the crumpled letters i send, or the handfuls i don't.
in the last century, you could mail a letter, and it'd be gone. paper & ink, and it's out of your hands. everything exists in digital these days, so yeah, all the re-living, re-experiencing, & re-interpreting.
take the photo. if it's good, print it, & hang it.
wherever you go, your life exists in record. there is no escape.
i think about moving. i think about quitting everything i've started.
why is there this need for continuity? why can we not have one-shot beautiful projects?
there is such a need for career narrative, for journey & goals, in this long novel, but maybe my life is poems.
this was joy in lunch in my mother's kitchen, on a restless afternoon. that was croutons from a box, poured into slavic soup made by my best friend's mother. that was winter skies, all pale and grey and bright. that was a soft darkness on my hard floor in the room where light seeped in from the hall. that was the radiator, and the highway is a slow sweep. what is light, but orange streaks of evening on the walls, when you are awake & existentially alone?
one boy sees a sad girl he wants to save, another, a muse. one boy sees creative mania, another, a fierce drunken mess. one, a bullshitting hustler, another, a wide-eyed innocent. one, a crazy girl for pure hot fucking, another, a sweet lady for a doting wife. this one, a strict, mean-mouthed bitch, another, kindness, kindness, kindness. what is play, and what is heartfelt?
detached or a gush of emotion. it's lenses. they all see something different, and are either aggressive or intimidated, angry or sad, adoring or bitter, this or that. desire is a bitch, but they are the ones driving these emotional fantasies in their minds.
i'm just a girl, but girls are an easy medium for gratification, psychological or physical.
if i wasn't a girl, i'd be a bottle of pills. one pill gives you orgasms, and another makes you weep, and yet another does nothing at all, so maybe you change your prescription, which may or may not help you find happiness or satisfaction, or the different lens of experiencing the world, that your soul seeks.
love is hard because on the rare occasion i find someone i feel about on a deep-in-my-guts level, sometimes i know i am just a form of escapism for his soul. he doesn't know me. i mean, he knows bits of me, to be sure, and maybe has a sense of what i look like, but what he loves most, is this idea of me that he's got, and he doesn't want to ruin that idea. he's already in love with this idea. how do i compare with her?
well, i don't care how i compare with this ideal, but i can sense when a boy is falling in love with some idea who shares my face and body, but not my soul. i'm not mad about it. it's just not what i'm looking for.
it's not too hard for me to fall in love, because i fall in love pretty damn easily, but it feels pretty bad when i fall in love with someone who's already in love with an idea of me, so i stop myself. it's like a stop & go, which doesn't feel fantastic, but it's okay.
i'm complex, but not complicated.
i like cheese & bartending. i like poems and long wanders. i like the rain, & playing my guitar.
if i didn't love so many things in the city, & the city itself, and if i didn't have family (who don't need me, but sort of do), and friends who are family, - i'd leave. i'd move to some other city, somewhere warm, and i'd bartend, and spend my free time writing, & making music, & wandering beaches. i don't need a lot to be happy. i do a lot, & help people create & do what they love, because it is the next best thing, to doing what i love, which can wait. people are in your life, for loving.
if i could, i'd have even more awesome people in my life, and maybe the less awesome people already in the fringes of my life would become better people to themselves & others, but whatever. we're all doing our best.
i thought i was falling in love last year, but eh. our lives weren't falling together, and i didn't force it. there was so much uncertainty. if i could, i would have him in my life. it would make me pretty fucking happy, but it looks like he's moved on. i'm all on and off missing him, but i've been mature about it.
what is love? / i don't know, but i know when people are special to me.
some people just make you happy because they exist. for the last part of the year, when my mom was in the hospital, and we were in the ward thinking that she would die at any moment, we talked for a really long time, & honestly.
i've got an overachiever's streak, but in the face of the lives of others, i realize that i don't really care about the rat race. i have nothing to prove. i don't need money or fame. i do what makes me happy, and not at the expense of others.
if i died tomorrow, it'd be okay.
maybe i'll die without finding a romantic partner, or having created a child, but i did awesome stuff already. everything else in life, is just frosting. my life is a cake, crafted with all these shades of love.
i only wanted a small bite.