There is a really lovely picture of the little girl and her brother when they were about three and four, respectively. Each has impossibly blonde hair. So airy it looks as if it might float off of their developing craniums at any second. If it weren’t for their slightly tanned skin from days spent playing outside you might think albinism runs in the family. In the photo the children are standing up in the mountains of Alaska, an area called Hatcher’s Pass. Each of them is holding their own bag of blueberries and all around them is green green green. The brother is smiling, no, laughing, in the direction of the camera. On his right hand is a splint from when he slammed his hand in a sliding minivan door. The girl is peering into her bag of blueberries, her small red lips pursed in some sort of halfhearted protest. It is a lovely picture.
The girl I am now loves that picture. She keeps it on a shelf on her desk and she sees it every time her phone screen lights up. There’s not another one like it. Everything about it is Alaskan. The mountains, the blueberry picking, the grimy clothes that her mother stuffed them into. It is a lovely picture. It doesn’t try too hard. Every picture the girl take these days seems to be trying to prove something. The ones she snaps of the beaches of North Carolina are an attempt to convince herself and others of how entirely happy she is to live in such a beautiful place. How brave she was to move so far away from home. The pictures she takes of Alaska come off as pretentious, an effort to keep up the image of “Girl From Alaska”.
I love the picture of the little girl and her brother. It is honest. A girl and her brother: born and raised in Alaska. Eating their way through a mountainside of blueberries because that is what kids who were born and raised in Alaska do.
What will you do when something stops you?
What will you say to the world?
What will you be when it all comes crashing
Down on you little girl?
What would you do if you lost your beauty?
How would you deal with the light?
How would you feel if nobody chased you?
What if it happened tonight?
How would you cope if the world decided to make you suffer for all that you were?
How could you dance if no-one was watching and you couldn’t even get off the floor?
What would you do if you couldnt even feel, not even pitiful pain
How would you deal with the empty decisions, eating away at the days?
Wondering how frequently you have to stalk someone on social media until the company is legally obligated to notify said that person that they are being heavily monitored, aka: stalked.
"Inside It All Feels The Same"by Explosions In The Sky
Music has a way of reading what’s inside you, and then splashing it out in front of you on the canvas of your day. These are my guts this day.