1/10/14

In elementary school we use to play this game where we thought that the length of a crease in our palm or pinky finger could tell us how long we’d live or how many kids we’d have.

“You’ll live to be 76, and have 4 kids” she said.

Natalie and I had nothing to fear because our lives would consist of happiness and love. And somehow we were fortune tellers at the age of nine and we had the stars aligned in our favor acting as saviors for each other while we whispered silent prayers to God asking him to make us best friends forever, but apparently forever only lasted until middle school.

It’s now January 2014 and my hands… my hands, they hold story lines, they’ve worn and calloused, they’ve scarred and torn, carrying expectations like a balancing act, sweating and slipping until they can’t hold on anymore. They let go in 2009 when I watched my hero die. They let go in 2011 when I was first diagnosed with depression. They let go in 2013 when they determined I had Lyme’s disease and so many other diagnoses that still don’t make sense to me.

But we all carry around these things inside us that no one else can see and it took me seventeen years to realize what they meant when they said the monsters don’t live under your bed.

I remember when the mornings started with the sun rising. I remember when the days ended with the moon shining. I remember how I used to see the world, how I use to live. Now days fade into nights and
nights fade into mornings, what felt like a perfect picture, now looks like a distorted drawing.  To have what feels like a beautiful masterpiece, and to see it bleed, to see all its colors fade, right in front of you, and the only thing you can do is try to paint a new picture, but sometimes it’s hard, when you realize the world doesn’t appreciate art like it use to. They say we’re too young to be this sad, because people need real happiness. The kind that isn’t rolled up and lit. The kind that doesn’t come out of a bottle. The kind that makes your cheeks sore and your stomach ache. The kind that makes you think a little deeper, that makes you feel weightless. The kind that nobody can give you. The kind that you have to find for yourself.

But I’m drowning from information and starving for knowledge. I need to rip your name off my tongue because it no longer tastes sweet. Because I have so many hopes and dreams that have yet to come true, because I’ve never been kissed in a rain storm, because I’ve never gotten a tattoo. Because my names not really Grace Kelly, because Mr. Nelson told me to make a pen name, because I’m standing here in front of you wishing I was back home in the comfort of my own bedroom but instead I’m here speaking from my heart trying to get you to listen to me as if I have something profound to tell you.

But no one said that it was going to be this hard. No one taught a tired soul that if you grip onto broken glass loosely it doesn’t bleed as much. No one said that it was okay to not be okay, so I decided to say nothing.

Love always,

Gabi Israelsen

Air France

    My plane landed on August 23^rd in the Paris, France airport.  It was a bit crowded when the 70 or so tourists unloaded the plane all in search of the tour guide. Little did we know our tour guide was simply an artist in disguise.

   I think we were all tourists at first (even though we’ll never admit it). We needed a map and step by step directions to find our way around Paris. We were too afraid to step over the line or make a wrong turn because it was ingrained into our minds that every question needs an answer, every variable needs a letter, and behind every equal sign there is a solution. But in Paris we learned to “eff that crap!” In Paris we learned that you don’t have to be a kid to go to space camp. In Paris we learned to paint with chalk, write about blocks, and that stealing someone’s crayons is emotionally disturbing so BACK OFF! In Paris we learned that our tour guide was secretly an artist talking about business school like it would actually help you in life. But we all knew Christine would choose Raoul because it’s “logical” right? The Phantom never stood a chance. He was a musical genius who was misunderstood and apparently sane means more to relationships than love these days.

   Our tour guide was disguised as an artist. He taught us religion like there was no anti-Christ. I know it’s sacrilegious but in Paris we learned to speak the truth. In Paris no one cared about grammar, punctuation, or capitalization. In Paris we were artists with an unfinished canvas. 
In Paris we learned to scribble and ramble out our thoughts. In Paris we found ourselves naked while still fully clothed. But on January 10^th everything changes, because our flight leaves a 12:12 at the sound of a lunch bell. Some of us might shed a few tears because Paris was more than just delicious croissants and the Eiffel Tower. Paris is where it rained almost every day, and you know what they say about kissing in the rain. Paris is where the jocks, the hipsters, the cheerleaders, the goths, the brainwashed, the broken, the terrified and the out spoken had completely forgotten about all the stereotypes for 80 minutes every other day. Paris is where we finally learned the difference between being a native and a tourist.

  They say you get “lost in Paris,”

  but somehow,

  somehow I think I was found.