sometimes it hurts a lot, and sometimes it hurts a little. sometimes you’re sitting in the middle of a library and you got enough sleep last night and all that really matters is the work you haven’t gotten done that’s due in an hour, and this feels pretty normal. like you made it, somehow. sometimes you’re riding a train home and something clicks inside of you and you’re set off like wildfires, you become alight with memories you’re too choked up to swallow. sometimes nothing happens inside of your brain because it’s filled with thoughts that are deadly gas leaks. those are not the good nights.
it’s scary because we’re all these little harmless bubbles, i guess. like we are full of stories and rhymes and there’s no reason to us. and sometimes one of us just kind of pops, and they’re gone for good. like you start having to say “yeah, i knew him,” instead of “yeah, i know him.” it’s scary. we’re so vulnerable.
and there’s no real way to know if someone’s alright like if they’re having one of those moments where stuff just feels human and good or if they’re having one of those bad days where the sky tastes like whiskey and they just want to drown themselves in anything willing to swallow them up. like you can look someone in the eyes and say “i’m doing fine” and really mean that if you had a shotgun and a bullet, you’d go through with it. like you can literally lie to someone about wanting to die - and someone can do the same to you.
i wonder about that a lot, you know? like how many people i haven’t noticed are ready to click themselves out of the picture. like how many people i didn’t help because i totally bought it when they sold the idea they were whole and doing well. i wonder if they go home and think nobody really cares enough to look deeply. i care about you, i just trust too easily and i want to believe that you’re not dying. i guess that’s just some coping mechanism, you know? humans can’t believe the ones we love want to go. we can’t live with the idea that they’ll slip under if we leave them alone, so we paint them with good swimming skills and not a drop of sorrow in their bones.
or maybe i’m just self-centered and awful. i don’t know.
sometimes you leave a place and the farther away you get from it the more things you seem to remember, except it’s not really memories, it’s your mind playing tricks, constructing narratives you wish were real and it’s all fine and well and great really, except, you’re far away and longing for a place that doesn’t really exist. you’re in a foreign city and alone and it seems like there was a time and a place where darkness held more than emptiness and home was a feeling and not just a cold bed and a light that flickers.
sometimes you leave a place, but you don’t leave it, not really, you carry it with you, like sand in your palms and it trickles down, down, down, and you try to hold on, but then you look around and you realize that you’re waist deep in the sea and you swim and you find that maybe you were meant to be a fish. the shore was never your home. the sand was weighing you down.
sometimes you leave a place.
sometimes you leave a place and sometimes you go back and sometimes you find everything’s the same, but it feels different, it feels like there’s glass between you and everything you touch and people are speaking in a language you no longer understand and they smile differently and yes, that’s lines on your friends’ faces, and yes, you have them too. time.
sometimes you leave a place and sometimes you go back and everything’s different.
sometimes you leave a place and never go back.
one time, after many sometimes, you’ll realize it’s the people you love, not places, and home can be anywhere, anyplace, just find someone to build pillow forts with you and eat ice cream at dawn and laugh, laugh, laugh until it’s laughter that’s trickling down your palms.
“We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered.”—Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead (via larmoyante)
“This is one more piece of advice I have for you: don’t get impatient. Even if things are so tangled up you can’t do anything, don’t get desperate or blow a fuse and start yanking on one particular thread before it’s ready to come undone. You have to figure it’s going to be a long process and that you’ll work on things slowly, one at a time.”—Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood (via tayelchapo)
I saw people on fb ranting about how HONY did not mention if they will be visiting Pakistan and how they should be visiting Pakistan and Kashmir after India. And I am sitting here thinking why do we need HONY to project us. Why do you need…
our train is delayed and i am late for lunch with a boy i like because he makes me feel less lonely and that seems like a sufficient definition for love these days in this city where it is possible to be surrounded by the warmth of millions of apartment lights and still feel cold
You can’t stop letting the rain get to you; you are tired. You feel 30 when you are 22. Life is caving in, but a few caves had to fall to build volcanoes’ molten middle. You are 7,000 years of repression. The world will hear your thoughts all at once in all it’s might.
And when life gives you lemons, plant a tree, baby. No one ever made changes without passing lessons on. Sow your trials into the ground and you won’t just find your roots - you will make them.
If you happen to get up on the wrong side of the bed, give a small whisper of thanks for being able to get up at all today. Remember the universe is vast, remember we are all finite. You will breathe with less entitlement.
And if you get the ax, consider yourself free, child. You are fuel. You are flammable, baby. Without you there is no fire during winters and fall.
If it so happens that you bite the bullet, remember you are not a target. You are a weapon. They have armed you. Aim and fire.
And don’t believe them, darling. You are never at the end of your rope. Life is not series of mass hangings but be careful who you choose into your life. Either they make a noose or attach a booey.
The more you travel, the more you lose sight of who you are. People always say travel will help you “discover yourself” or redefine who you are- I think what travel really does is just let you get over defining yourself altogether.
You’re in a flux, constantly changing and evolving. After a while, you lose track and don’t even know if you miss your friends back home or you love the idea of missing them so much that you’re inducing sadness upon yourself. The constant change brings uncertainty in your life, which consequently brings growth, open-ness and willingness.
Travel will help you lose sight of who you are. And that’s a definitely a good thing.
“He says he has the hands of a carpenter, not soft, like my past lovers.
By this he means: “Not good enough”.
I tell him to carve me;
widdle me with his words until I am nothing
but sawdust kissing the ground and he
is the one sweeping me up.”—Sext (He Loves Me with Wood-chippings)
“We can never get yesterday back, and we can never know what tomorrow will bring. So live today like yesterday’s gone, and live like there’s no tomorrow.”—william chapman (via classybitchbutnevertrashy)