They rant on and on and endlessly about how much you deserve someone or something so much better. They tell you could do so much better than what you're doing now. They tell you that the person whom you're with now, does not deserve you. And that you deserve much better.
They tell you all that.
And they're not willing to give it to you.
was it across telephone lines? through lies you could see I made up just to find a reason to speak to you in the lonely nights of my room?
(can you remember when you fell in love with me?)
was it from the light in my face when you surprised me with a birthday cake and made all our friends sign a card that only you thought of?
(can you remember when you fell in love with me?)
was it on roller coaster rides or our stop at the top of the ferris wheel. when you lightly placed your hand on top of my shaky knees to calm me (and you) from fear?
(can you remember when you fell in love with me?)
was it when I found myself laying so close to you in your twin bed only fir for you and after hours of conversation, you found a silence in between to fill by kissing me like you've couldn't wait any longer to, like you wanted to for the longest time?
You’re probably thinking I’ve forgotten all about
you by now, but that’s far from it. I have missed you every waking day
and my heart still hurts, but I’m getting better. I continue to smile
and still go on without you. I know I have missed you, but I have kept
it all inside of me,only for me to know. I still wonder about your
doings, how you are, what you’re doing, what we used to talk about, to
the laugh in your voice, just everything.I miss it all. However, I feel
that part of us ending was for the best because everything happens for a
reason. Should destiny put us into a crossing road in the future, that
is when I will see you again. Until then, remember this: no matter what,
even through the screaming fights, the disagreements, mistakes,and the
tears we’ve cried, never, ever did I give up on you, so if you ever need
a helping hand, do not hesitate to ask. I may be far away, but I will
always be in reach.
Actually; to be honest, I'm so over you.
he was as the sea. I’d like to believe that it was the moon that stole him from me but alas—
“you can’t leave me!” I shouted into the night. hoping to gurgle
under his waves, and drown myself in him. but even the tide escaped me.
and the growing shores claimed me. I was losing my place just as the
sand going out form under me.
the sandbar and I, growing dry.
no, he left me. for why should the sea ever love what is just a man?
who couldn’t understand anything the sea breathed. the sea lusted for
foreign shores, not drowned sailors. the sea, he wanted more, not
me. no, what happened cannot be blamed on the moon. he had left me on
her own accord.
I love people watching, I love it when people open up their existence
before you for a few minutes and you get a glimpse of what it is to be
someone else. You see a split second of their life, who knows what you
witness? How many dreams have been destroyed and days made with you in
the background? We forget sometimes there is life outside our own, where
do these people come from — where are they all going? They all have
their hopes and tears and personal tragedies and we do not even know
them. They spend their whole lives not even knowing you exist, when just
that knowledge could change their life.
I often wonder what lies beneath, what they’re thinking what they’re
wishing for. There is so much life outside our own, so many untold
stories so many unaccomplished desires. How different things could be,
how altered could our lives be, had we done one thing different, had we
asked one more question.
The more I live the more I know — life is a
balancing act, the only thing …
We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then we sleep. It’s as simple
and ordinary as that.
A few jump out windows, or drown themselves, or
take pills, more die by accident; and most of us are slowly devoured by
some disease, or, if we’re very fortunate, by time itself.
this for consolation: an hour here or there when our lives seem, against
all odds and expectations, to burst open and give us everything we’ve
ever imagined, though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) know
these hours will inevitably be followed by others, far darker and more
difficult. Still, we cherish the city, the morning, we hope more than
anything for more.
A year has 365 days for you to study. After taking away 52 Sundays,
there are only 313 days left. There are 50 days in the summer that is
way too hot to work so there are only 263 days left. We sleep 8 hours a
day, in a year, that counts up to 122 days so now we're left with 141
days. If we fooled around for only 1 hour a day, 15 days are gone, so we
are left with 126 days. We spend 2 hours eating each day, 30 days are
used in this way in the year, and we are left with 96 days in our year.
We spend 1 hour a day speaking to friends and family, that takes away 15
days more and we are left with 81 days. Exams and tests take up at
least 35 days in your year, hence you are only left with 46 days. Taking
off approximately 40 days of holidays, you are only left with 6 days.
Say you are sick for a minimum of 3 days, you're left with 3 days in the
year to study! Let's say you only go out for 2 days... You're left with
1 day. But that 1 day is your birthday.
"I told the girl that I like that I liked her, and she told me that she
has fallen for and has kissed another boy. She told me that if she were
sensible, she would fall for and date me. I don't know what to do. I'm
lost, really. What should I do now? My heart is not broken, but slightly
torn. sincerely, a messed up boy"
My advice? Run. Now. As fast as you can. If anyone EVER tells you
anything along the lines of “if I were ____ then I would do this, this,
and/or this with you. I would feel this way, do anything for you, be
with you, blah blah blah.” It’s complete bullshit. Whenever anyone says
that I just have to roll my eyes and shake my head because we’re fickle
little things, humans, we really are. She wants to have her cake and eat
it too. Lock her out. In my experience people only say that because
they themselves are greedy and selfish. She acknowledges, at least, that
you deserve to be liked and to be loved and to really be with someone
but her wor…
Food, fire, walks, dreams, cold, sleep, love, slowness, time, quiet,
books, seasons – all these things, which are not really things, but
moments of life – take on a different quality at night-time, where the
moon reflects the light of the sun, and we have time to reflect what
life is to us, knowing that it passes, and that every bit of it, in its
change and its difference, is the here and now of what we have.
Life is too short to be all daylight. Night is not less; it’s more.
the moment you realize that you’re currently
happy — consciously trying to savor the feeling — which prompts your
intellect to identify it, pick it apart, and put it in context, where it
will slowly dissolve until it’s little more than an aftertaste
Head tries to help heart.
Head tells heart how it is, again:
You will lose the ones you love. They will all go. But even the earth will go, someday.
Heart feels better, then.
But the words of head do not remain long in the ears of heart.
Heart is so new to this.
I want them back, says heart.
Head is all heart has.
Help, head. Help heart.
Sempiternal : everlasting; eternal.Quiescent : a quiet, soft-spoken soul.Redamancy : an act of loving in return.Billet-doux : a love letter.Chimerical : merely imaginary; fanciful.Ephemeral : lasting a very short time.Susurrus : a whispering or rustling sound.Aubade : a song greeting the dawn.Clinquant : glittering; tinsel-like.Euphonious : pleasing; sweet in sound.Raconteur : one who excels in story-telling.
remember the skin of your fingers, the spot three quarters up I’d always
touch when I was out of things to say. You held my hand, but you were
too afraid to speak and I could never understand. I remember when you
leaned in quick to kiss me, and I swear, that not a single force on
earth could stop the trembling of my hand. And I remember how you smiled
through the smoke in a crowded little coffeehouse and laughed at all my
jokes. And I remember the way that you dressed and, how we wasted all
the best of us in alcohol and sweat.”
You love me and oh that was such a shock. I
want to curl up in your lap and ask you to say it a thousand and one
times, or at least until I memorise the way you look and sound when you
say it. And right now everything is so simple and everything is so
clear. There’s never been any competition because who could ever compare
to you? And I would give up everything and everyone if I meant you’d
want to keep me around forever. I’m so exhausted and I feel misplaced
"We make such messes in this life, both accidentally and on purpose.
But wiping the surface clean doesn’t really make anything any neater. It
just masks what is below. It’s only when you really dig down deep, go
underground, that you can see who you really are."
Real love doesn’t necessarily knock you off your feet. It doesn’t fix
you or your life. Real love is something that can be felt in the depths
of your soul and seen in the smallest actions between two people. Real
love is the love between two people, that makes both people better, but
not in the way that it is making them whole. Real love starts with
complimenting the soul, complimenting the real person. it comes when
you’re at peace with yourself, when you know what you want, what you
like, and how what steps you feel you need to take you there. At the
very least, you need to be in touch with yourself, and know how to take
care of yourself, because that is when you can let someone else in.
There has to be a compatibility and a sense of excitement, but this
will change over time. It’s the syncing up of two people in this respect
that equates to great love, and when it isn’t working, the great loves
can talk about it and know how to fix it. Real love is the feeling of
We live in a modern society. Husbands and wives don’t grow on trees, like in the old days. So where does one find love? When you’re sixteen it’s easy, like being unleashed with a credit card in a department store of kisses.
The first kiss.
The sloppy kiss.
The sympathy kiss.
The backseat smooch.
The I wish you’d quit smoking kiss.
The we shouldn’t be doing this kiss.
The but your lips taste so good kiss.
The bury me in an avalanche of tingles kiss.
The I know your tongue like the back of my hand kiss.
The I accept your apology, but you make me really mad sometimes kiss.
As you get older, kisses become scarce. You’ll be driving home and see a damaged kiss on the side of the road, with its purple thumb out. If you were younger, you’d pull over, slide open the mouth’s red door just to see how it fits.
Oh, where does one find love?
If you rub two glances, you get a smile. Rub two smiles, you get a warm feeling. Rub two warm feelings and presto-you have a kiss.
I think you know why I am writing to you. I have been putting this
off, pushing you to the back of the shelf. But I love you too much to
lose you to dust.
Everyone is always curious to know what you have learnt, as if
everything must be reduced to a neat conclusion, a complete and tidy
revelation of why and how and what for. Some sort of truth that was lost
and now found.
I know that after 365 days (and years on top of that) you may be
expecting at least some sort of answer, but my body of writing whispers
like an ocean, ephemeral as a set of liquid transparencies laid one on
top of the other.
Well, here, Lesson 1 - nothing is repeated, but all your stories rhyme.
Dear, dear, let me explain.
Do not chase the tales of a hundred abandoned stories and try to
claim them as your own. Your story is your story, and it is enough. You
Do you remember when my body was a house that was haunted? I
struggled to hold my head up, I would appear late and vanish in …
These are my favorite sorts of people: tragically uncomprehended
fools, dreamers, introverts, bashful lovers, raindrop runners. The ones
with rebel imagination and throughshine skin. The ones who don’t sleep
at night. The ones who draw mermaids and wildflowers into notebooks
soiled by handling. The ones who talk in archaisms. The ones who are
gentle, secretive and endessly vulnerable who spend their lives escaping
And by everything, I literally mean everything. I notice when someone stops hitting me up like they used to. I notice when the way someone talks to me starts changing. I notice the little things that people do, and the little things they used to do. I notice when things change, and when it’s no longer the same. I notice every single little detail. I just don’t say anything.
doesn't sneak up on
you. It' always been there. Lurk-
ing in the shadows. you know it's there.
but you can't fight it. When the moment is
right, it swallows you whole, and everything you
ever loved gets swallowed too. You learn to want the
sadness, crave it. It is the only feelings you have left. the
only proof that you are alive. they don't understand. they
don't care. So why tell them? Sometimes you feel perfect.
Like the world is finally back to how it is meant to be. But
then something small changes that. A comment, a picture, a
thought. And it all comes spiraling in again. And the black-
ness is now your enemy as you try to come up for air. As
you try to hold on to that small glimmer of hope you
once has. But it is not a glimmer of hope anymore.
it never was. your mind was just tricking you,
and now you're just drowning. Now
you're just an empty shell.
(brackets make me feel safe.)
(they remind me of cupped hands.)
(and whispered secrets.) (they hold extra things like hands do.)
(and it feels like i could say anything in the world and no one will judge me for it.) (in them we whisper secrets, and looks in our eyes wispy.)
I warned you that I was complicated, don't you dare fucking say I didn't warn you. And you told me you could handle it. Well fuck you. Over time, I trusted you and opened up to you. And do you how fucking hard that is for me? Do you even have a single fucking idea how fucking hard it is for me to open to not just you, but people? And once you saw how much of a mess I really was, you got up and walked away. Like a little bitch who can't even keep to their word.
If you can't fucking handle something, don't lie and pretend like as if you can cause you're just going to make things worse.
My mother said your name in the car and this crystal-shatter silence settled over, just for a brief morning-mist moment. How much you must have grown. Why haven’t I realized how brown your eyes are? I didn’t even know your eyes were that brown. You meant something to me, you know. You don’t forget the person who’d give you so much hope. (You don’t fucking do that to someone you gave hope to, by the way.) A carousel of lives and our just had to entwine again. My mother’s lip twitched and I looked outside the window, traffic lights flaring up. I closed my eyes, as how you must have closed yours.
sometimes i really do feel like i need help. sometimes the moulding alley doorways in my mind start opening with creaks and they let angry hisses out like shadows and then they start screaming, the doors start screaming, the birds and vultures scream and then the eternal downpour begins, all until something bright closes the doors, but the doors can only remain closed for so long.
One day, I'll get out of here. I'll leave and never even take a second glance at the rear-view mirror. I'll drive and drive till my car breaks down in a small and quaint town. I'll probably get a part-time job in the small cafe by the street which pays just enough and spend the other half of my day in the bookstore around the corner.
You may not understand, you may not remember -who am I kidding? You won’t remember, can’t remember- but in another life we have met. In another life, in another time in another dimension rather far away, we have met and we have fallen in love. In another time, you don’t haunt my dreams, because we are together. I see you here but I cannot keep you. Right here, right now, you don’t understand, it’s okay. I’m sorry. This isn’t fair to you if I don’t let you be, because I know you’ve got your life in place and you don’t know me, don’t know what I felt or what I’ve experienced. . I’ll leave, I’ll leave and never come back, simply because I don’t belong here, but you do.
Nights like these I wish I told you I loved you. Maybe you’d tell me that you love me too. Then maybe I wouldn’t be so lonely and be feeling this empty glow where my heart should be, and instead be thinking about how it’d feel to have your arms around me. How warm and alive we are. Then maybe tears won’t spill without me knowing why.
If one day you regret the things you said, or the things you didn’t, and you come back to seek me out again.. I can’t guarantee that I will always be here. Maybe I’ll still be waiting for you the same as I’ve ever waited for you, but this room inside this little red house may no longer be mine and the places we used to go to together will have had all traces of our DNA wiped from the surfaces with disinfecting products rubbed in circular motions over wobbling tabletops and so(u)le-stained tiled floors.
The grooves we wore into the ground beneath the swings in the playground would have had a thousand feet pass over them since, and the battered green bench with all its paint chipping off would no longer be standing sentinel by the same weary tree because it would have tired of waiting for two part-time lovers to return to dig up the skeletal remnants of their affair gone bad, at the very end.
And maybe in the future, if it’s true that I loved you as much as I believe I do, I would stil…
"I want a soulmate who can sit me down, shut me up, tell me ten things I don’t already know, and make me laugh. I don’t care what you look like, just turn me on. And if you can do that, I will follow you on bloody stumps through the snow. I will nibble your mukluks with my own teeth. I will do your windows. I will care about your feelings. Just have something in there."
Get stuck. Stay in one place your whole life. Always order vanilla even though the menu is four pages long. Become the type of person who sends back lattes. Save up your money for a plasma TV instead of a plane ticket. Talk a lot about things you know nothing about. Have an affair with someone you don’t even find attractive.
Refuse to forget your ex. Make it impossible for yourself to do anything without remembering that you used to do it with them. Hug your knees under the sheets and think about how safe you felt when they held you at night. Remind yourself daily of how empty you feel. Find new ways to make yourself sad.
Get drunk all the time. Consider no Saturday night, national holiday or extended happy hour complete without a vodka-induced breakdown. Graduate college but keep drinking like you’re still in it. Notice that cheap beer tastes watery and stale when you drink it alone but drink it anyway. Look at old Facebook photos wasted and wonder where everyone went.
There’s this constant thought,
always running throughout my mind that here.
I am living but I am not alive.
That I can feel invincible and infinite anyway but here.
Here I am a ghost trapped in limbo.
I can’t wait for the days I leave this city and get to feel alive:
get myself one of those bordeaux-colored velvet dresses and a blazer with elbow pads,
travel far out,
and sit and laugh and talk and fall in love with someone beautiful on a perfectly tiled rooftop.
All underneath an ink-black sky,
stars sewed together in constellations.
Rooftops sound good to me.
When you wake up happy for no reason at all, and that happy lasts the whole day.When you can sit with someone in perfect, non-awkward silence, and just watch the world go by, knowing that someone under this sky has your back. Following a series/band so far and so long and then finally see it in film/live and just feel so utterly proud of everything that has happened.Being able to see the stars each night.Being able to see the sun rise and set.Having a jacket during a cold day.Being able to have at least one person to say ‘I love you’ to each daySaying ‘I love you’Have people say it back.See someone drop everything, every act and every mask, and just act of blood-raw emotion and fire-raw passion, because it’s one of the few rare and real things happening everywhere, every moment.Knowing that somewhere, a couple has just fallen in love; a woman has just given birth; someone has just taken all their bravery into admitting their affections; someone has just lain down flowers on a grave.Kn…
Find me by the ocean, watching the waves roll in and out like they’re not tired of this. Find me where the wild winds blow, and maybe you could follow me so. Find me where time stands still, in words: in books, in ink on the back or my hand, or carved into the bark of an age-old tree. Find me somewhere in my fifth lifetime, drinking cider on a rooftop underneath some sort of infinite sky. Find me where the roses grow to the songs of a loved one. Find me looking for affection in all the wrong people. Find me watching, find me breathing, find me writing, find me alive.
So tread lightly. Take only what you need -shards of a heart or the twinkle of gloriously dark eyes; a wisp of a memory; a word of charm and heroism. Only what you need. People like you, people like me: we don’t settle. We walk as the lines blur like the winds in a dream. We are the hurricanes forced into jars, and we are the racing wolves that keep people like you up at night and we know it.
We’ll grind chocolate into powder and smoke it, our legs tucked under the grass, kissing the Earth. People like you and me, we like things that breathe. We like holding ladybugs in the palms of our hands and watching their wings flutter, and pressing our wrists together and imagining that we might be able to feel the pulse of each other. So you can take me, whichever part it is you might want, the tip of a finger or the softness of my earlobe or my kneecap, the pearl of my eyes. I know you’ll keep them safe, I know you’ll keep them alive.
time healsthe sunrise is a constantsalt water stingsI am worth all of itdriving calmsthe music will never endbooks finish(sometimes happily)locked doors can be unlockedtrees produce oxygenI produce carbon dioxidestars die all the timesthe sun burns
in a gothic cathedrallying in bed, listening to dawn raina hot bubble bath on a cold daya bookstore or a librarypine forest, neck craned upwards at trees against the skynatural history museumsunrise from a hilltop, with only the birds for companynear a crackling fireplace with a good book and a teacupin the grass at sunset, watching the clouds and the butterfliesriding a bike down unknown roads and getting lost
"That’s the thing: You can change things. You can repair mistakes. You can restart your whole life if you have to. But some things you never get back. Certain people. Certain moments in time when you don’t know better than to shield to your heart. You don’t see those moments coming, you don’t know it when they’re happening, but later, as the plainness of life begins to show itself, you realize how important they were. You understand who really changed you, who made you what you are."
I feel as though I am merely on the periphery of everyone else's lives; never central to the story, never the leading lady. I am not anything to anyone, neither girlfriend nor best friend - I am the enigmatically transparent, loose girl who wanders alone staring into the dark vastness of the universe wondering. I am waiting in the wings behind velvet curtains as the minutes hours days pass me by sweeping in and out inconsequentially hoping someday you'll remember me.
I’m just tired of being thrown between happy and sad and angry and grateful and suicidal and empty and hopeful and hopeless and cold and hot and blue and red and always empty and I just want to run away and hide somewhere so I can escape into a world where I don’t have to think about sad things like the future and growing up.
We write because we cannot speak. Our minds only undress themselves on sheets of leaf. It is not nor will it ever be anything more or less than what it seems. We often find ourselves loitering inside a beautiful metaphor leaking from the books we read or the titles on our record sleeves.
We seek hope in absolutely anything, especially that which is deemed uninspiring. When we hear a piano, we drive inside its wiring, hoping on a rest stop, but never slowing down when they indetify themselves on dirt marquees. (Just to know that they are an option is enough, we believe.)
We are a wonderful and wretched deceit; turning a concrete slab into a work of art, birthing that which has been aborted decades in between. We neglect a;; that we need, replacing meals with long black cigarettes and nerves and substitute cups of caffeine for sleep.
We are not afraid to die, but rather of living passively instead of passionately. We never needed a map because the longer we are lost, the stronger that w…
‘You don’t do that to someone you gave hope to, you know,’ I say as I take a step towards him. It’s bright out and he’s squinting but he looks away from me the whole time. Hiding behind enigmatic syrup-brown eyes. I don’t blame him. This is not pretty. ‘Never meant anything.’ Now I’ve got his attention. He opens his mouth to speak, ‘can we still stay friends?’
‘I don’t know. Ask my twelve year old self and I say yes like someone’s asked me if the sky is blue. Ask me now and I don’t know.’
This is for the people who feel like emotional wrecks, the ones who can’t turn their minds off at night. The ones with their slutty, whoreish, wanton hearts. The ones who have been let go. The ones who can’t let go. The ones who believe everything is a lie.
You are afraid of a lot of things. But you try to escape these fears by making impossibilities probable, by writing fictional realities. Everything you are not able to say, you write. Fiction is your defense mechanism. You isolate yourself mostly from people, sometimes even those closest to you. You’re pragmatic, but you have a lot of dreams too. You try to be in control a lot of times. You are highly dependent. You live on your own, abide by your own rules, live by your own pace. And you are selfish too. To hell with what other people think. You do as you please and do not so much care about what others would say and think of you as.
Let me unmask you;
You cannot fool me with words. You are not a bad person like you want others to believe you are. I see through your mask. I see through your defenses. Hire a better defence force, will you? You try to put up this thick wall around you because you are scared of getting your heart broken again. You have lost the skill to regenerate that …
"It was him not fighting for me. I gave him the ultimatum and he let me walk away. I didn’t want a life separate from him, and that's all he could give me. It’s like he’s driving a car and I just want to be in the passenger seat. He’s locked the door and I have to hold onto the bumper. I am not even asking him to open the door for me, just leave it unlocked and say come in, but he didn’t do that. So I am hanging on to the bumper and life goes on. And the car goes on and I get really badly bruised and I’m hitting potholes and it hurts, it really hurts. so yesterday I had to let go of the bumper because it hurts too much."
No matter where I am or what I do to try to heal myself, my heart has been putting itself back together and breaking apart endlessly all this time. I don’t know how to hurt it or heal it permanently and the most horrifying thing of all is- I’m not sure I want to give myself that sense of closure, in all its ambiguity and lines of doubt.
Because some things inside me I can’t bring to forgive myself for and I hate myself so much for feeling this way but I don’t know how to not, and there is no one in this world that I can think of to turn to for this because face it- I am running, always running, and I am so, so scared of the idea of people loving me in any way because in all of my experience, I’ve learned that eventually it gets too hard for them to handle and they stop. I am terrified that they will all someday just cease to care that I do my best to keep them from starting, but some people just slip under your skin and inject their love into your bloodstream and far too quickly, ther…
all this running will get you nowhere just because that string is red doesn’t make it red pretty-eyed boys will hurt you (even when, and especially if they know not your name) you will be crushed these cards are yours to paint it easier to be fake than to be brave trust no one (trust everyone) you can run with wolves but the wolves won’t run with youthe wilderness will call you, and no one can ever take that away from you