the real journey

forge through treacherous hills,
fallen leaves,
and whining trees

leave it all behind
rest your pretty little head on mine
understand the blue sky blooms with the moon

freedom awaits the longing participant
reaching out,
pleading,
to save them from a
life of self-mockery
foolish perpetual nothing

wander and wonder
awaits you on the other side
one tip: do not look back
the real journey never ends

we are free
everything is poetic to me
i live day in and day out
like an angel came and uncovered me

It Is What It Is

A scintilla of hope vanishes
when avalanches
race before you
with a posture of enmity.

Time is a trap.
Flowing along unknowing
with a nature of indifference.
The beautiful landscape does not exist
as the avalanche comes
to coerce all that is.

If there was a word to describe
anything and everything all at once,
it is noticeable now
if not through the matter in front of you,
but from the quivering tremor
igniting a heartbeat in goosebumps,
raising every single hair.
The feeling is deeper than
a tempest, and existentially more vivid
than Starry Night and the Northern lights.

 

‘Hedonisms End’

Bass lines, neck lines, white lines:
The underground reservoir lounge
Is like living in secret euphoria
With rose-coloured glasses.

Blackened lungs and offbeat hearts.
Screams for viable veins to penetrate.
The moment before complete opaque Desolate.

Blood runs on the ground
To make crimson butterfly wings.

I tiptoe about
Like a ticking clock.
The train of emotion
Takes miles to stop.

I wake and find you fallen
Deep in my heart.
It means we are never apart.

I float towards my mind’s eye
To see all I have left:
Photographic membranes.
A melancholic abyss of what if.

I feel your fingers caress
My auburn hair.
I notice the damp
Ground beneath my feet.
The way the light hits the water,
The peculiar insect-like cloud formations,
The crisp air flowing into our lungs.
I listen to the beat of your heart and
A background bird song.

Time kills every affair.
It is our deeply eternal fossil record.
I might as well be translucent
Like the fighting ice cubes in my gin drink.
Perspective in time can exceed no end.

A Peek at Amsterdam

An Ode to the Memories That Stuck

“Being perfectly attuned to the mystic vibrations of a particular period.”

Whilst living abroad in Amsterdam–how I hate that phrase, I’m living here and there and everywhere all the time, it’s not fixed, there should be no label, I will be as I be!–I was filled with glorious curiosity, spontaneity and passionate drive to…

Go on galavanting bicycle rides through the Rijksmuseum tunnel, so historic and beautiful and buzzed with classical music and tourists;

Meet and converse with a human being from every country, even in different languages, in rain and in sunlight, always finding a way to connect and revel in the travelling experience;

Attend as many museums as possible, the Rijks, Van Gogh, Foam Fotographiemuseum, Anne Frank, Stedelijk, Rembrandt, and thereby cultivating my taste, becoming more reflective, alive and illuminating, one piece of art and glass of rosé at a time;

Drink the best shot of espresso at as many cafés I would soon call my second homes; the ones with brick walls and fine cuisine, with bikes on the walls, and cultured brimming men who know at least 3 languages and have hair steeped in wax; the ones with terraces where you met your friends every day at five to share stories, laughs, bitterballen–a borrel the Dutch would call it;

Let my hair down at many of the fields upon weekends at the mystical magical journeys I call festivals;

Peer at marijuana through a microscope, and puff-puff-pass a massive joint of super lemon haze indica after seeing Gold Panda at Trouw, a nightclub where you sleep, eat, and consume all the deep house your little heart desires;

Rave on the streets dressed in orange for Kings Day and be amongst the thousands of Dutch with pride, cheering on Nederland in the World Cup, HUP HOLLAND HUP.

I did all of these things and copious more. Pure fantasies rushed into my reality and out popped one of the most tremendous years of my life.

Memories made me realize the immense pride I carried in calling this place my home. Laying my territorial boundaries over the city of Amsterdam with my fashionable peacock blue bike, bouncing slightly over the cobblestones and canals, equipped always with a cheap bottle of wine, and a soul from another country at my side, it would take me everywhere for the year to come. Every day I was surpassing the peak of what it meant to be alive.

The vibe–it’s there and it’s perfect.

Gezellig (a Dutch word that has no literal English translation-the closest is a ‘cozy atmosphere’).

Wouldn’t it be a whole bottle of travellers love if you comment your travel experiences below… Feel free and be free, friends! And most important of all, TRAVEL & LOVE!

© 2013 – 2015 Ms. Taylor Waver. All Rights Reserved.

Align

//

Lingering thoughts blow through the wind,

And stop to enigmatically twist and turn.

/

Because they are the ripe fruits

In the never ending valley of brain waves.

/

Forever like kisses from the clouds,

And coffee cups stained with lipstick.

/

Red as burning retinas

In a flash of remembrance.

/

An incessant mystery tantalizing reality.

//

within the wilderness.

//

The walk of life is not about accumulating abundance but rather the walk itself. Simply enjoy it.

The crunch beneath your feet, the blooming wild flowers, the animals peeking out for a second or even perching on a tree for you to watch, like a blue heron of sorts. Your toes dipping in the water to realize you are entering someone else’s home.

It is only until that moment that you realize that a moment is your life—this, right now—you will understand and treat every preceding moment with a look of pure awe and imagination.

Like a wave rushing towards you saying, “Let’s flow”

This is when your true colours shine and you become a whirlwind of creation and love.

//

IF SOMETHING BURNS YOUR SOUL WITH PURPOSE AND DESIRE, IT’S YOUR DUTY TO BE REDUCED TO ASHES BY IT. ANY OTHER FORM OF EXISTENCE WILL BE YET ANOTHER DULL BOOK IN THE LIBRARY OF LIFE —CHARLES BUKOWSKI