ambedo n. a kind of melancholic trance in which you become completely absorbed in vivid sensory details—raindrops skittering down a window, tall trees leaning in the wind, clouds of cream swirling in your coffee—which leads to a dawning awareness of the haunting fragility of life

(via sweetfayetanner)

I believe giving friends, families, and strangers opportunities are what makes a good person. Success should be shared and should be handled amongst those who deem responsible to sharing that success. It pains me so much witnessing someone hide an opportunity from someone else simply because they want all the credit or they want to be the only one who stands successful. 
If it’s a competition, that is understandable, but even competitions are superficial compared to life’s opportunities.
I would like to say almost half of my success comes from what people have given me. It is so humbling and appreciated. I can only do so much for them. Sometimes, when an opportunity rises and is able to shared, I try my best to get as many people to share it with me. While some appreciate it and reciprocate another event or position, others do not. 
Here’s the thing, people do know when someone else is hiding an opportunity, and although it is bothersome, they do not want to impose. It is one’s choice to be selfish or kind. But that choice is karmic.  

(via anonymouslemon)

“The morning wind forever blows, the poem of creation is uninterrupted; but few are the ears that hear it.” – Henry David Thoreau

            My summers primarily included staying up to have the nightly wind as one of my visitors on my balcony. I live on the third story of what is a plain brown apartment complex. I believe everyone who lives in this apartment building are like bees – as what we do is try to be productive and manage to live in a compact area for a certain amount of years. The balconies create a difference between the bees and my neighbors. While bees and their hives are, also work and sleep, human beings who rent with the luxury of having a balcony can escape, for a moment, but never escape so far. For the summers, I would always stay on my balcony, watching the drunken slurs find their way to home – seeing women cry and men laugh. I like watching them, but sometimes humans are too much. When the sun rises, my irises becomes immersed in the pink blush that merge with the sky, and the sister Night wind carries off to the West while her brother Morning wind shares the salts from the Lynn Marsh. I am showered with the Earth’s cologne, and I am tempted on venturing beyond my balcony, beyond my hive, beyond myself. 
            The Lynn Marsh is what is called. It is what borders Revere and Lynn and it is a Marsh. Surprisingly enough, it used to be a trail until much of the Marsh became dehumanized and very few have visited since. I enjoy visiting rather than being the host to one of nature. I like intruding the Marsh the way the wind intrudes my ears, and the sun intrudes my eyes. It became a habit to bring books and pens as I visited during the early hours of the day. My rendezvous with this Marsh has become so common and yet so quiet. From what I had felt, we were one. It was all golden, it was all quiet besides the scratching of my pend and the dry kisses with my finger on the page. There were numerous birds that lived in the Marsh: Cranes, Crows, Ravens, Robins, Chickadees, Cardinals. Their languages were none of my own, but I have learned to identify them through the summers, and they were only such a flattering background to my stay. 
            One day, an unidentified bird disturbed the Marsh. Amongst us all, we peered somewhere—anywhere in all directions trying to find this bird. We were robbed from the morning’s peace, but not because this bird was loud and aggressive to the ear, but because it’s chirping—or rather gawking, was so horrifyingly foreign and strange. In the 1973 Exorcist film, Father Damian Karrass and Father Merrin discover Regan MacNeil, the thirteen-year-old child who has been possessed by the devil, would be speaking dead Latin in six different tones of voices all at once. From soft, to loud, to low and high, this bird’s chirp was equivalent to that of the possessed Regan MacNeil’s dead Latin. Nature is a way of showing God’s creation; but most importantly, proof of his existence, but this bird proves the devil’s existence as well. 
            I first heard it while (ironically) re-reading To Kill a Mockingbird. I was at the part of Atticus’s speech given in the courthouse when the bird squawked or maybe shrieked…or something around that term. My knuckles became whiter as my thin skin tightened due to my instinctual manner to close the book and “book it.” I wait again, to see if this bird was of my imagination. What frustrates me the most to this day is that I still never saw this bird, and though its voice is still apparent in my head, it’s image is absent. I heard it again. Somehow, the Marsh became colder – the floor was not as bright anymore. Eyes wide terrified, I left. With no regrets and with all due respect, not a sigh for my departure with the Marsh.  To this day, I recount the unsoundly mount of horror this bird created, but no description will ever be able to surpass my imagination from a journal:

            “I imagine this bird to be black, raven-like but not as elegant. 
            It’s eyes far larger than a generic bird and far more vulnerable. 
            The bird’s claws are dark blue, large, and dull. 
            But the scariest of my imagination was that it’s beak looks completely normal until it opens.  
            With a bird’s beak, there is that parting in both sides and front that can allow you to tell that when it separates, there is only a top beak and a                         bottom beak.          
            I imagine has four partings that come from the corners and down/up to the center.
            When it opens its mouth, it opens wide to an almost circular opening, appearing    it’s black tongue. 
            The bird would have a right, left, top, and bottom beak(s). 

At one point, I would dream about this bird, and then sometimes, I would cry when the sun would rise. It has gotten to that point where I was enveloped into my own imagination and felt like a little girl seeing an inanimate object’s shadow in a dark room. It was the darkest spot of my summer, but I have only learned from it. Nature is one such versatile. It cannot be only butterflies and bunnies that spring with rainbows. It is unexplainable and imaginable horror that proves one’s worth on the Earth.