The infrequency, the uncertainties terrify me, yet I’m kept holding on, anxious for more. I never know what to expect, when you will be around- you go just as quickly as you come: no build up, one night here, by dawn, gone. But I find a beauty in this, the way I might find a beauty in your every flaw. The brevity during which my world is lit up at its darkest point- I see things a way I normally can’t. Too short for me to assess the damage, and all I see is the way your light reflects, your ability to make everything look better than I ever would have seen.
You are the thunder.
Not foreign, but only because I’ve been imagining, nights and nights on end. You haunt me in my dreams, confuse me. Your destructive abilities are lost on me as I remain entranced by the brief beauty of your only warning, mere seconds prior. A brief flash. Then your roar, it shocks me into the reality of what I’ve dug myself into. I hate this part. You know nothing of what you do, or worse, you don’t care. The implications of your actions don’t matter to you, all damage is collateral damage.
You are a typhoon.
This carefree attitude you carry in everything you do; so unnerving, so invigorating. The way you can just sweep me up in a torrent of smiles and laughs and cuddles that mean nothing to you, but the world to me. You dance across the pages I read, the pages I write, the pages I leave blank when you render me speechless. You spin me around, disorientate me, breathe into me, revive me. I want to learn from you, a grace that trips me up, a passion that mutes me.
You are the rain.
The pitter-patter pattern of your speech, the drip-drops of our breathing, heart thumping, piercing a comfortable silence. A silence you wouldn’t mind closing your eyes to, inhaling, revelling. You are incontrollable- the things you say, the way you act. Sometimes, you are - you just are. Sometimes, it just doesn’t matter where you fall, where the wind takes you. As long as you are: to be in the moment.
You are the snow.
I haven’t met you, but I yearn to know you. I yearn to be buried in the depths of your purity. Your cold, rigid arms will stretch to embrace me, and I may want to, but I won’t shrink away. I don’t know you- I may never know you, and this struggle of not knowing, of being so close, of almost-theres… It kills me, and… I become lost. Do I continue on, into the unknown, or do I follow my footsteps back to the familiar, before they fade?
You are the world.
You are the world, in all its impurities and all its purities, its imperfections and its perfections, rarities and regularities. Cosmos and nature when I am overwhelmed and in need of grounding; chaos, calamity in times of dreary monotony. You provide reason, yet so many questions about you remain unanswered. I want to know more, eager to finally know: what, how, why?
You are the world.
You are starred in all that I see, all that I hear; you radiate in all that there is, if only I look and listen hard enough.
If you died, I don’t think I would’ve live very long either. All I know is I’m so glad you didn’t carry out your thoughts because I know I wouldn’t have been better off without you. I won’t say all the ‘I’m here for you’ crap because I know you know it already. I know I’m not the best person to go…
Unexpectedly saw this whilst doing some best friend stalking.
Don’t make me cry, silly moose. (Like silly goose, but moose because you’re in Canada. JK GEESE FLY AROUND BY YOUR WINDOWS THERE- WHAT?!)
I love you so fucking much and can’t wait for you to get back <3
Thank you so much for bearing with me when I moan, groan and whine about boys and other things that really don’t matter at all and I’m sorry if I ever get mad or frustrated and please don’t ever hesitate to talk to me… :<
I miss you so much, exactly 3 months to go, bb :>
I love you so so so so much.
Thank you so so so os osos much you make me cry ugh I love you xxxxxxxxxxxxxx I miss you so much uaghaghh!
No. Don’t even bother anymore. It’s either you give me full responses and mean it or you don’t talk to me at all. Don’t give me those half-assed replies. Seriously. I’ve tried so hard to talk to you, make convo, ask you to chill and what not but fuck that shit. Step up your game fast doe. I’m an impatient motherfucker and I’m not one who’s going to bother if you don’t.
what’s the likelihood that out of this infinite stretch of matter that is the universe,
only this little bit of rock has life on it,
life that’s built its own empire…?
imagine finding a planet really really far away (really really really really really really x a billion far away), and seeing moving creatures with weird metallic structures stretching ‘sky-high’ like the buildings we have.
or even just finding a planet with moving creatures full-stop.
what if we’re looking in all the wrong places?
what if we’re actually GIGANTIC and HUGE as ‘living creatures’ even though we’re minuscule in the ‘grand scheme’ that is the universe?
what if, actually, on the tiny little rocks that might mean nothing in space, there are even-tinier-littler creatures on it? tinier-and-littler than ants or microscopic organisms but as ‘advanced’ as humans.
the idea of parallel universes is so nice and appealing, but also so fucking idiotic. parallel universes as in a thousand billion trillion gazillion universes…
one where earth doesn’t exist.
another one where snails rule the world.
another one where humans are giants
what’s the likelihood that out of this infinite stretch of matter that is the universe,
I want to take a moment to thank you for the solid sense of consistency that you provide in my everyday life. Things are so uncertain lately: there’s a satellite hurtling towards Earth, Wall Street is occupied, and there was a moving truck spotted outside Ashton and Demi’s home. The current state of affairs is definitely unsettling. Yet, I always know what I’m going to get with you, and for that, I’m full of gratitude.
You never text me back in any prompt or polite fashion (if at all). I never have to worry about interrupting my workday with a rapid-fire thumb conversation via smartphone. I’m never distracted while driving and I always sleep soundly given your blatant lack of response to the friendly things I say. There is no blinking red light or text alert bell to disturb me during an important conversation with a friend; I am always present. In fact, I’m largely able to go about my day as if I didn’t know you at all given the compassionate way in which you choose not to waste my time with silly, meaningless banter.
You ignore me while out with our crowd. I never have to worry about irritating my girlfriends by hanging all over you instead of socializing with them because you so kindly remove yourself from my side each and every time we go out.
You never help to clarify the nature of our relationship. Words and labels can really bog a person down and you know better than to burden me with that conversation. In fact, you keep things fresh and intriguing by refusing to let me know how you’re feeling. It’s a fun little game we play and I can only imagine it’s a hell of a lot more exciting than the stability our overly-articulate friends suffer through.
Come to think of it, what I so consistently love about you is the inconsistency with which you treat me every day. The unpredictability of our affair is so delightfully predictable that I feel perfectly at home with the notion that you will run hot and cold at the drop of a dime. While this fluctuation might make other less confident women uncomfortable, I find that your large periods of absence cultivate my own sense of autonomy. How can our friends not see that this is the ideal relationship? Two completely separate individuals who may or may not talk on any given day, give each other ample space when out in public, and never ever participate in any stressful dialogue that attempts to shackle or restrain the other.
So, thank you again, Bad Boy, for being some of the only normalcy in my life. I change my hair, my clothes, my job, but I know that you will always be a constant, someone that I can rely on to keep me endlessly guessing. And if our love affair ends in some explosive fashion tomorrow, that’s OK… because I’d totally expect if from you. It’s Good Guy that us ladies really have to watch out for anyway; when he does you dirty, you never see it coming.
I don’t want to be friends with you because you’re a taker, not a giver. You’ll sit here and laugh at my jokes, asking me to tell more stories (jk you’ll tell me you’re not interested), but you won’t give me anything in return. You’ll come to me for advice but fail to even ask how I’m doing. You suck the energy out of me. You don’t add anything to any given situation and I’m too old and busy now to carve out time for people who don’t mean the world to me. I don’t want to be friends with you because the one thing that bound us together is now over. It might’ve been college or the fact that we both liked to drink a lot and now I’m getting sober or because we had no other friends and needed someone to latch on to. Whatever it was, it’s now over. I realize now that we were close by circumstance and our bond wasn’t strong enough to withstand changes.
I don’t want to be friends with you because we hang in different crowds. You go to sports bars and listen to Rob Thomas on your iPhone and have a casual belief in Jesus Christ. I don’t. Sometimes the surface things don’t matter. Sometimes best friends can like different music, clothes, religion, politics, and lovers, and still feel like they’re Feeling Twins. But other times, interests and hobbies are the ultimate decider. I didn’t make the rules, okay? The high school cafeteria did!
I don’t want to be friends with you because you’re shady. I thought you were cool. On the surface, everything checked out, but then I dug a little deeper and was creeped out by what I found. You’re just a total Etch-A-Sketch. You’ll air kiss me into oblivion and make me agree to brunch plans. Then, in the same breath, you’ll say something vaguely insulting about me.
I don’t want to be friends with you because I want to have sex with you. Like a lot. It’s getting to be too much for me.Ordinarily I would just deal with the fact that we’re platonic but with you, it’s too much.I will never not imagine you naked, which is a serious red flag for a potential friendship. You can either have none of me or all of me. Pick one.
I don’t want to be friends with you because you don’t get it. I don’t know how to make you get it. If I could bottle “GETTING IT” and sell it at the Friendship Store, I would but I can’t. I also can’t describe exactly why we don’t click as friends. The differences are subtle but they’re there. They’re there enough for me to be a flake and never show up to any of our plans. There’s no point in us getting coffee. All it’s going to do is make me feel depressed and remind me of how many people there are that I don’t relate to.
I don’t want to be friends with you because you don’t talk crap. Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t want a friend who’s evil but I need someone who has opinions and likes to talk about them. If I could choose between spending time with someone who’s bland and agrees with everything I say (“OMG, totally. Yeah. I agree completely. Yup.”) or someone who’s completely different from me but has interesting thoughts, I’d definitely choose the latter. At least I wouldn’t be bored.
I’ll be a star cloud because that’s what your presence reduces me to. A mass of luminosity and in those moments, I’m impossible to measure mathematically. Not with the naked eye, anyway. It’s simpler than that: you say my name and I’ll glow.
You can be the North Star, burning bright and hot. You’re Polaris because you stand out, because you’re a fixture in my sky. Because when I’m lost, I can find you and be okay. You’re my point of reference.
Speaking of Polaris, we can be the Big Dipper and Little Dipper, the Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, the Big Bear and Little Bear – whichever name you prefer as long as we’re partnered together in perpetuity. Our bond will know no lingual or cultural or geographic limits. No matter where two people stand on this Earth, they’ll look up and see us and know that we belong together.
We can be whichever constellations you like, at least in the beginning. In the beginning we’ll be all starburst and Andromeda and other striking sights that’ll inspire envy; but it won’t stay that way.
This is when the game loses its sheen.
Maybe we’ll stop communicating. I’ll grow distant; I’ll grow colder like Mars. And you’ll grow angrier, volatile like Jupiter. A mess of rock and metal and discarded things will separate us, an Asteroid Belt of our grievances. But I’ll overlook it; I’ll still sit by your side and will your storms to quit brewing. Anything to make them stop brewing.
Or maybe you’ll grow distant first. Perhaps you’ll become the Sun and I, the Earth — turning in on myself to revolve around you because you are the light and what keeps me warm. Me rotating around you. Your selfishness so belittling that one day, I’ll become too small to be the Earth. So you’ll take my place, and I’ll become your moon. This is a better fit because some days I’ll appear to be whole but others? I’ll look like I’m half, or a quarter, or just a tiny sliver of who I was. On rare occasions, we’ll still align. I will pass through your shadow and bask in your sunlight; my face awash in gold and red and I’ll remember the way things were. But lunar eclipses, they’re few and far between and they’re not enough to save us.
Perhaps one moon won’t be enough for you, eventually. Eventually you’ll want what the others have, you’ll want eight moons or sixteen moons or more, so you’ll become Saturn. You’ll have more rings, more moons than you’ll know what to do with. And I will have no choice but to take the hint. I’ll be Pluto: downgraded and disregarded and cast aside. “You’re not even a planet anymore,” you’ll say, and I’ll know we’ll never be the same again. I’ll feel really, really small.
Finally it’ll become too much, the heartache. So I’ll be a supernova, one who was once a star but is now explosive, exploding, exploded. And it will be spectacular, you’ll be impressed by the amount of light I had inside of me. You had no idea just how much.
But it’s of no consequence. Because you are all of the planets, and all of the moons, and all of the matter; you’re all that matters. You are the sun; and you’ll just keep spinning and spinning and spinning.
"So last night you came over to make the really grand gesture of telling me nothing happened between us. Nothing. Like, the complete absence of something. Hey bro, seems like if that was true you wouldn’t need to mention it, but thats just me. I guess I never realized what a strong word that was before though. Not one little thing. Like a black hole that just sucks any feelings away.
I’m not a completely crazy person. I understand that you were not my boyfriend. Not even a little bit. Not even close to a little bit. We were not star-crossed lovers. We weren’t going to fall in love in the last frame and make love to a movie montage. I freaking get it already, but there’s a difference between not running off into the sunset together and ‘nothing.’
This is about feminism, Platonism and our culture’s stupid Aristotellian bias. We think of things that are physical or quantifiable as ‘real’ but ethereal things — emotions, relationships, ‘feelings,’ — those are thought of as feminine and are of little consequence in decision making. Just because something can’t be seen or touched or counted, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.
We didn’t date for three months. If something like that had happened, you would be okay with me having some kind of feelings for you. But because you denied me a label, you think you’re withholding your permission for me to feel emotions about you. What happened was, I felt like you were a good person. What happened was, I met your family and it was like no one had ever told them their son was really great before. And they reminded me of my family. What happened was, you kissed each of my fingers one time when I was falling asleep. What happened was, you asked me to be around you all the time because it made you happier. But, that’s nothing, isn’t it?
I’m not asking for a statue to be built in memory of this fleeting flirtation. I’m just asking for you to not tell me that I imagined it. Let it be okay to think something little was really great.”
like i said it would be. bye two day streak <3 you were really good, i had a lot of fun but it was fun i wasn’t meant to have
not for me.
i wish it were right for me but
we really are reading from two different scripts…
we want different things and it’s so good as it happens because it’s so ambiguous anyway, we can take it to be either way (lol one more than the other and it’s not yours) but afterwards i know it means shitall to you so lol qq moarrrrrrrrrrrr.
I know no one is filming this, but sometimes I like to stare out of my window for too long anyway, I like to imagine that you’re standing on the sidewalk below it and craning your neck and begging can I come upstairs, please? Whenever the bell rings I hold my breath — just for a second — just to imagine that when I twist the lock and turn the knob and open the door you’ll be standing on the other side of it for no reason. You, the male lead — not a deliveryman, not a roommate of mine who’s misplaced her key.
And just when I think we’re reading from two different scripts, our hands meet blindly, neatly. They clasp without hesitation, never questioning for a second that they’re where they belong — these knuckles and joints and nails. I like to inspect the way our fingers lace, searching for the formula or the equation that explains how seamlessly they fit together. And when you catch me studying this marriage of skin, I wish you would suspend reality and look at me like someone has whispered stage directions in your ear: chin up, hand on cheek, smile with your eyes.
But there’s no stagehand feeding me my lines, so I often pause when I’m speaking to you for dramatic effect, as though I’m afraid or nervous or unsure of these sentences I’m stringing together. As though I could forget what I want to say — if only forgetting my lines were that easy. I pretend it’s difficult to tell you how I feel even though the words come naturally as my own name. It’s not difficult at all; this is the easy part.
The difficult part is trying to keep this role I’ve carved for myself, this role I’ve studied and auditioned for and earned. There are accidents and understudies, women who await in the wings, just as capable as I am except younger and tauter and hungrier for this thing than you’ve allowed me to be. I don’t know their names but I know they exist, dormant reminders that I can’t play this part forever.
I’m well aware that we are not stars in some black and white film, that I will not sit on a train with my open palm pressed against glass waiting for yours to match it. I will not look back as I move further and further away from you, shrinking into the distance; and you will not run after me when I make my final exit. When this scene ends, no one will applaud.
… You find reasons to disentangle yourself from them; it’s only going to hurt later, you can tell already. You stay up way past your bedtime for them. You look at the clock and know their schedule. You neglect other people and other things, and beat yourself up about it. But it’s like they have a hold of your hands and your voice, and you don’t mind. It’s like you’re trapped in an hourglass; you know your lungs might fill with sand, but there’s something sensual and comforting about the grains sliding down glass walls and pooling around your ankles, your knees, your waist. …
You try and pull patterns and threads of meaning from the conversation or the way they looked at you the first time you met; what they did, what they offered.
42033) I remember the last time I was so close to doing it. So close to purging it all. I was so close. But I didn't. I curled up in bed and cried because I just couldn't. And I'm so afraid I'm going to end up doing it.