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@upinthecloude
Just because you bury something, that doesn’t mean it stops existing.
Jenny Han, We’ll Always Have Summer (via bookmania)
2:59
110 freeway and arroyo seco.
south pasadena, ca.
good riddance, south pasadena, california
ig: phdonohue
Those rainy late nights
3:18am
“When you’re a kid, Jesus sounds like a hippie or Bernie Sanders or something so it all sounds pretty nice. But then the rules get confusing. You go to Catholic school and some guy in a dress named Brother Roy starts beating you cause you got in a fight. It’s sorta like Gitmo in there. And you start to realize that all these rules are just to keep people down. To keep women down especially because they have the ultimate power of not fucking you. I do like the Jews because their version is less full of shit. A lot of those Talmud guys are so smart that they’re practically just atheists who love fairy tales. And Buddhism is pretty cool too cause it’s all in your head. No Pope. No mandatory meetings. Anyway, let me know if you figure it out. I don’t know shit I just dress well.”
If I were really really ridiculously wealthy, I wouldn’t buy a mansion, just tiny apartments in every city I love.
Mara Wilson (via re-examine)
still relevant
Snow day in Tokyo
Everyday life in Tokyo
by chris_holden
Don’t let yourself be controlled by three things: people, money, or past experiences.
Anonymous (via wordsnquotes)
We are, as a species, addicted to story. Even when the body goes to sleep, the mind stays up all night, telling itself stories.
Jonathan Gottschall (via aequaliss)
untitled
There was something ephemeral about it all. The coincidental collision of tastes and preferences, the way your fingers interlocked with each other, the kissing. But perhaps the most striking was the resonance between the two of you. How you understood not so much each other, but yourselves. How you understood the dangers of expectations, the false pretense of budding romance, and the terrible consequence of such a thing you'd coin as traveler's high.
See, you understand. You understand not the romance of travel, but the Romance of travel. The interstitial moments that bridge two foreign worlds. You understand that these moments, seemingly short, can feel like years. The fact is, so few people understand, that the novelty of it all is relative. Relative insofar that you know it's relative. And so, you know there's nothing you can do. Though you may look and search far and wide, you will never encounter such a place and time ever again. But it's okay. Even though it feels like a lifetime, it's over in a flash. Brief. Fleeting. That's okay. Both of you know it's okay.
A time and place is unique in that a place will never be the same time ever again. And the mistake made is to search for such a pairing in the future: to re-read a sentence instead of reading the next. Our lives change, people change, time changes. People in general harbor a deep insecurity in the unknown. Why does this sentence not connect with the next? Why does the next not connect with the present? I used to blame Hollywood for this feeling. I called it the romance of oversimplification. If there are two things that we, as humans, fall prey to the most, they are expectations and shortcuts. Communal society raises us with expectations of success: in career, in friendships, in love. And the inherent resistance of some possibly longer, unknown path in fact fosters our tendency for shortcuts to some end state. But what if we throw that away? Can we train ourselves to only expect the unexpected? Can we train ourselves to stop attempting to stitch together a linear sequence of events, but instead embrace the entropy of the brief and fleeting? Perhaps that in itself is the secret to achieving success, not striving for success itself.
Written in Sapporo, Hokkaido on January 4, 2017
Untitled #8
The drive up so far was smooth. A few tough patches here and there, but nothing a simple flick of the high beams couldn't fix. But you're quickly approaching the long, straight stretch of the road that is almost always engulfed by a cloud of fog. The darkness is eerie, and strangely (and a little scarily) familiar.
The drive, still, is smooth and clear. It's nighttime now, so definitely a bit harder to see than a few hours ago, but nothing you haven't dealt with before. The night will pass, and then comes another day. But before you even finish that train of thought, you notice that you can't even see 3 feet in front of you. In an instant, the nighttime is swallowed by a choking darkness, so uncomfortably humid that you struggle to breath. Nothing in front, nothing behind. The high beams turn out to be utterly useless, doing nothing but diffusing the light into the darkness, almost making it even more viscous and unmanageable. You flick on the fog lights and see marginally better, the faint outlines of lanes three feet ahead and three feet behind.
The lanes were designed for this very purpose, acting as a clear set of guidelines for drivers to follow, even when it gets impossible to see. But where they lead, you have no clue. The last time you were here, indecisiveness threw you into a last minute swerve off the turnpike and you ended up in New York City. Not the worst place to be, to say the least, but perhaps that's not the destination now. But then again, where do all of the other lanes lead? In the darkness of the thick fog, it's impossible to tell.
In these situations, it's best to slow down and stay course. The lanes will guide you where you need to be. You shift down to fifth, then to fourth. But the change in speed is uncomfortable, almost as if you weren't moving at all. And what if someone comes up behind you in the fog? There goes that. So you shift back up, all the way to sixth. You feel the car piercing through the fog, jerking left and right as you hit patches of inconsistent pressure.
Maybe the lane you're in isn't paved properly? The car shouldn't be rattling so strongly and jerking so sporadically. You figure the left lane might be better, so you nudge the steering wheel in that direction. Big mistake; you're already in the fast lane. You feel the vibrations of the left tires rolling over the bumps in the leftmost lane, indicating the absence of any further space, the feedback magnified 10 fold by the speed at which you're driving. You quickly nudge the wheel back to the right, realigning the car inside the lane, still unable to see any further than 3 feet.
Hopeless and lost, you keep both hands on the steering wheel, you concentrate and focus solely on keeping the car between the lines. With every second that passes, you tell yourself, "DON'T. CROSS. THE. LINES." With any luck, you'll pass through only mildly scathed. With any luck, you won't take any last minute swerves or unnecessary down-shifts. With any luck, you'll exit this glob of darkness and fog, still in control of where you want to go.
May 22, 2017 at 2:51 AM