To each, our own.

 Stranger(s)

© Keen Malasarte

“Seeing you again after all these years made me believe a person can fall for someone twice, or possibly even a third time. Just one look. One stare. One encounter at the right time, at the right place. How you can still feel that heart race, even though there’s no longer any chance of ever rekindling any sort of romance because of how events from the past fell and shattered your future. Every single time I see you, it’s like I’m reminded of the love I still have that never really left.”

—   Keen Malasarte, Sometimes I wish you would say something. Sometimes I wish you never look away and walk the other way.

bottledsalt said: I'm sure you get this question a lot, but where do you get your inspiration from? Sometimes, I feel that my real life experiences are not living up to my imagination - I want so much out of life and recently, I've found myself sitting alone with a blank notebook and pen, but all I can think about are the experiences I'm missing out on instead of devoting my thoughts to creating words. I don't know how to fix this craving and I'm afraid I'll never be able to.

Honestly, I get blocks too. Not just as a writer, but as a person. I feel like sometimes there’s just no depth or excitement in my life that somehow it almost feels stale and stagnant. There are days, very much like yours, where I stare at empty spaces and not be able to breathe out or write a single word and that’s okay. It happens. Many of us aren’t born with the best of luck, experience-wise, and I guess that’s where imagination comes in. You don’t always have to experience what you write, as long as you have the capability to feel and imagine yourself living through the things that you write about. And that’s always the most important part.

I feel like my lack of experience stems from me being so busy, and so distant from people that I choose not to let myself dwell and actually go through the act of doing. And I guess that’s where my inspiration comes in. Most of the time, I write about the things that could have been, you know? I pride myself as a great re-writer. Sometimes I think about the past, and let myself write about how great it would be if I could make it so much better. I write about a memory, and sometimes I picture myself being bold and courageous and actually trying something different for a change.

See, writing could be someone’s stress relief. But for others, it could also be a way for them to be the person they never got to be. Even if it is just fiction.

Riverside

But we still laughed 
despite perspective, 
still met half way 
until those blinking lights 
of the city 
became too much 
to bare.
Good morning New York!Visit me today at Iconic Café, 238 lafayetteJust take the 6 to Spring Street and we’re right around the corner. 
All the noise turn white, 
as your words echo through 
my city below. 
I’d like to believe 
you speak of a language 
so foreign only I 
can make sense of.
El Rey Coffee Bar & Luncheonette
We’re exactly alike. So alike that we’d never work, but I can’t help that I miss you either way.

Turned my brother into my model after a sweaty afternoon, jogging around our neighborhood park. It’s that time of year again.

It came softly  then all at once,  the same way  goodbye only sinks in  when the door shuts.

“And even when you ignore me, I’ll never lose interest.”

—   ten-word-story, #76

“With every choice you make,
I hope you consider
whether it mends or breaks
someone else.”

—   Keen Malasarte, Thoughtfulness isn’t taught, but you learn after the hurt.
And as I compare your hands with mine, there’s this sudden sadness that overcome me.The kind of sadness that’s almost comforting. These hands made me, and molded me. These hands held me, and comforted me. Through the times I failed to appreciate me, these hands caressed me through nights spent wrapped in watery eyes and soaked blankets between sighs, there was warmth, filled with kindness and love, from a mother’s embrace, though it’s sad to thinkthat time builds up as the days pass,as you age with the years, I slowly learn to appreciate you more after every morning you wake still, awake. With your tired eyes, and tired hands, You will always be my hero, mother dear.
And yet, there is comfortin being helpless to a feeling; no matter how like a dream or unexpected it may come. These hauntings, this pulse, the aches and chills whittling our bones- they are effortless, like a breath, and also heavy, like a breath, but the alternative is much more terrifying.
Photo by @corneliusmar10 on Instagram

Rosemary’s, West Village NYC.

After my first day of work at the new store that just opened up in SoHo (Iconic Café) some of my girlfriends wanted to go grab a bite to eat before dinner. At first, we were originally grabbing sandwiches at Blue Stone Collective, but they close their kitchen between the hours of 4-6 (and after being starved from a long day’s work, we weren’t willing to wait a good hour or two just to order from the menu) and so, we moved to the one two blocks down called Rosemary’s. When we walked in, it seemed pretty spacious and quaint. The atmosphere gave off a very Italian vibe, and the waiters were so attentive. It was well worth the money spent, and company kept.

Iconic Café

If you live in New York City,
make sure to visit me at work at Iconic Café in Soho, between Spring Street and Lafayette. Would love to see some of you guys for coffee and pastries :)