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the taste of vulnerability. like rucula with pizza and wine. and you still feel the sting of having had the audacity to be honest with someone who most likely does not deserve you at your best. and you sit there with your incomplete sentences and your disjointed thoughts and your ego so small. so, so small. and you fight back the tears that you know will come later, when you are on your own (or perhaps just the taxi cab driver, quiet) and when you feel less exposed. this moment. you, misjudging yet again the connection, the situation, the very thing that you thing that life is all about when you boil it down to its substrates. but it’s nice to have the answer, they say. it’s nice to know where you stand, they say. it’s nice to be honest for the sake of honesty, they say. you hope hope hope that they are right and that all this will feel a bit less shitty. but you are also surprised, in some ways. pleasantly surprised that your intuition was there all along. pleasantly surprised that you knew yourself well enough. pleasantly surprised that you can take the pain and then still go back to packing your suitcase. and pick up the pieces. and go on.
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“Sometimes, I sit alone under the stars
and think of the galaxies inside my
heart, and truly wonder if anyone will
ever want to make sense of all that
— Christopher Poindexter
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“I’m lonely. And I’m lonely in some horribly deep way and for a flash of an instant, I can see just how lonely, and how deep this feeling runs. And it scares the shit out of me to be this lonely because it seems catastrophic.”
— Augusten Burroughs
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begin with the beginning. begin with a letter, a word, two words, a punctuation mark. begin without the thing you thought you needed to begin. begin with hating the beginning. begin with admitting to yourself that this is both stronger than you’d like it to be.
Being here is skewing my sense of what is normal. Things don’t feel the same way that I expect them to (we’re back to Matty, aren’t we? so much time spent waiting in my wallet.), and I think I’m still reacting to that. It started with the immediacy of no longer having you around – and then today I was listening to a monologue and it described how it happened and I felt just slightly more broken (broken down) after having heard it. like the deepest sigh you can imagine, amplified by the residue of not enough sleep and too much time spent milling over everything. and then there are the rifts of a different kind – the stuff you don’t think about, the banal stuff that just makes you go ‘shit, it’s changed, hasn’t it?’. It’s all so strange, this melancholy that follows you everywhere except the ocean. the highs and lows and highs and lows. and maybe what hurts the most is how predictable it all is.
tambahan: show up in the middle of the night. don’t knock. don’t turn on the lights. don’t say a single word. lie down and put your arm exactly where it belongs. fall asleep. stay.
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driving down the bypass, or perhaps on my way to get the bike, i cannot remember. but it was good. i was thinking about how incongruent all this is, and whether perhaps i am trying too hard to make it all fit. is it possible for the heart to feel so much more than it is entitled to? It was bound to happen, but tonight just happened to be the time and place. the exact moment when… when you remembered why you had forgotten and when I remembered why I still remember. I don’t want to be dramatic, I just want you to know that I understand how fucked up this whole existence is. and how I’m never sure which one of us wins. and how I wish that the playing field was somehow more even (but would you have noticed me if it had been?). or perhaps that the playing field had just given you a chance to make something of yourself that didn’t have to be realized through the insecurity of someone else. through the insecurity that portrays itself as love, and you fall so quickly. and when you’re there you can’t quite figure out how you got there. all there is is this keyboard, and this space, and this lateness. it’s past three now, and this is the best time to feel alone.
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what is alll this tequila sunrise, i wish i was the one you… complete this fucking sentence
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Мне нравится, что Вы больны не мной,
Мне нравится, что я больна не Вами,
Что никогда тяжёлый шар земной
Не уплывёт под нашими ногами.
Мне нравится, что можно быть смешной —
Распущенной — и не играть словами,
И не краснеть удушливой волной,
Слегка соприкоснувшись рукавами.
Мне нравится ещё, что Вы при мне
Спокойно обнимаете другую,
Не прочите мне в адовом огне
Гореть за то, что я не Вас целую.
Что имя нежное моё, мой нежный, не
Упоминаете ни днём, ни ночью — всуе…
Что никогда в церковной тишине
Не пропоют над нами: аллилуйя!
Спасибо Вам и сердцем и рукой
За то, что Вы меня — не зная сами! —
Так любите: за мой ночной покой,
За редкость встреч закатными часами,
За наши не-гулянья под луной,
За солнце не у нас над головами,
За то, что Вы больны — увы! — не мной,
За то, что я больна — увы! — не Вами!
3 мая 1915 / цветаева марина
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“The denizens of
ShoreditchMildmay Park should have inverted commas tattooed on their temples because everything they think or say comes with the bunny ears of irony, doused in ironic vinegar. ShoreditchThe Volgine is too cool to care. This is the alternative land where things are made worse on purpose; where bikes not only don’t have gears, the don’t have brakes; where trousers don’t have ankles; a land without socks. I am lost in it, geographically, culturally, symbolically, chronologically, and ironically.”
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not surpising. starting another year off with something/one that does not belong to me. I wish i could type quicker and think better and love purely and remember how things were. I wish i could be a little bit more honest with myself and with you, and I wish i could answer your question by screaming that it is right heeeerrrreeee. tomomorrow will blend into today and i will remember the red and the yellow and the things that you said and what I could not deny to be true. I wish i hadnt opened the window and let go and asked for tea and wished for things to be better than they are. I wish I could hang on. Instead of resolutions I have ifs, the mode of being, the reason for fights and late nights and getting home at five in the morning and wishing I had said yes. and wishing i had danced, and wishing i had known how to be less lonely, and wishing i could have held onto this moment for ever and ever and ever and ever. and hoping you got home safe. and turning off the lights a little bit earlier than i planned. and keeping promises. and not wanting to ever go back. and wishing that i had said things differently. and wanting this everthing to go away. it is a new year, but it is the same person it has always been, and that makes me just a little bit broken.