Why do we write "About Me"s anyway?

Just close your eyes,
The sun is going down.
You'll be alright,
No one can hurt you now.
Come morning light
You and I'll be safe and sound.

Hi, I'm Danika.

I'm obsessed with medeival weaponary and with all things related to Sherlock Holmes. I sometimes wear ballgowns around my room while I clean because I like the way they make me feel. I think pickles whole or sliced in half are delicious but the ridged ones they put on burgers are absolutely disgusting.

 I play Quidditch, I knit, I sing at inappropriate times. I've travelled to seven countries and am still counting.

Sometimes I don't say a word all day simply because I don't feel like it.

I'm the girl you see dancing around on the sidewalk and who reads while walking and who thinks chocolate covered strawberries are God's gift to mankind.

Nice to meet you. Let's be friends.

Kiss quick

I've got a line out the door
Who all think they can save me.
One by one they lay the world at my feet,
One by one they drive me crazy.

Inspiration strikes at odd times. One minute I'm studying for a Spanish test, the next I've written a story about a man with a terminal disease. Granted it's nearly 4 a.m., and no one else is here to edit, so it may be awful. But I'm rather fond of it, so I thought I'd share. I'd love to hear your thoughts, for better or worse!

He smells like soap, and a fire that’s just gone out, and the polished leather of office chairs. When I’m settled like this, nestled against his neck sliding down into his once muscular shoulder, I can almost smell something else. Something distinctly more harsh, more medical. Like the sharp stink of stainless steel trays and bad microwaved meals. With my face pressed tight to his angles and our haphazard hearts beating against each other, he feels like a clay doll. Fragile.

Our hearts are fighting a little duel, pulses racing out of sync. Are they fighting to get nearer, or to push us apart? I can never tell.

My fingers brush over his clay frame, his impossibly fragile self. They linger over his heart, and press, and seek the massage of the blood pumping through his chest. Seeking reassurance. I imagine the cells, round little red globs carrying bits of him all around, straining towards my fingers, seeking out a fellow life, rushing towards the shared contact before breaking away on another, more vital task. I imagine other things, too, swimming through the darkness. I push them away.

I brush my hand over my lips, trying to force my life and my love into the grooves on the tips of my fingers. Grooves that carry meaning. Furrows that tell stories. It’s a foolish thought, a night wisp, and one that sunlight would easily burn to ash, but here in the quiet darkness it takes root. I try. I bring my hand back down to his chest, pressing it flat and feeling the stories squeeze against the rush of his heart. Stories. That’s not really true. One story. One wish. Heal.

His breathing gives an erratic little jump.

I let my hand fall away and fight back a stab angry grief. Foolish. How could emotion and good intent and fiercely positive thoughts focused through overworked life-grooves accomplish what modern medicine and technology and all the comforts of a new century could not? I roll away from his angles and push myself back into my pillow. The worn cotton covering is soothing against my tired face, my hair draped haphazardly underneath me. It will be in an impossible snarl in the morning. But it’s late now, and the smooth seduction of bed sheets and the heady weight of a winter comforter is a welcome salve for my sore soul.

John hasn’t moved since we went to bed four hours ago, except to nestle a little further down into the coverings when I roll away. The primal need for warmth. The childhood search for comfort. It’s  kind of funny, picturing John as a little kid dragging around a blanket, fighting to keep it for as long as he possibly can, until it's worn into pieces too small to put back together.  

It isn’t really funny.

He looks so peaceful, lying there. If I just glance, just glance and then look away, I can almost pretend that nothing’s wrong. Almost. No matter how hard I try, though, I always catch the short little breaths that haunt his sleep, the way they rasp through his tired system on a fruitless quest to fix him, give him life, keep him here just a little bit longer. Nor can I avoid the too-bright flicker of a pulse through his too-pale skin, or the way his too-thin frame barely makes a dent in the mattress.

Three letters. Three little letters that tore our lives apart.

AML.

It's just another war

I'm just a step away,
I'm just a breath away,
Losing my faith today,
Falling off the edge today.

It's been a long time since I announced I had awesome ideas for break, and I apologize. I had some big plans for this site over the past few months, but unfortunately I just couldn't seem to find enough hours in the day to bring them to fruition.

After Spring Break I dove into extracurriculars and academics and preparation for this year. I spent the summer working three jobs to pay my way to Eastern Europe for the month of July (for more about our amazing adventures, check out the group blog here) and prepping for my debut as a Resident Assistant nine days after my return to the States. And, as a few of you may know, being an RA is a 24/7 job that is both one of the most fufilling and exhausting experiences in existance, so I've been kept plenty busy here at school.

All of the wonderful opportunites I've had, however, have left me absolutely drained and exhausted. I have two up-to-date planners but I can't seem to keep on top of the workload. It's not that I can't handle it; I've done that before and been just fine. It's that I've not stopped going since Spring Break long enough to get fully on top of things.

Which brings me to now, studying for my first test of the year (today at 1 pm. Eep!) and absolutely freaking out. I'm in the home stretch - come Thursday, I'll finally be able to breathe! - and I'm eternally distracted, so my patience with myself and others is wearing thin. Because of that, I'd like to formally apologize.

If I've snapped at you, if I'm going to snap at you or if in any way you feel upset by my lack of common courtesy over the next two days, I'm sorry. Keep a list. I'll make it up to you.

Love,

At least I'm finally on Pottermore


I've gotta fight today,
To live another day...
I'm not superhuman,
My voice will be heard today.

Do you hear me?

I'm talking to you.
Across the water, across the deep blue ocean.

It's been a quote kind of week.
I found this one hiding at the bottom of the "Favorite Quotations" section of a friend's Facebook page:

"You may not be her first, her last, or her only. She loved before she may love again. But if she loves you now, what else matters? She's not perfect - you aren't either, and the two of you may never be perfect together but if she can make you laugh, cause you to think twice, and admit to being human and making mistakes, hold onto her and give her the most you can. She may not be thinking about you every second of the day, but she will give you a part of her that she knows you can break - her heart. So don't hurt her, don't change her, don't analyze and don't expect more than she can give. Smile when she makes you happy, let her know when she makes you mad, and miss her when she's not there."

~Bob Marley

In other news, Spring Break is in one week! Get ready, because I have a plan.

Boy I hear you in my dreams,
I feel your whisper across the sea.

Painted windows on the skyline

I know the distance it takes
to sail around the world.
I've done it many times
on seas of Van Gogh green.

"Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads."

~Rosemary Urquico

I'll be home before you know I'm gone.

You don't take a photograph.

You ask, quietly, to borrow it.

 Last weekend in honor of Martin Luther King Day (and a three-day break!) I drove to Edmond, Oklahoma, to visit Amanda and see what college life was like outside the TCU bubble. I arrived at about 11:30 a.m., after waking up far too early and berating myself for deciding this was a good idea. I parked and got comfortable, and within a few hours of meeting her roommate and a few other friends I was invited to join them in a photo shoot the next day.

The shoot was to try and imitate the haute coture style of dress and motion found in fashion magazines worldwide using an avant garde thrift-store approach. Because I had missed the initial planning session the day before, I hadn't had a chance to go thrifting and prepare, and I was hesitant about joining in. Nonetheless, I borrowed pieces from all the girls, added crazy makeup, and drove downtown with them in nervous anticipation.

In all our preparations there was one little thing we forgot - at the same time we arrived for the shoot, Edmond was preparing to begin their MLK day parade. And by 'preparing' I mean people were everywhere. We got so many stares we considered simply joining the parade! We'd probably have attracted less notice. But unfortunately, four inch heels aren't really conducive to uneven streets and mile long walks so we stuck with our original plan.

Strange looks aside, the shoot was a ton of fun! Here are some of my favorites from the day:

"There are always two people in every picture: the photographer and the viewer." ~Ansel Adams

"Love is often gentle, desire always a rage." ~Mignon McLaughlin

"The soul that sees beauty may sometimes walk alone." ~Johann von Goethe

"If you cannot be a poet, be the poem." ~David Carradine

"Freedom lies in being bold" ~Robert Frost

"Every time you smile at someone, it is an action of love, a gift to that person, a beautiful thing." ~Mother Teresa

"To be natural is such a very difficult pose to keep up." ~Oscar Wilde

"A man who is 'of sound mind' is one who keeps the inner madman under lock and key."  ~Paul Valéry

"Now we see as through a glass darkly, but then, face to face. " ~Anonymous 

"If you do not raise your eyes, you will think that you are the highest point."  ~Antonio Porchia

"Hate must make a man productive. Otherwise one might as well love." ~Karl Kraus

"With the past, I have nothing to do; nor with the future. I live now." ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

All in all we took over 1,000 pictures. Credit goes to Hannah Bingham, Jenny Dahl and Hayley Fisher for being the lovely photographers they are, and for the time and energy they put into editing and uploading. Also, credit to the other models who may have sporadically taken one of these pictures using the ladies' cameras. Thanks for having me!

Breathe

Two a.m. and I'm still awake writing a song.
If I get it all down on paper it's no longer inside of me
threatening the life it belongs to.

I love the night. That it's currently 3:34 a.m. doesn't affect me much. I've been known to suffer through days of fatigue, swearing to myself that I would go to bed early this time, only to be found awake at four a.m. taking a walk through the darkness.

There's something so serenely beautiful, so incredibly calm about walking through the night. It's like all the worries and cares and rush of everyday life stop, just for a little while, and you're the only one left awake to enjoy the still. Maybe it's because I've always been so busy, but I think I value those quiet moments more than anything else in the world.

I've often talked with friends about how, if we could have a super power, we would chose to be able to sleep but not to need it to survive. There's so much time lost in the dark! And yet, if that wish were granted nighttime would cease to be a peaceful, meditative spell and become a reflection of day, hurried and burdened. Would that really be worth it?

As humans, we sometimes forget that between all the overachieving and attempts to attain perfection we need to breathe, to do nothing but let ourselves unwind. Stress, tension, heartaches - they gather and build up inside until you pause and take the time to let them go with your breath.

The smooth velvet of the night sky puts everything in perspective. It's time to let it go.

Just breathe.