there are 7 billion people on the planet and you only interact with like a fraction of a fracton of them in your lifetime. imagine how many incredible friendships or relationships you could have but you’ll never meet or get to know those people
I constantly think about this
"I like living. I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, acutely miserable, racked with sorrow; but through it all I still know quite certainly that just to be alive is a grand thing."
— Agatha Christie (via kushandwizdom)
It’s nearly 1am, and I should be sleeping but instead I’m here dreaming about driving a car hundreds of miles so that I can see the northern lights.
In between my laughter I saw the way he stared at you, eyes crinkled by smiles but strong and focused on your face. My heart felt nothing, but now I am awake in a silent house of strangers wondering why I could not tear my eyes away from a pair that would not meet my own.
I isolate myself, reason away potential loves and deny the ones that try to find their way in. I hurt myself over and over again, prying away lovers like they are leeches on my skin when they are the life-giving transfusions reminding me to stay alive.
"Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It’s that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that’s what the poet does."
— Allen Ginsberg (via istalksnape)
(Source: contramonte, via istalksnape)
I once read that every time you remember
an event, a time, a person
that you aren’t remembering the actual thing, but your memory of the thing itself.
Like a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy.
When I learned that I tried desperately not to think of you,
so that the things I remembered were as pure and real as I felt that they were,
but your mind can tell your heart so many things
with no promises that they’ll be obeyed.
Perhaps this is why I can’t seem to shake my feelings of confusion
that you are not what I thought I knew.
Your hand fits mine so perfectly in my dreams,
your is smile so much fuller in my mind
so different from the you I encountered.
How could it be that my heart beats so much faster at 2am when I am struggling to fall asleep and I think of you and everything you do to me,
than when I finally saw you.
And I can’t be angry at you
for the way things turned out to be.
I know now you cannot become the false facsimile of a person,
imperfections faded like a photo left in the sun.
That it’s impossible to fill the blurred edges of the of the hole you left,
just like I could not fill yours.
I lay on my bed listening to heartfelt outpourings from my sister. It’s so much easier to remember the wide-eyed child who would slip into my room and share stories and ask me questions about what to do. It was so much easier when I felt I had the answers or at the very least the right words to say. I wish I could keep her suspended in that time, before the harsh truths of the universe threw themselves into her life and body. But it’s unfair to hold onto the past, to press it against my heart because it is easier for me to bear. Better, I suppose, to listen and let her know I’m here. Is it terrible that even in the moments where her tears fall and crush my heart that I am uplifted by her depth, her bravery, her complexity? I feel I spent so much of my life admiring—envying even—her beauty, her talent, her kindness and charisma; and yet she continues to amaze me as I discover her strength, her compassion. She carries so much for someone so young, and I try as hard as I can to be someone better, stronger for her. I don’t know if this is what she wants or needs. I don’t know how I could be good enough, loving enough for her. When she hung up today, voice raw and emotions exhausted, I told her I love her and hung up the phone. I continued to stare upwards at my ceiling, watching a red haze fill my room from the passing cars below. And I wept.