@please-let-me-be-thin - Tumblr Blog

I’ve always been fascinated by the confidence with which people speak about God.

Some speak as though He is an old friend. Others dismiss Him as though they’ve met Him personally and decided they didn’t get along.

I have never belonged to either group.

I don’t know how to believe without questioning, and I don’t know how to question without secretly hoping there is something waiting on the other side of the answer.

Maybe that’s what faith has always been.

Not certainty.

Just refusing to stop knocking.

Love stopped feeling enormous the day I realised it could fit inside a lunchbox.

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I envy believers sometimes. Not because they have answers, but because grief has somewhere to knock. Mine only echoes.

The candle never asked whether God existed - it burned anyway.

Growing older is not losing who you were. It is watching yourself become someone your younger self would have to forgive.

Grief is strange. At first it takes everything from you. Then, slowly, it gives pieces back - but never in the places where they belonged.

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I spent years becoming myself, only to realise I had been collecting pieces of everyone else. I don’t know where I end and my memories of others begin.

I kept the memories until the memories began keeping me. And somewhere between remembering you and remembering myself remembering you, I disappeared.

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I forgave you so many times, that forgiveness became something unforgiving. It demanded that I forget the pain before I had even finished feeling it.

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I think one of the strangest parts of growing older is discovering that everyone you love existed before you.

Your mother was once a girl who had secrets.

Your father once had dreams nobody remembered.

Your grandparents once danced badly at parties and worried about things that seemed enormous at the time.

It feels almost unfair.

We meet people halfway through their stories and mistake the chapter we entered for the beginning.

Maybe that is why losing people hurts so much.

Not only because we lose them.

Because we lose all the versions of them we will never get to meet.

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I think one of the strangest parts of growing older is discovering that everyone you love existed before you.

Your mother was once a girl who had secrets.

Your father once had dreams nobody remembered.

Your grandparents once danced badly at parties and worried about things that seemed enormous at the time.

It feels almost unfair.

We meet people halfway through their stories and mistake the chapter we entered for the beginning.

Maybe that is why losing people hurts so much.

Not only because we lose them.

Because we lose all the versions of them we will never get to meet.

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There are books on my shelf I bought years ago. I keep them because I believe one day I will become the kind of person who reads them - perhaps that is all hope is: a future version of ourselveswe keep preparing a place for.

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I miss the person I would have become if I had made different choices. I wonder if she ever thinks about me.

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The moon has never chosen between us. It arrives at both our windows without asking who stayed, who left, or who deserved the light. Perhaps that’s why I’ve always trusted her more than people.

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The swing was smaller than I remembered. Childhood, it turns out, doesn’t exaggerate joy. It exaggerates distance - between the ground and our feet, between tomorrow and forever.

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When I unfolded your old coat, the moths had already begun. Not with the wool. With the places your shoulders had taught it to remember. It startled me, how quickly absence developed an appetite.

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I still know your phone number. Not because I remember it, but because my fingers begin dialing before I’ve decided who I miss. Memory, I’ve learned, doesn’t live in the mind. Sometimes it settles in the hands.

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