to be (in part) unafraid
there are far too many things I’ve written that I never want anyone to read that I also want to scream from every rooftop I am deathly afraid of pitching off of. I think love should be about swallowing someone whole and that should scare me but it doesn’t and the fact that it doesn’t scare me should scare me too but it doesn’t and so on. day after day I marvel at the incredible vast smallness of the world: how each of us exists in both synchrony and singularity, how completely we are similes for extravagance, for tangled-up things that we shouldn’t have to be. I want a love that tears me apart and it isn’t scary at all. the world is so wide and I cannot stop for the life of me but then again, I don’t think I’ll ever even want to.