On Moving On…


I don’t remember much of last winter. I was too buried in grief colder than any squall. The sharp bite of bitter wind was a welcome distraction from the sickness of my heart.

I put all the things he gave me in the back of my closet, not brave enough to throw them in the trash but not bold enough to keep them around either. Like all bad memories, I hoped they would just fade away.

I found things enough to keep me busy during the days, but the nights were filled with inescapable loops of all the things I could have done better. Of all the things I might have done wrong.

I don’t remember the first day after January 7th that I didn’t see his face every time I closed my eyes, but it must have come. Yes, it must have. Because the sick sinking feeling in my chest now feels like a faded picture.

I grasped for anything that might save me. Desperately, I entered entropy and let the world devour me with new experiences. And yet only within myself did I finally find healing.

For a late blooming flower, I found that each bruise he gave me wilted my tender petals. But those scars will grow a stronger bud come spring. Every beautiful rose wonts to be plucked. And every summer they bloom again.

Moving on is all about compartmentalizing. The pain never goes away. You just box it up and bury it somewhere in your mind and try to think of better things to come.

Wishing stops working after a while, when you realize that people don’t work like shooting stars. They don’t fall on command, and they have pasts that they can never outrun.

I walked into something karmic, and fuck that’s unfortunate, because you were the start of my journey, and I was only a distraction from yours.

Sometimes I remember the way he rolled his eyes while I drove us home one December night, and in that moment I knew there was no saving this. And it took all my strength of will not to burst into tears as we ate our blue cheese burgers while we tried to think of something, anything to talk about.

Here’s some prose from last winter, about my broken heart and learning to move on after that.

Bad things happen in life, but we shouldn’t view those as negatives. We learn much more from pain than we do from success. And sometimes a broken heart is just what we need in order to transform our lives into everything we’ve ever dreamed of. So thank those who have taught you the tough lessons, and pray that they someday find the healing they need as well. Forgive them, and find peace.

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Take care, and don’t forget to take your medications!



In Case You Missed It | 2018 Blog Post Recap


As this year comes to a close, it is a perfect opportunity to look back at the progess we’ve all made and the things we have created. I have gone back through my blog and reread all of my posts. I am still in disbelief that I have been able to stick with it for so long! I’ve amassed over 62k words just in ten short months of blogging here at Antiquarius. Below is what I feel are some of my best posts. Some of the newer followers here may have missed some of these older posts.

Please give them a visit if they spark your interest!

The Benefits Of Daily Meditation



I Am



Loneliness In Adulthood


Things Become Okay



Productivity Tips



Bullet Journaling For Beginners



Forgive Yourself



How To Make A Motivation Board



If you have any posts you’d like to share from your own blog during the year of 2018, link them down below!

If you want to see more content from a twenty-something living her (moderately boring) life, be sure to follow or subscribe through email so that I can bug you at all hours of the day and night about stuff and things!

Take care, and don’t forget to take your medications!

Nothing Is Okay

“I wish him a lifetime of safety and platitudes, a soundtrack of fluorescent lights humming. I do not wish him me, though. Never me again.”

Dry Cake Wishes and Tap Water Dreams

Rachel Wiley speaks to everyone who has ever been made to feel like they weren’t good enough in a past relationship. And she does it in the most comical and sarcastic way possible. She manages to capture the not-quite-hatred of her ex in an onslaught of mediocre wishes for him on his birthday. She doesn’t wish him death, destruction, and ruin. She doesn’t wish him pain or revenge. She wishes him fluorescent lights and tasteless oatmeal breakfasts, because his reason for ending things with her was because she was “too intense”. Therefore, the poem that follows is anything but intense. It’s savagely normal, and comfortingly comical. More importantly, it details the importance of letting things go, of moving on and holding no grudges against those who may have hurt us. Her poem is not an angry call to arms or a swearing off of all men. At the end of her poem, she speaks of finding someone else, someone better suited for her, and she wishes him the life that he wants too, albeit a painfully boring one.

Button Poetry

If you like this poem, you can purchase her poetry book, Nothing Is Okay from Button Poetry, a publisher of diverse poets who come from many different backgrounds. Button Poetry also hosts live readings, which help to capture the unique voices of these poets in breathtaking performances. Use the code “secondchance” for 25% off your order!

Haiku Horizons | Weekly Prompt: “Smart”

I have decided to play with the meaning of the word “Smart” for these Haikus. My theme for both is femme fatale, the women with blood red lips and sharp eyes, high fashion and a bitter vendetta to seize the world by its jewels and never let go. Cheers to the badass bitches that take what they want and leave the rest sweating with nerves and desire.

4a : mentally alert : bright
b : knowledgeable
c : shrewd

He writhed in her stare

As if she could see his thoughts

Such a knowing look

6a : neat, trim
b : stylish or elegant in dress or appearance
c (1) : appealing to sophisticated tastes
(2) : characteristic of or patronized by fashionable society

Heels clacked on asphalt

Sharp and loud as bullet shots

Always dressed to kill

Haiku Horizons is a blog that hosts a weekly haiku prompt every Sunday. Visit their page to participate and write a haiku of your own.

Take care, and don’t forget to take your medications!

Pages And Poetry

Ever since I was eight years old I wanted to grow up to be a cigarette
Because it was the only thing my father could never abandon.

The Heart of a Comet, Pages Matam

I would love to post a picture of him, but they are all copywrite and I don’t want to steal anyone’s photography, so go google him!

In the spring, I was fortunate enough to attend a performance that would open my eyes to a different world, and a different creative soul than any I’ve ever known. The show was called The Sweet Spot, a burlesque show of appropriately risqué content, and the creative soul was Pages Matam. At the time I didn’t know his name, all I knew was his words, and they struck me someplace deep; a place most artists seldom reach. The show was entertaining, inspiring, and left me feeling a high for days. Of course, I am a huge fan of anything even remotely perverse, so the sexual content of the show was already enough to get me hooked. There were dancers, a comedian, and live readings. But when this man took the stage, the crowd worshipped his performance. He worked the microphone like a sensual prophet, lighting up the audience in a way the other performers could not. I went home after the show with his words running through my mind, endlessly. His poetry was eloquent and so powerfully raw.

Although it was not at first apparent through a quick google search, I soon discovered his Instagram through The Sweet Spots‘s page. The poets name was Pages Matam, and I immediately became a fan. Shortly after doing some research, I decided to order his poetry book, The Heart of a Comet. The thoughts expressed in the book did not disappoint. Written as a homage to his stepson, The Heart of a Comet was a collection of words from his heart, spoken with emotion about his own childhood and difficulties growing up. He writes about family, romance, and the sort of father he would be.

When an artist can make you feel what they feel, without ever having experienced what they have experienced, that is the sign of true art. So many of his lines were so powerful, like being slapped across the face, that I would stop mid-poem and reread them until they were fully marinated in my mind. I was struck with the notion that this is what separates the artistic greats from the amateurs; they have the ability to fearlessly say exactly what they want to say in a precise fashion. I often pick up poetry books that try to twist the words into meaningless gibberish to try and sound edgy, or plump their poetry up with purple prose that sound exactly like the last three poets you read.

But Pages’ poetry is different.

He has things to say. And he says them fearlessly.

It is artists like Pages that reignite the hearts of dead poets, of dormant painters, of the uninspired. I think that art is something like a spark that must be passed among the creative souls of this world. If it goes out, art will die, but as long as artists like Pages continue to speak from the heart and use their own unique voice, that creative spark will never go out. How refreshing it feels to be inspired once again by an artist.

I am


I Am, A Poem

I am a jazz heart, slow rainy rhythms and black silk stockings.

I am late night rendezvous, the girl you never get to know completely.

I am the sound of heels on cobbled streets, the flutter of fear before a first kiss.

I am steady logic, cold heart, warm hands; gentle eyes and big plans.

I am the bite of red wine.

I am the shadow thoughts. Insidious kindness.

I am dark ocean waves that carry the moon’s reflection no closer to shore.

I am purple orchids, pale lips, green eyes.

I am dark blue.

I am a winding line that snakes around the straight path.

I am cats claws hidden beneath soft paws.

I am melancholy.

I am the warm glow of a street light on empty city streets.

I am the skyline, peaceful until you get too close and begin to see all my cracks and crimes.

I am the scratch of a violin bow in the echoes of very old music halls that carry the ghosts of luxury within their walls.

I am watery and willowy, prismatic like the many edges of a diamond with too many sides.

I am dimly lit corridors that lead to intoxicating pleasures.

I am silent stares from across the room.

I am foundation; strong on my own, but incomplete.

I am quiet power.

I am.

Who are you?