mind. It stood in the center of the room still, once the last stroke of the brush was pressed against the once blank canvas, all was still. It was never moved, never looked at, never at emotion again.