Tag Archives: the daily post


I’m looking for something, she told you. You watched her move between the racks of clothing, her fingers running softly over each piece of item. Marking them, subtly, as hers, whether she would leave the store with them or not.

Well, what’s something? you asked.

She stepped forward so you took a step, too, eager to keep up with her and to demonstrate something that you could not yet name.

Something… that is me, she replied.

You chuckled. Well, who are you then?

She turned and looked at you over her shoulder. Her stare did not go through you, no. It stopped, right at your heart like shrapnel, and exploded into smaller pieces, ricocheting through your body. Through your blood.

I’m yours, she said.



Simple, easy, no fuss. A declaration and nothing more. You closed the distance between you, as walls had been scaled and guards disposed of. She picked up a black dress and held it up to you.

What about this?

The Clothes (May) Make the (Wo)man

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The City of…

I moved to Los Angeles for school.

Who could resist going to school in the City of Angels; the city of perpetual sunshine; the city of perpetual droughts; the city of traffic that’s seen as normal and just something you have to accept if you’re going to live in Los Angeles; the city of godly Mexican food; the city that used to be Mexico; the city of beaches; the city of no rain; the city of no weather; the city of blistering summers; the city of fitness; the city of fake fitness if you have a good plastic surgeon; the city of two universities; the city where UCLA is better if you’re smart but USC is where you go if you’re rich; the city of film & television; the city where you might see a celebrity and realize that wow, they don’t look as great as they do on screen; the city of museums; the city of hipsters; the city of skid row; the city of the homeless…

I love this city. Or really, maybe it’s the city where you tell yourself you love it because to say otherwise would be blasphemous.

We Built This City

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Throughout the many different types of love that exist, the single commonality that all types of love share is death. I believe that if you love someone, or something, or some place, then ultimately, you are afraid of losing it — of its death. The fear of no longer being able to love this person, this thing, this place is the dark underbelly of love. There cannot be love without the possibility of loss. Otherwise, how would we know that we ever loved in the first place?
I Want to Know What Love Is

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I wke up tday and thught it was Wednesday.

I lked up at the ceiling and said, “Is it Wednesday?” I thught certainly it was.

I gt ut f bed and walked t my dr, sure f this idea that tday was Wednesday. My hand turned the drknb and then I realized that it was Tuesday. I felt sad. I was unsure why.

I had n plans fr Wednesday. Nthing exciting was t happen. I suppse I just wanted it t be Wednesday. ne day clser t Friday.

Wh came up with the wrk-week? Decided that Wednesday wuld be Hump Day. Why 40 hurs each week? 40 hurs devted, n, wasted at a place that I did nt like. 40 hurs. Think f hw much I culd d with thse 40 hurs that I pretended t wrk at my wrkplace. I culd paint, I culd write mre, I culd d mre f what I wanted, f what made me happy. 40 hurs f happiness.

40 hurs.

I was still standing there, caught between my bedrm and my bathrm, my thughts and the awful reality that tday was nly Tuesday.

I wish it was Wednesday.

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Playa del Rey

My locs are filled with sea water and memories of today. A day spent in the sand, building upon what is slowly becoming ‘us.’ Swept under each wave – overwhelmed by emotion – and wondering what the future may hold, but willing to accept the present as it is.

The beach is my favorite place.

It’s a place that molds to your desires, adapts to your thoughts, shifts to bring you closer to what you truly need right here and right now. I can choose to start afresh, choose to continue on from yesterday, or choose to ignore time altogether; to find solace in the repetitive waves, creating the one true sound of nature.

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All Mine

With a plot of land — not too small, not too large, but just the right size — I plan to leave a legacy. A modest home will be built upon this land, designed with love and modesty, built with sturdy wood and good intentions.

Every year, the family will take their annual photo on the front porch. It will start with just a man and a woman, entirely in love and proud of what they’ve accomplished. They are homeowners, the African-American dream. Each year, their faces grow a bit older and then age dramatically. That year, they are joined by a small bundle of joy, nestled in the arms of the woman transformed into the mother.

A few years later, another bundle arrives, replacing the previous one who can now stand on his own two feet. The home changes to accommodate these additions to the family. A study becomes another bedroom. The once pristine living room is covered in colorful hand prints and an assortment of crayon drawings.

Many firsts occur in this home, on this plot of land. Each photo documents a new year of the family, another mark of age for the land.
A Plot of Earth

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The first time I saw snow, I was a small but curious seven-year-old, playing on the front steps of my uncle’s townhouse in central London. I ran around and tried to catch snowflakes with my tongue. I squealed in joy as I created snow balls in my hands, throwing them playfully at my mother. I built a meager snowman next to the mailbox.

Since then, I have loved London.

When I returned from that city, I tried to emulate a British accent. I succeeded for awhile, but eventually grew tired of it and moved on to other things, like most children. I dreamed of visiting again and would oft ask my mother when we could return.

“Soon,” she would say. “Very soon.”

I fell further in love with London by reading Harry Potter. In fact, my love grew like a contagion, spreading out from the city to the whole country. While other children focused on the magic, I was focused on the scenery and the descriptions of trains, alleyways, and buildings. When I started to watch the movies, I was overwhelmed by the British accents and the coolness that each actor inherently possessed. I tried again to do a British accent but it was too late for it to truly stick.

I visited again when I was about 15. This time, I was a full-on tourist. I wanted to go everywhere and do everything. Harrods, the Eye of London, Buckingham Palace, Big Ben… My energy seemed to be never-ending whereas my mother’s had quickly emptied by the fourth day of our three week vacation. I loved the city. The city loved me.

The last time I visited, I was 22. Recently graduated from college and without the same intensity that 15-year-old me had possessed. I mostly wanted to sleep for the time I was there. Sleep and enjoy curry, tea, and the telly. I didn’t want to do much and later, I regretted this. I should have done more, explored more.

So next time I come back to you London, whether it be for a visit or a more permanent stay, I plan to live like it is my last day. Because you are the place where I plan to spend my last days.

Tourist Trap

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