My dad just dropped a bowl of pasta on the floor and it went everywhere, and he stared at it for like 5 minutes, sighed and then said ‘sometimes it lasts in love, but sometimes it hurts instead’ and then he walked off without cleaning it up.
I told my dad a post about him has nearly 40k notes and he told me that he doesn’t understand what ‘tumblrering’ is but he doesn’t want to be involved in my lonely shenanigans.
I have a love/hate relationship with this blog. Mostly I’m just embarrassed because I used to post so much about all that wanting love and shit and I feel stupid reading it again…it feels very high school to me…not that I don’t want it, i just feel like I have more of a realistic view now I guess (20 year old me vs. 22 year old me lol). I like all the things I’ve written later on though. I feel good about that.
The night is calling my name in whispers. The humidity is pulling at my skin. Tired eyes and messy hair. Why can’t we just say what we feel? Fear is an uncomfortable block in our stomachs. I’m sick with longing but deep down I know I need to wait.
After so many tries and fails and giving up and getting up, you finally get a glimpse of what could be and what you’ve been waiting for, for so long. You’re lucky enough to get a taste of the one thing you thought only existed in your mind and dreams. The golden light is on the tips of your fingers and on the palm of your hand and landing softly on your lips and forehead. It’s hard to hold onto though. The dizziness and spinning mixed with waves of calm and giddy and then anger and longing because the beams are in and out light sunlight through trees. It’s hard to grasp and seems to always be so fleeting. Keeping up with such a fickle thing isn’t easy.
Someone’s atoms are taking up space somewhere. Someone’s fingerprints are smudged on a railing somewhere.
Existing on a train to some building or home. Stuck in the rain, the city lights reflect the pavement and the humidity curls your hair. Everything feels nostalgic and has a longing for a time that will never return.
The memories are like faded dreams, they come in and out of focus or in a flash across your mind’s eye with a strong scent and a specific twang of a string.
Feeling numb and hollowed out, but the fire was only temporarily stifled. Like ink to water and TNT in the sky, the spark became apparent again. All was not lost. Hope remained a candle in the cold night. This light, this small flicker of a flame became visible and has been fighting it’s way to the surface like a sprouted seed packed and buried waiting for the first rays of gold after a suppressing winter. Gripped thighs and palms pressed together, sweaty. Beating, beating, beating, hearts.
There is still hope.