everland.x @everland--cnf - Tumblr Blog

forse questo potrebbe essere abbastanza

i would say i'm sorry for the months we've spent in silence, but i'm not. i've never been one to apologize for what i'm not sorry for, just like you've never been one to take a step back and look at the damage you've caused until it's too late.

i don't believe in second, third, or fourth chances - i believe in as many as it takes to get it right (like it should have been the first time) and to right what's been done wrong. i will never forget the chances you've taken, but i will always remember that you took the last one i thought you'd ever use.

an apology doesn't make up for years of being wronged but it's a step in the ladder, and you're trying your damnedest to climb to the top.

i think, maybe, i'll let you.

i look back sometimes on the road i took to hating you, and i know a period of fury was necessary after what you'd done.

and sometimes i look back on the road i took to forgiving you, and i know that i did the right thing because this world doesn't need any more hate; it has enough.

so now you and i can go back to slowly finding how we fit together (better now, maybe, since we've grown so much) and how we don't, and we can decide that even if our pieces don't connect like they used to, it'll be okay.

i want you to know that i cried when i forgave you out loud, i cried when you gave me the chance, and i cried when i thought i had lost you forever.

i learned, from you, there's a lot of different tears to be shed and a lot of different choices that can be made to influence the life i have and the life i want to live. i learned to forgive because of you, even if i haven't quite mastered it yet - and i hope to learn a lot more from you in the years to come.

dear you, and only you, finally:

i'm not sorry -- but you are.

and i think that might be enough.

une semaine et un jour

sunday. i couldn't fall asleep tonight, so i imagined you, night owl still awake, typing poems, and the way your fingers must look on a keyboard. you're like a dream to me, black, blurred around the edges, forgettable but i want to remember you. i want to remember you. monday. i stayed up late tonight reading a poetry book. i think you'd like it. it's about kids like us. tuesday. the scale is a liar. wednesday. i wanted to write you a letter, but i couldn't think of anything worth saying, so i watched the birds and practiced my calls instead. do i sound like a bird yet? i feel like one. thursday. it rained today. i thought you should know that. friday. my joints are familiar with words i don't think joints should know.

saturday. my hands won't stop shaking. i read once that cold hands are the first sign of silent dissent; i think mine look like flowers. is that a sign of death? i don't know. sunday. this is b/c, before christ, when religion was something to break your back, litanies in which things were left out, crossed-out. be right back, there's a pew with our names, a pool for our baptisms. i wrote you a poem today. i hope you like it.

palimpsest

palimpsest (n)- a manuscript or piece of writing material on which the original writing has been affected to make room for later writing but of which traces remain; something reused or altered but still bearing visible traces of its earlier form.

1. “so have you, like, ever fallen in love with a straight girl?” she asks. “i bet it’s like, totally awkward.” i laugh and stutter through a no that comes out sounding too much like your name, and then you are there, slipping into my mind without knocking, like you have any right to come back unannounced. it has been months since you called. i suppose that counts as awkward, but when people say awkward, i think of teenagers skinning their knees tripping after each other, of the sound of knives scraping dinner plates during sunday supper— i do not think of your voice when you tell me you have found the perfect boy, of the way your eyes cut away from mine immediately afterwards, so you do not have to see me ache. i do not think awkward is the right word.

2. but god, you had beautiful eyes; i spent an entire winter telling you that, hoping if i could just get that one truth out in the open, i could hoard the rest of them to me like stolen gold. i could spend all my other moments next to you, laughing about sweet boys with honey-dipped voices. you with your head tipped back, me with my eyes wide open. 3. “so have you, like, ever fallen in love with a straight girl?” she asks. “i bet it’s like totally awkward.” i do not know what to do with my hands. see, i know she’s not accusing me of anything, but i feel like a criminal tried for manslaughter— yes, yes i did it, yes i did it and i’m so sorry, but you have to believe me, i didn’t mean to. i never meant to hurt anyone, i swear.

4. yes, your honor, i should have known better. yes i did wrong, yes, but god help me you should have seen her eyes. you should have been there every four in the morning she spent listening to me talk about how fast the earth spins, how big the universe is, how all i want is to help people, but all these hands know how to do is write stupid poems that never drown out the sound of my anxious lonely heart beating out every second i do not change the world. but around her, all my loud parts went quiet, and i loved her for it. she reminded me of everything i was not, and i loved her for that too. yes, your honor, too much. god help me, too much. 5. “so have you, like, ever fallen in love with a straight girl?” she asks. “i bet it’s like totally awkward.” i want to tell her it is not awkward. it is tragic. it is one of the most tragic things i can think of, to love someone who cannot learn to love you in the same way. to love someone who must be a mistake to tell others about like a warning, like a funny story, like a ‘remember when i met a beautiful girl who never once thought about what it would be like to kiss me, to come home with me, to come home to me?’ 6. i wish thinking of you was awkward. i wish loving you had felt awkward. i wish i could say that falling for you banged me up a bit, skinned my knees a bit. but the truth is, you broke my legs and i still spent months crawling after you. it is no wonder why humans pray on their knees. i have found nothing holier than our kneecaps, nothing holier than knowing when to bend and succumb to things that are impossibly out of our control, so when someone asks, 7. “so have you, like, ever fallen in love with a straight girl? i bet it’s totally awkward.” we can laugh and deny our crimes, like we’ve been brought in to identify a body, only to look down and realize there’s nothing in those cold, beautiful eyes that we recognize.

Sometimes, it seems like the easiest thing to do would be to get over you, but things that sound simple are rarely so when put in the proper context. It's okay though, since I still feel my heart beating every night before I go to sleep so I know that I'll make it. That you haven't quite won. At least not in the sense that I'm through fighting. Sometimes, it seems like the easiest thing to do would be to give up. I'm more of a lover than a fighter and more of a coward than a hero. But the thing is I'm through just lying down and taking whatever the world throws at me. You told me to try harder and I swear I am. So if I thought I could fix anything, I'd drive halfway across the country just for another chance. I'd give my last breath if you wanted it, but you don't so I'm rerouting a new course that doesn't keep diverting me into these endless turns of unrequited love. I'm finding a different way even if it means giving up this map and forgetting all my plans. This is what forgiveness sounds like. You don't know it yet, but I'm saying goodbye since honestly, i should already be done with this. Maybe you remember what that used to feel like. I don't know. I don't really care. Sometimes, it seems like the easiest thing to do would be to start over. Except I know that saying goodbye to a lifetime of forevers will never be the simplest thing I do. But the sooner I start, the sooner I find something else. I'd like to believe I deserve to be happy. To not fall asleep alone. To get out of this place alive. To be loved, wanted or needed. To be someone. Anyone. Except I'm never quite so sure that I'll ever be good enough for anything but this.

I'm getting used to this feeling—not because it's comfortable. In fact, it's lodged itself between my lungs and my ribcages and makes every moment a gasp for air. But I've grown into it—into relearning how to breathe, into talking in more of a whisper so that people feel like they need to be closer just to hear what I'm saying, into rewiring my circuitry so that every waking moment isn't spent deciphering what's in my head. Since the thing is explaining that would be like trying to hold up the sky with just the palm of your hand. Millions of years of the atmosphere and gravity existing—completely unyielding—all reduced to you with the entire world in your grasps. That's how big this feeling is. The size of the sky couldn't even hold it. Trying to tell you what I'm thinking is like figuring out what actually keeps our hearts beating even when we have no idea. Or reasoning how it is that even after someone leaves there's a piece of them alive in every person that's stayed behind. So each of us have spread ourselves thin and somehow we still subsist. Explaining this would be like explaining why everyone we meet has their own secret world they keep locked up inside of them and some of us are being absolutely torn apart in ours. It would be being able to tell you why we keep these things secret even though we all know they exist. We keep pretending and pretending we're not pretending. But the truth is there are some things we all know but just don't say. Every single one of us is dying in our own individual way. And still, however big all of this may be, it isn't even close to all of what rushes through my mind in a minute, in a second. You know that feeling between waking and dreaming where you can't tell whether you're asleep or actually awake. It's like a wave of pure confusion, of endless hope and every ounce of imagination you have wrapped up into one tangled mess of thoughts, dreams and memories. That's how thinking like this feels every single moment when I don't know what is real and what isn't anymore. I can't tell the difference between memories and make believe. And I certainly cannot tell you how I feel. So I'm taking suggestions as if I can live someone else's life just because I can't figure out mine. But if I could, I would tell the whole world everything I know, think or remember. Because I get so tired of explaining, of defending myself, of being misunderstood. I can only apologize so many times before it sounds absolutely empty and I can only say what I mean but most days, it just means nothing. I have so many words, and so few ways to actually show it without stuttering and stumbling and ruining the whole thing. I swear I have the best intentions in the worst of ways.

i wonder what it's like to look into your face and not want to spill every secret i've ever had. i want to be startlingly indifferent. i want to say i don't care and mean it. i want to be reckless in more than that jaywalking every morning on my way to work sort of way. i want to say something that will completely change the course of everything forever. i want to be the sort of thing people need to invent a new word for, because "cataclysmic" won't cover what a disaster i am. i want to be someone new. i worry about why the air always tastes several degrees colder than your skin. i know there's a correlation that i haven't figured out yet, but my mind doesn't work fast enough to make the connections anymore. i worry that all the synapses are breaking apart and my brain is shutting down. i worry that i'm dying in slow motion from the inside out so no one can even tell. not that anyone would care, but i worry about the most absurd of things. and then i worry that i don't worry enough about you. about me. about anything. i worry that this isn't me. i wish sometimes that the whole world wasn't such a disappointment. it's true that we let it get this way, but still wouldn't it be better if it was something…i don't know. more? i've grown sick of hating everything i see that reminds me of myself since i often wonder what will be left to love after i've torn everything apart. i wish that i was brave enough to say what i mean instead of speaking in these contradictions and inside out sentiments. i wish that people understood that it's the things we do when no one's watching that define us. because i swear, i'm better than i seem. or i want to be. i wish there was somewhere i could belong and that i had the simple sureness about myself that i used to plus all the confidence that the world really isn't so bad. that i could still get everything i could ever want. that everything will be okay. i still wish and want and worry because all i know right now is it's far too easy to lose all the things you thought you'd get to keep foreve

I can't even pretend things are simple anymore. It's raining again, and with every crash of thunder, I miss you more than I can bear. I know it's not worth saying, because really nothing much is anymore, but it doesn't make it any less true. It's eleven ten on a Friday night, and I'm sitting in the middle of the grass, watching the downpour spill off the roof. My t-shirt is clinging to my ribcage, and my hair is sticking to my face. I can feel the water running down the ridges of my spine, the backs of my hands, clumping in my eyelashes, but still, I don't move. Sometimes, when I can't stand what the world is doing anymore, I allow myself a thunderstorm to wash everything away. It's the meteorological equivalent to a clean break. Faster to heal -- or at least, that's what they say. The lightning is tearing across the sky, cutting through the darkness like a crack in the atmospheric layers. I'm staring at this like I half expect all the air to disappear around me while the world disintegrates. I'm still silently preparing for the worst, as he trudges out the front door towards me. He wraps my hands between each of his and pulls me up from the now soaking ground. Tilting his face close to mine, he asks me why I'm crying. I didn't even notice that the rain had started mixing with my tears after awhile. Defiantly, I tell him I'm not as he brushes his lips against my cheeks, under my eyes, catching the tears before they can make any more progress down my face. I'm sure he knows I'm lying, but it doesn't matter, because I know he, at least, is not going anywhere. He calls me ridiculous. He calls me beautiful, and most of all, he calls me when you don't anymore. Still nobody's ever had my heart quite like you. No one's ever broken it the way you have either. He asks me about you, and I don't know what to say. I don't know if I should tell him that I'll love you long after you're gone. That I'll still love you when you should have faded to a hazy memory in the back of my mind. That I'll love you forever. That I'll love you even when I shouldn't, because I can't help but feel right about being so undeniably and overwhelmingly wrong. As a shot of pain flickers across his face, quick as the flashes of lightning above us, I realize that I don't have to tell him anything, because he already knows. That's why I'm unsurprised when he opens his mouth and says, You just have to know that everything — even this — will someday become nothing more than a memory. You can't let it matter so much after awhile. I want to tell him that he's right. That someday it really won't. Because if love was fair -- if it were easy, people would be able to bestow it upon the ones that deserve it most, but somehow it doesn't work that way. Even though it should. I should love him by now. Not you. Never you. Not ever again. Unfortunately, love isn't refundable or exchangeable, because if it was, I'd be the first in line. Looking into the face of the boy who loves me more than I deserve, I realize there really aren't enough words to explain how sorry I am. I know he already knows. He knows everything. He knows how this ends. I can already hear the curtains closing. Turning his face away from me so that I can see the water rushing down the planes of his face, he starts to walk back towards the house. I hope it's worth it. His voice breaks uneven, catching on the snags and pains. I'm not sure if he hears me when I whisper. Believe me -- it's not. If I could go back to before I knew you, I swear I would. Maybe this would be different. Maybe I'd be okay with what I have instead of wishing for all the things that have passed and gone. Maybe I could love him like I'm supposed to. Like I should. Like he deserves. But instead, you happened to me, and all I can think is that there's nothing here for me. That I should have gone back for you. But most of all, that I'm sorry that you're still what I want, because you're nothing that I need.

i know i'm going to have to say goodbye soon. and i can't stand it. i won't even think of it outside the confines of this sentence and the sinking feeling I get anytime i'm driving too fast just to get away from this place. these four walls have left me feeling more alone than i ever expected. mostly because this house feels empty. even when everyone is here and even when i can't think because of all the yelling pulsating down the hallways, it's unspeakably hollow. i know it's because this place isn't home anymore. since home is a person and i lost that. i'm not where i'm supposed to be. i'm not with who i'm supposed to be. and i'm not who i'm supposed to be. but most of all, i don't know where i belong. sometimes, when it's late and i can't sleep, i replay the things i miss the most behind my closed eyelids. everything is about you or someone else who is just as gone. these are the things i do to myself when i'm too tired to fight anymore. too tired to even move. too tired to not think about you after an endless day of forcing myself not to. because during the day, the one thing i know with any type of certainty is i cannot afford to remember you. at least not right now. it's crippling. i can feel my bones fracture from the pressure of what could have been if i had been just a little more careful. kept my emotions in check. been patient and tried to figure out what you really wanted or if i had just been better at being with you, supporting you, loving you instead of getting it all confused. i'm sorry--i meant to do those things. i wish i would have or still could if you wanted me to. i'm more reckless than i think sometimes so when i'm playing the images in my head, i know i shouldn't be thinking these things, but i do not care. not right now. still i shouldn't be thinking about the taste of your skin. your fingers fitting perfectly between mine. your breath hot against my neck, my thighs, my mouth. You were everywhere. i can still feel you everywhere. and i swear to god, it's killing me. i cannot afford to think about the sound of your voice and how it's slipping from me. how you would bite the corner of your lip when you smiled even though i no longer recall the exact contours of your face no matter how hard i try. how my heart skips beats and fumbles and breaks everyday. the look on your face when i saw you last. the words i said to you when we fell apart. things i never should have said. things i never should have done. i cannot afford to remember these things since i cannot afford to remember you, but i also know i cannot afford to forget. this is why i'm stuck. this is why i can't get over you no matter how many times i begin, because there's this never ending universe of regrets and fears and confusion and pointless hopes that i may need a lifetime to sort out. i know that i'm going to have to live this way. loving you with half a heart. never quite whole again. i will never pretend i deserve anything better.

because the space reserved for them and you in my heart is more than broken.

i never feel colder than when i'm talking to you. i don't know what this says about us. but i know that i worry about the way you complicate something as simple as the beating of my heart. i don't think i love you. not yet. not since. not ever but maybe that's just the strong sense of denial i've built up in the past few months. i don't think i'll be okay. not now. not really. not quite. maybe you were good for me once but you're no good for me now. i often wonder what would happen if i stopped speaking for awhile since all my words ever do is make a mess out of things that should be easy. the thing is that when i'm happy i let myself write a better story than what i have. i get carried away and i make believe myself to be a more lovable character than i'll ever be. but this isn't fiction and the fact is sometimes all we get is one perfect moment. my moment was you. but darling, when it's over, it's over. there are no chances left. not anymore. i don't really think i'm hopeless even though most days, that's all i feel. i can't get over this idea that has been growing in my head. out of control and straight from my heart that all of this would be different if you met me before everything happened. but i know it's not true because that's not the girl i am supposed to be. not the girl i can be. but i second guess and imagine and dream such stupid things that i'm not over it yet. i'm not over this. i'm not. but i will be. someday. i can be better than all of this. somehow. i promise.

there is no word for this in any language, but there should be: the opposite of shipwrecked. the moment amidst the waves when you know, finally, that you have lost the shore. that is-- the resolute heart. the weight in your stomach with the first and last heave of hull against sand before you're drifting. the compulsion to drown all of your horizons, to lose yourself somewhere that no one will ever find you. the giving in. the stark moment of honesty between you and water and sky and water and sky and the god, maybe, that you were never sure of before now. the need that drove you to lose every shoreline. the second you know that you've succeeded. ---

to map sunrises on her skin, and be better than me.

one day I will tell my daughter to touch herself before she ever lets a man do it for her, to learn her body-secrets and the shape of pleasure. I will tell her that San Francisco always keeps your heart. that her skin is a blank canvas, that hair grows, the value of the right kind of disrespect. that the older we get, the more we need the people who knew us when we were young. I will tell my daughter to give away the secrets that keep her up at night, and that there is never a wrong time to love someone, but sometimes a wrong way. I will teach my daughter to travel without makeup; that sometimes forever means morning and sometimes the ends of the earth means Africa or one city over. that it's okay to be afraid of heights. I will tell my daughter that life is teetering across the bridge, that the panic building in her chest is okay; that good love is waiting on the other side; that better love is holding her hand; and that the best love is her own voice in the back of her mind, saying "you'll make it, just don't look down."

I keep coming back to the same scene, like someone who has come to question have they lapsed into compromised sanities… We tell so many stories as adolescents and I would know, having been one but I still do not know, what was and was not true the things we’d say back then and yet I lean towards a disbelief in their exaggerated adventures having had my own frosted loves and hard first times my then sixteen or something body how one’s emotions and thoughts twist them into confusion but the early application of initiated, further acts are rife with a sense of actual pain genuine, pain, on a physical plane and in remembrance even somewhat surprising, shocking And I consider how worse it may have been given that my body had not being peak for performance simply not ready… But I was most likely not the only one… I too, also, apologize to you… as you probably thought all the same things…also…

i. someday the sight-starved will find more than just the moon - that i promise you. we've seen all of what happiness will never be and like liquid stars in the milky way, smiles will seep down into the oceans of your laughter. never mind what they said about shady equilibrium; it's only man's insecurity. truth is, there is no karma - no rule, no eyes watching over you; just the forgotten remains of the god that falls on us every time it rains.

ii. someday, my dear, those cranes won't just be an exhibition of folded paper - and those tears you cry now? [which you hate so much?] will leak into my arterial walls and tell me they only tell stories of ecstasy; we just have yet to realize. love, it won't be long till autumn will not be as forgotten and between these multiple shades of grey, will rest the emptiness within yo[us] and the broken smiles of a shattered yesterday.

iii. grieve not, sweet traveler - our draining journey has just begun. and though you have been without comfort for so long, hold onto the strings pulling your heart together, for i am not far from home - not far at all. think of dancing star-light across a sky enveloping a forest that only tells stories of success and nothing else. good times await on the other side of the moonbeam you see. i am not far, love; you are not far from home.

iv. look toward the reflection that you loathe so strongly. see through my eyes - my forlorn irises who can't see beyond truth and fact. see how the years have been unkind and how little it gave us in return for what we lost, you are not gone, love, you are never far from home. the voices will stop, and your drawers will close before you notice, before anyone knows. and you'll find your eyes, your vision, insight. think only of liquid stars in the milky way, as smiles will seep down into the oceans of your laughter. because someday the sight-starved will find more than just the moon - that i promise you.

8/8-19

I don’t really know how it all started. It just… literally happened. All of a sudden, people were acting on what they were saying, but only when they uttered the l word.

Literally.

Pretty soon there were thousands of casualties from reports of people saying they were “literally dying of laughter.” A friend of mine suddenly perished from being “so hungry I could literally eat a horse,” and my sister went into clinical depression after saying her breakup was “literally the worst thing in my life.” I don’t know what happened, but it came out of nowhere.

After the literal death toll, people started changing their language. No longer could a local diner’s coffee be called “literally best in the world,” for baristas all over the world ransacked the owner’s store to grab this recipe, nor could a retail chain have “literally everything on the shelves,” as lethal plants and items would appear on the racks, the sheer force breaking the walls with an ever-expanding capacity. The power of this word grew supernaturally, and we have succumbed to its mercy.

We tried banning the word, but there was always someone who would literally destroy anyone who tried doing that. The government froze when an official said, “Time has literally stopped still here as we try to fix the budget def—”and pretty soon anarchy blossomed. However, those who would literally rule the world were condemned to measure it with 12-inch rulers. Who knew a word could have a sense of humor?

Monsters appeared after those looking for asylum said that they were “literally facing their demons.” Those colossal beings slaughtered innocent civilians before their creators fell to their knees, unaware of the beasts they released. This misuse has been catastrophic to say the least.

The remnants of our society are hidden beneath these literal waterfalls. We are afraid to utter the word because of the repercussions of it all. We’ve tried to use this for good, but it has failed us every time. How can we stop this from changing our lives? We’ve literally forgotten what are lives were before.

But erm, who are you again?

i called and you answered

yesterday i walked past the diner where we fell in love,

and i thought i saw the waitress wave at me as i went

by and i realized that the most terrible thing

in the whole world would be you rereading all those text messages

i sent you when i was stupid in love. those weren’t meant for you, okay,

those were for the boy who split his milkshake with me and

held my hand through an entire season of Friends and

sat with me in silence on dirty rooftops while we smoked stolen cigarettes.

look, i didn’t even mean to call the first time, but i was

drunk and high and cold and my old favorite song

came on the radio and i remembered how much you used to hate it

and my chest got so tight thinking about all the ways

we wouldn’t recognize each other anymore and i felt like i wouldn’t

ever be able to breathe easy again until i knew if your

favorite color was still purple. if it is,

don’t tell me. i think knowing that there’s

bits of the version of you that i loved mixed in with the you that

i do not know would only make this harder.

and god, it’s so hard already. all these years later,

and i kiss other boys, missing your mouth;

step out of warm showers still feeling cold,

get into an elevator with someone wearing your cologne

and feel the syllables of your name knocking incessantly against

the backs of my teeth for the rest of the day.

all these years later and i still tell your sister happy birthday every november,

look for the color of your eyes in the face of every stranger i meet,

feel the carpet burn on my knees from you pulling the rug

out from under my feet. we were

so in love and now sometimes i think about the fact that

you probably tell stories about me to new friends

and i feel so violated that it’s hard for me to leave my bed—

i’m sorry. i didn’t call you to make you feel guilt, and i’m not

trying to get you to care about me again, i promise.

i just want to know when you stopped. and why. and if

you have any tips you could pass on, because i’m sick

of avoiding certain songs and shows and cities because they remind me

too much of you.

look, what i’m trying to say is

i heard that you heard that

i was back in town. please, if there’s any

part of the boy from the diner left in the man

you’ve become, don’t come calling.

please. don’t call back.

dear you,

I don't miss it anymore.

These last few weeks we've learned more about ourselves than we ever hoped to know. We've met the monsters that live under our skin and make our old lives seem distant like memories. Like someone we used to know once upon a time and half forgot. An uncomfortable reminder that the people we've become aren't necessarily the best people we could be.

But, darling, we get by.

You used to always tell me that talk was cheap. Or worthless, even. You told me just because I was still speaking to you didn't mean I was saying a damn thing worth hearing. I mean after all, if you can't say it in a 160 characters, it's not worth saying, baby. I thought you were something special. I was wrong.

You were just like someone I used to know. A long, long time ago.

I grew up with all of your bad intentions. I grew up wondering who I would be if I never met you. Because for certain, knowing you has changed me more than I'd like to admit. More than I would have ever wanted. I'm not the same girl you fell in love with, but I hope you're still going to love me when I'm gone.

If you ever did, that is since it's so easy to pretend to love someone these days and so much harder to actually mean it.

These will never be the mistakes worth making. Every time I think of you I turn into a different person. So much so that I haven't the slightest clue who I am anymore. And you're stuck speaking silences that have me turning my head from miles away so that even when we're not talking, we still can't empty the spaces we used to occupy in each other's minds. I swear even when I'm busy forgetting you, you're the only thing etched into the back of my eyelids every time I blink. You're everywhere even when you don't want me. You're everywhere even when I think I can get over you. And I'm still on the tip of your tongue every time you meet someone new but sweetheart, we'll never admit it.

We're avoiding the problem, and this is getting difficult.

Maybe we're just going backwards. Isn't this the same place we were years ago? Aren't we desperately trying to be someone different by being the same as we were before? Sometimes, I wonder what the most insignificant thing I've ever done is. I make my choices like they'll define me, but then three days later, I can't remember the exact shade of your eyes or what I was wearing the first time we kissed. I realize that my hair is still a complete mess, and I still can't speak about you without stuttering. And that you're still gone. That there's nothing left to say.

And after all of this, the only thing I can think about is how we're both liars, how I still want to love you, and how I really don't miss it.

vasilinaorlova

Letters from the Depths of Solitude. On Passion

Passion is inflammable and can be kept at bay—trapped in a glass retort, sealed in a hermetic cube. You can fuel the fire and be consumed, and you can keep it smoldering under ashes. Lions can be let loose and teased into murderous rage with raw meat and blood, but they can also be groomed, put on little scarlet velvet pedestals, adorned with blue velvet bows, and taught to jump over hoops in a chesslike order.

Everything is possible in the best among possible worlds.

To let demons flicker around and tear your spiritual flesh, as it were, is easy, to chain them and make them serve you is difficult. But then of course, if you suffocate your wonderful demons, your lions, magnificent in their perpetual uproar, you have an eternity of boredom to entertain until something else summons them again out of the ever-potent void.

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

everland.x