"You don't need me to love you."
"But I want you to."
Forgetting & Loving
Forget the ones that forgot you but never forget the love that you're capable of.
Andrew
I saw a stray photo of my little Andrew a few days ago and, well, he's not so little anymore. I was dumbfounded. Lexi was the one who posted it and although she's growing fast, it's just normal, and then especially Natalya, she's always been practically grown, but Andrew, my Andrew - I just, I'm at a loss for words. I don't know when this happened. I don't know how it came to being practically a year since I've seen him. I don't know how I could let my bitterness toward the community make me desert them, of all people. I don't know how I can bear him growing up without me.
A Midnight Conversation
"Do you ever think about just moving, getting away from that tied down feeling?"
"Yeah, that's actually something that has been on my mind for years, and is always crouching in the corners. Just leaving, starting somewhere new. It's very enticing."
(Jokingly) "We should move away together."
"No, you don't understand. For me, leaving means leaving everything -- and everyone. And just being alone."
There's a pause.
"Sounds lonely."
"Sounds free."
"Yeah, that's actually something that has been on my mind for years, and is always crouching in the corners. Just leaving, starting somewhere new. It's very enticing."
(Jokingly) "We should move away together."
"No, you don't understand. For me, leaving means leaving everything -- and everyone. And just being alone."
There's a pause.
"Sounds lonely."
"Sounds free."
22 February - Blurbs
I don't know where I am.
I'm taking risks, saying things I'd never say with a sober mind.
I haven't spoken to you in weeks, but know that I love you -- always.
I equally want you to remember me as much as I want you to forget me, as much as I want to forget and to remember you.
I don't know where I am. I don't know who I am.
Find me. Forget me. Lose me.
I'm taking risks, saying things I'd never say with a sober mind.
I haven't spoken to you in weeks, but know that I love you -- always.
I equally want you to remember me as much as I want you to forget me, as much as I want to forget and to remember you.
I don't know where I am. I don't know who I am.
Find me. Forget me. Lose me.
Will You Still Love Me On Sunday?
It’s so easy to be head-over-heels under the loud music and the overfull glasses of Saturday night. Everyone loves each other, everyone wants to be best friends. Everyone sees only the best in everyone else. And there is a certain magic in Saturday night, as though you’re so far inside the weekend — so buffered on each side from the unforgiving reality of the weekdays — that everything is possible and real if you want it to be. You say things you might not mean on Monday morning, because for the moment in between the sixth and seventh drink on Saturday, it’s all you can think about.
Will You Still Love Me On Sunday? | Thought Catalog
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But when you wake up on Sunday morning, when your head hurts so badly you feel as though it will never return to normal, when everything that was beautiful and mysterious the night before has been rendered harsh and unflattering in the relentless daylight — will you still want to turn over to me? Will you still be interested in all of the things I have to say, all of the coincidences we took as divine intervention last night when we were only so happy to tell each other how we feel? If the facilitators of alcohol and dim lights and a group of laughing around us are no longer part of the equation, do you still want to hold my hand?
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I will love you on Sunday. If I told you all of these beautiful things when we were standing under the red light of the bar, peeling the label off a beer bottle, it’s because I want you to remember them the next day. I want to pounce on my momentary lack of inhibitions to say all of the things I’ll later want to sweep under the rug, but which I truly mean. I am telling you these things on Saturday because I won’t be able to on Sunday, but I’ll want you to know that I mean them. And I hope you know me well enough to know that I never say anything I don’t mean — even if they’re a bit embarrassing to remember in the morning.
Will You Still Love Me On Sunday? | Thought Catalog
Deserving
You ask me how I'm doing and I say everything is fine and it is - nothing, nothing is wrong - and yet I keep finding it difficult to breathe. So filled with a gnawing desire for solitude, self-loathing, and gloom, reasons for which cannot be found but the feelings existing nonetheless. Existing and stifling and ever present. You look at me with eyes filled with love but when I see them all I want is to turn away and push you further because I could never feel deserving. I see in myself no redemption for I am neither considerate nor sympathetic nor benevolent, and yet you stay patient and supportive and kind. You, you who have been with me for near a decade and you, you who have been by my side for not even a year; you, the collective you who have been intertwined with me for whatever reason, for whatever duration, you, I don't deserve you.
I'm Leaving, I'm Gone
You're stuck in a chauvinistic, racist, homophobic state of mind and you don't even realize it. Or, rather, you do - you just don't care. To you it's all a joke. Rape, domestic violence, discrimination based on race, sexual orientation, and gender - it's all just a joke.
You go give God your time of day, wearing your Sunday best, but your very being is drenched with the stench of your hypocrisy; you disgust me. You physically revolt me. I get to thinking about the spiral that your mind is in, how indifferent you are to the culture you're a part of, the implications of your beliefs and your acceptances, and it churns my stomach and makes me sick.
And then you have the audacity to point your finger at me. You criticize and laugh at me for breaking away, you taunt and tease me for being offended and infuriated by your off hand remarks and "jokes." Fuck, are you kidding me? Thank whatever higher being there is that I am nothing like you. I don't know what caused my path to turn away from yours - they were parallel for so long. But fuck. I can't imagine being like you because then I'd hate myself just as much as I hate you.
Fuck you. You're 20, 21, 25 - where are your heads? Why can't you see how fucking fucked up you are? Goddamn. I don't need this in my life. I don't need you in my life. Any of you. You bring me nothing but anger, despair, and bitterness, infecting me, and only further causing me to be a cynical asshole.
Fuck you, I don't need you in my life. I don't need this.
I'm leaving.
I'm gone.
You go give God your time of day, wearing your Sunday best, but your very being is drenched with the stench of your hypocrisy; you disgust me. You physically revolt me. I get to thinking about the spiral that your mind is in, how indifferent you are to the culture you're a part of, the implications of your beliefs and your acceptances, and it churns my stomach and makes me sick.
And then you have the audacity to point your finger at me. You criticize and laugh at me for breaking away, you taunt and tease me for being offended and infuriated by your off hand remarks and "jokes." Fuck, are you kidding me? Thank whatever higher being there is that I am nothing like you. I don't know what caused my path to turn away from yours - they were parallel for so long. But fuck. I can't imagine being like you because then I'd hate myself just as much as I hate you.
Fuck you. You're 20, 21, 25 - where are your heads? Why can't you see how fucking fucked up you are? Goddamn. I don't need this in my life. I don't need you in my life. Any of you. You bring me nothing but anger, despair, and bitterness, infecting me, and only further causing me to be a cynical asshole.
Fuck you, I don't need you in my life. I don't need this.
I'm leaving.
I'm gone.
Kisses
"I love you. I love you. I love you." He repeated time and time again, kissing her fists, her scars, her fingers, her wrists, her hands, her knuckles, her palms. Thoughts, feelings, words, hopes and fears swirled in her mind, and her mouth opened - silent. Instead of release, instead of letting her go, they grasped at her throat, clawing, and choked her from the inside out. Her head swayed slightly, side to side, and she tensed fleetingly, unable to bring her exhausted, diffident eyes to the eager, desperate ones that were fixed on her, a mere face-lengths away. Again, she opened her mouth; again, she closed it - silent. "But I love you."
Words of a Stranger
"It's always difficult for me to speak and express my innermost thoughts in person. I prefer to write. When I sit down and write, words grow very docile, they come and feed out of my hand like little birds, and I can do almost what I want with them; whereas when I try to marshal them in the open air, they fly away from me."
- Philippe Claudel, Brodeck
The words of strangers fare so well in describing my very thoughts and sentiments, so much better than my own.
- Philippe Claudel, Brodeck
The words of strangers fare so well in describing my very thoughts and sentiments, so much better than my own.
Love Me
"Love me, because love doesn't exist, and I have tried everything that does."
- Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything is Illuminated
- Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything is Illuminated
A Series of Non Sequiturial Thoughts
I feel as if I am stuck. Stuck in this strange place, this strange life where I simply go through the motions and time passes quickly by, day by day. I am not happy but neither am I sad; I am nothing. And the mundaneness of my routine only fuels this nothingness even more. This place evokes no response because it is no longer strange; it has become too familiar and we all know how well I do with familiarity.
I am so tired. Always, so tired. I have too much on my plate, but I can't give any of it up. And I would never want to. Being busy is something that I am always, even subconsciously, trying to be because I don't want to stop and see how drab my quotidienne life has become but this then becomes the routine and it is a perpetual cycle.
I miss witnessing the falling snow and being mesmerized by its beauty and calmed by its frost. I miss stepping in the foot tracks that were made by the one walking before me and how comforting it felt.
I wonder if non sequiturial is even a word. Isn't it strange, how we can convince ourselves that a word is a word by repeating it over and over to ourselves until the idea of it not being a word becomes absurd. Although, it is the same with all of the other delusions in our lives that we convince ourselves are reality, isn't it. Repetition is key. To perfection and likewise to destruction.
I have an insatiable desire for solitude, no matter how abundant the love is around me. Some nights I sit out on my roof and watch as the planes fly by and away and am filled with longing to be on one of them, going, going running flying leaving venturing to someplace new because I am never satisfied with where I am in the present. I am not satisfied nor content with where I am or what I am or what I have but neither do I know exactly what I want because I know nothing.
I seem to have developed an inability to speak when it matters most. My mind is filled with words that would appease and put at ease not only those around me but also my own scattered mind, but these words never make it out. They get caught in my throat and tie up my tongue and I am left with nothing to offer but a silence that only keeps us both guessing.
I don't allow myself to sleep, or rather, there is something that is keeping me from much needed, much desired, slumber. I find myself, night in and night out, staying awake long after I have gone to bed, and not for any particular reason. I find things to distract myself from my aching head and my heavy eyelids and my tired heart because I can't, I just can't let myself fall asleep. And I don't know why or at least I don't want to admit why so for now I'll keep my distractions at hand.
I am so tired. Always, so tired. I have too much on my plate, but I can't give any of it up. And I would never want to. Being busy is something that I am always, even subconsciously, trying to be because I don't want to stop and see how drab my quotidienne life has become but this then becomes the routine and it is a perpetual cycle.
I miss witnessing the falling snow and being mesmerized by its beauty and calmed by its frost. I miss stepping in the foot tracks that were made by the one walking before me and how comforting it felt.
I wonder if non sequiturial is even a word. Isn't it strange, how we can convince ourselves that a word is a word by repeating it over and over to ourselves until the idea of it not being a word becomes absurd. Although, it is the same with all of the other delusions in our lives that we convince ourselves are reality, isn't it. Repetition is key. To perfection and likewise to destruction.
I have an insatiable desire for solitude, no matter how abundant the love is around me. Some nights I sit out on my roof and watch as the planes fly by and away and am filled with longing to be on one of them, going, going running flying leaving venturing to someplace new because I am never satisfied with where I am in the present. I am not satisfied nor content with where I am or what I am or what I have but neither do I know exactly what I want because I know nothing.
I seem to have developed an inability to speak when it matters most. My mind is filled with words that would appease and put at ease not only those around me but also my own scattered mind, but these words never make it out. They get caught in my throat and tie up my tongue and I am left with nothing to offer but a silence that only keeps us both guessing.
I don't allow myself to sleep, or rather, there is something that is keeping me from much needed, much desired, slumber. I find myself, night in and night out, staying awake long after I have gone to bed, and not for any particular reason. I find things to distract myself from my aching head and my heavy eyelids and my tired heart because I can't, I just can't let myself fall asleep. And I don't know why or at least I don't want to admit why so for now I'll keep my distractions at hand.
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