― Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms
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― Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms
I wish I could call you now and hear your voice.
I understand why you wouldn't answer.
I spent the weekend in the woods
Not all memories will last, but that doesn't mean you should stop making them
Oh to get lost in the chaos
antiquarian bookstores are my favourite
An empty bookstore in New Orleans
Types of Academics as Coffee
(From what I've learned as a tired barista)
Espresso: Cold, sleepless nights and too many thoughts matched with too little words to express them. Silver rings that clink against ceramic cups and leather journals that have started bending and fraying after constant trips in bags. One too many college emails and not enough from lovers, friends. Text messages with periods.
Americano: Burnt fingertips against a to-go and cold hands otherwise. It's justifiable -- helps to push them to move pencils against paper, strike keys on a worn-down piano on the commute to class. Baggy, cozy sweatshirts chosen over rows of formal wear in the closet -- but they still look just as sharp. Convincing yourself that a sleepless night is worth an easier month.
Caffè Latte: Yearning for comfort in a busy, blocked-in schedule. Hunting for a balance between reward over hard work and keeping with the demands of one too many classes they regret taking. Playlists upon playlists, some they forget about only to dig up later and sit with. Discomfort and disappointment in how quickly things change -- fashion, interests, hobbies they're just starting to good at -- but pushing through nonetheless.
Caramel Macchiato: Calm and practiced effort when taking on the night shift, trudging through the day to get to the peace and quiet of night. Padded headphones, an extra robe or blanket, and an unlit candle between stacks of papers -- all things to get to, but none quite sorted. Daggers framed on the walls, sharp enough to have left a small scab on their hand. Respect and divinity in all they touch and write and experience.
Flat White: Tik-tak sounds against keyboards, quick finger-cracks snuck in between paragraphs to keep going. Warm, crunchy pastries after a long day -- every crumb swept up by fingertips and discarded onto the plate. Ceilings lit up by phone notifications, stained shoelaces, and analytical eyes over articles upon articles -- people upon people.
Caffè Mocha: Lingering smells from the night before, not quite washed away by a morning shower. Still trying to figure out how exactly they should be balancing their classes -- it's the end of the first semester. They're running late but their friends know them -- bring them a coffee they couldn't get to or remind them of a lab they're missing.
White Chocolate Mocha: Classics snapped closed because they just aren't as good as the latest fiction they had their hands on. Going step-by-step, pausing even after a whirlwind of events to sort everything out and look ahead. Excitement in prom or social events -- counting down the days until the next holiday or test or party.
Tea: Trying to see something -- a hint of the future -- in the dregs of their brew. Not ready for a relationship but longing for one -- not quite settled in their independence but not ready to compromise it. Music over a speaker, flooding a room with whatever they're into at the moment. A single tarot card pulled every month -- pinned to the wall.
I think about this meme every single day
a murakami protagonist day*
do the dishes
make your bed
read a book in silence
get the groceries for one or two meals
have a beer
go for a walk
(get a phone call from nobody)
follow a cat through the neighborhood
do the laundry
change your sheets
sit on your couch and listen to a full album
take a shower
sit on your balcony at night
go to a diner alone and have a bite to eat
watch people from afar
take a train to the next town
call an old friend
clean your room or house
take a nap
have a cup of tea
paint or draw
air out the room
stretch or do yoga
(* murakami’s descriptions of his protagonists’ day to day lives always seem so mundane and calming to me that I thought I’d list a few activities that fit right in and might calm me, too.)
I wanted to be loved so desperately
That my fingers shook with it
I am not beautiful
But I could be.
You can feel the poetry
rotting in your stomach
you, who opened suns in my heart,
obsessed with bed.. i love bed. obsessed with pillows blankets and such literally love sleeping
23.9.21 | Reading about animal vulnerability for my English literature class.
@aletheia_phos