so, I changed my mind.

After only three blog entries here, I've decided, I need to change my tone. I'm here to write about life and myself and my dreams and about things that matter to me and that make me laugh and inspire me.

I'm 29 and a half, and my goal is to write a book by 35, but I don't know where I want to begin. Maybe writing here will be a start.

(I wanted to write more details about who I am, but I'm horrible at writing neat little descriptive bios. Besides, if you care to read this, you'll learn more and more about me and my opinions on life day by day.)

a writer is a visionary.

I'm not always silly.

Like in these tiny moments when I'm inspired, I'm very serious and level-headed for that moment. I read this and thought, "I want to one day be on this list." I still have time, don't I? I'd like to be there, but can't design products or furniture (it's okay, I'm at peace with the "c" word.), nor am I an architect or a holistic healer. I wonder if a writer fits in the "visionary" category. I'd say yes, undoubtedly.

I want to be there.

pretty dresses

Four dresses hanging on a silver rod in her small, lofted bedroom, next to a dozen cotton shirts, all the same--with cap sleeves that cover the shoulder just slightly.

Colorful glass bottles adorn the window sill and dusty ballerina prints deck the faded brick walls. Her artwork, photos taken in Paris--a graveyard, the Eiffel Tower are just a few--lay against the floor and on the shelves, neighbors to books on Van Gogh and Vermeer, American Ruins, and one on Paris--the city where she found her beauty.

Cigarettes, a mug, mail, a laptop, files made her just like me, but everything else is simply, distinctively Hannah. Well, things are also there that don't belong, a football, a t-square--we joked about those.

This place is a chapter, at least one, in her memoirs. I'm sure of it. These are the remains, or rather the keepsakes. Only the things she has loved, only the things she needs. All the things I adore about her.

sometimes...

...things are exactly what they seem. When your eyes are open, you'll wonder why you ever allowed them to be closed.