The Brown Eyed Dreamer

'Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.' William Wordsworth


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The First Night

All I can remember of those rooms,
Was a haze that fell along the walls,
And laughter that rose and fell like
Confetti bursts at the final bell toll.
I remember smiles wide as sunlight,
And kisses from foreign, familiar faces-
Promises that friendships made
Would not be forgotten.

But most of all I remember
The soft, sweet certainty that
Told me even if every other night
Of these 365 memories is laced
With bittersweet regret;
This night would remain the beacon
Of a beautiful,
Wonderful,
New Year.

Morning all! This post was quickly scribbled about five minutes ago as I’m walking to work so I apologise in advance if it makes no sense. 2013 for me was a wonderful year, and I was fortunate enough to spend the transition into 2014 with some of my most favourite people.
In regards to 2014, I can only hope it brings me good music, good food and good memories with the very best friends. I hope you all had a fantastic New Year and that this year will be the very best yet. Have a wonderful day!

~thebrowneyeddreamer


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We’ll fall in love with the memories we’ll make.

And someday I’m going to leave this place and see the world and I’m going to fall in love. Not with a person, no- that kind of love is too bittersweet, too heartbreakingly fragile.

I’m going to fall in love with buildings and pavements and old rusting street signs pointing me to places I’ve yet to explore. I’m going to fall in love with sunsets and sunrises, and those precious melancholy moments between dusk and dawn where reality slips away into shadows and dreams appear. I’m going to fall in love over half-finished cups of coffee and faded musty books that still hold the imprints of fingers stroking lovingly over their dog-eared pages. I’m going to fall in love with the feeling of sand falling through my fingers and the sound of the ocean in a storm. I’m going to fall in love with the creaking of a house in the night-time and the endless patter of rain against my window. I’m going to fall in love with the people I meet and the places I see, the sounds I hear and the foods I taste.

I’m going to fall in love, but not with you, with everything this world can offer me.


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‘You know I’d never hurt you.’

‘You know I’d never hurt you.’

There’s something so hauntingly bittersweet about that line. Humans are fragile creatures; we bruise and scar like our hearts are made of paper slowly shredding into confetti. We know how vulnerable we are, but we still clumsily hand over our souls to every open palm, only to be forced to stand and watch emotions crushed and bled through menacing fingers. And yet… there’s still a childish curiosity that lingers between our ribcage, a hopeful naivety that flutters and begs to break free. Trust. Hope. It reminds you of laughter, smiles- those memories you tried in vain to suppress because it’s safer to forget, easier to pretend. Love. Peace. It strokes your poor, beaten heart and whispers: ‘Maybe this time will be different.’

Strain to hear it above the chaos of your cluttered mind. Promises break like rusted chains and sometimes people hurt you even when they didn’t want to.That whisper is the sole reminder that things can be better- wounds heal and people can change. Sometimes you have to listen to that tiny whisper in the dark, and just try. Sometimes you just have to take a leap of faith across the chasm of doubts we call life and pray that someone will be there to catch you on the other side. And someday someone will catch you- and maybe they’ll hurt you sometimes, but you know they’ll heal you too.


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The Red-Haired Storyteller

I saw her today for the first time in a while. She passed me on the street, and before we were close I could see her eyes flicker with recognition she tried to hide, a quick blush falling to her cheeks; she remembered, but she was trying not to show it.

Suddenly, she turned and crossed the road, her steps gaining pace as she put distance between us. I stopped and watched her anxious departing back for a few seconds before turning to move on, and for a while I forgot about her.
It was only when I was sitting absent-mindedly by the duck pond much later that her face flickered before me. While the sun glinted through cracks in the leaves and spilt dappled drops of light across my shirt, I thought of the girl with the bright red hair, the most magnificent storyteller I had ever seen.
She was a girl with a mouth like a crafter’s wheel, spinning enchanting stories laced with gold and wearing them proudly. But when we held these garments to the sunlight they did not glint, but disintegrated in the sun. Nothing more than cheap metal, we watched her tales rust and crumble in our hands.
She was a girl whose stories glided out of her mouth like a midsummer’s breeze, gentle and enticing. They carried the sweet, soft smell of adventure, enticing us with curious eyes that we blindly followed. But they only ever led us to a dead-end path where adventure lay battered and bruised in the soil, an abandoned play-thing from a long finished game.
She was a girl with eyes that glistened when she spoke and danced like fireflies in a sea of midnight every time she opened her mouth. Her stories were like precious gems that she held to her heart like a mother, but when we teased them from her prised fingers, we found they were fakes, only real within her own head.
This girl created extravagant stories like an artist designs their finest piece or a writer fabricates their fantasy world. She painted oceans and starlit skies for us, and for a while so convincingly, until the bulbs began to burst and we realised we were only staring at a faded ceiling. She brought to life a beautiful world that we tried to live in, but we knew this world was a lie even if she didn’t realise it.
I skimmed my shoe across the surface of the water and sighed. The girl had gone too far now; her stories were too impossible, her tongue too powerful. In her constant chase of adventure she’d fallen onto a broken path that was too high to reach even if we’d wanted to. But she was ignorant in her chase, skipping along over cracks and humming a simple melody to herself. And all the while she stared hypnotised at her fake ceiling sky, oblivious to the crumbling path below her. It was only a matter of time before the foundations of her stories caved in, and she drowned in a pit of lies before we ever had a chance of saving her.


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Block.

I miss writing. It used to be that a pencil never left my hand, that ideas always fled into my head. I’d write whenever I could find time, and whenever I didn’t really have time too. Characters, plots, journeys and worlds would flood from my mind and spill onto paper, filling page after page of the cheap notebooks I bought from the store. I loved building a  story until it almost become a world around me, with most nights spent scribbling down everything I could think of until I could get my characters to the end of their adventure. I miss the thrill of new ideas, the hours spent in the corners of libraries and cafés planning and the satisfaction of finishing.

These days, there’s not enough time, not enough energy. School builds walls around my daydreams, reminding me of my responsibility to do well, of the importance of my future, while all the time my mind scurries like a bird trapped in a cage, willing to escape from studying for subjects I care nothing for. And as all this is happening, a greater wall looms above, dark and menacing, blocking any idea from coming to me. I feel trapped, bored, yet too exhausted to make a change.

But I swear, this drift is only temporary, and I will be back. A mind cannot stay trapped forever, and soon the shackles of exams will be broken and I’ll be free to spend hours filling pages with every trace of my thoughts. Soon I can go back to the one thing I love most. And when I get back, maybe the sparks will ignite and ideas will burst back into life, and I can carry on as before; a dreamer.

That’s all I can hope for, for now.


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Ramblings

I love how  you speak. Words roll gently out of your mouth and slow dance around our heads like the ripples of firefly ashes that glide from a dying flame. Your voice wraps itself around my mind and lingers long after silence envelopes the spaces between you and I, your lips whispering sweet nothings in my ear. Your words, always the right ones, like you took the time to pick them out for me. before letting them escape your mouth.

It could not be more different from how I speak. My mouth is a babbling brook, words frothing out of my throat and tumbling clumsily through the silence.  They gather like the final wave of the sea, crashing ashore as words slop over each other and muddle together as they spill out of my lips. My chatter cartwheels around your gentle flame in excitable, graceless bounds. Before I can stop them, they plummet from my mouth and pierce through the silence, never the right words, never what I wanted to say.

But your words are there to meet my words, to calm them into a quiet, ebbing shore. Your soft voice is there to lull my nervous high-pitched ramblings into sweet serenity. A few simple words to slow my cluttered mess of a mind, a few of the right words, the best words. Something in the way you speak enchants me, and I’m left mesmerised by the way in which you speak, the beauty that lies in how you talk.


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People Exist.

It’s a weird feeling, the sudden realisation of the people around you. Not the crowds of emotionless faces you see on streets pushing past other emotionless faces, the lines of impatient frowns waiting for their coffees in a crowded café on a Wednesday afternoon- people. It’s strange to come to the realisation that these aren’t just faces and bodies and obstacles and hold-ups and filled space, these are people. And not just any people, people with a story, just like me yet so unlike me.

It’s strange to think that all around me, there are literally a billion stories going on, a billion paths being walked and uncovered. There are people living and experiencing and journeying in this adventure we call life, and it has nothing to do with me. There’s you, for instance. Right now, you’re reading this post, but afterwards, your life story is going to continue and I’m going to have no idea what will happen next. After I post this, my story will continue, but you’ll have no idea what will happen. We exist in the same universe but never acknowledged each other until right this second, and in a few seconds we could forget that again and carry on existing on our own, forgetting everybody else in an instant.

We’re all pinpricks of light floating through a chasm of darkness, so focused on our own trails we forget to focus on the mosaic of light around us and why it’s there. I always knew there were people around me, but I never thought about the fact that these people lived. That man in front of me at the check-out has friends and family, hopes, dreams, allergies, regrets. That girl who was waiting in the car park across from me has a story I have no idea about that she’s still working out for herself. All these faces I see and forget within moments, that form the backdrop to my life story, those faces have names and emotions and their own stories. And me? I’m just someone else’s background to their great story, another fading star in a sea of dark.