“Memories may last for years, but names are just for souvenirs” // “Que sera, sera”, right?


Sometimes it’s hard to look at the other person’s point of view because you are so wrapped up in yours.

"You blocked me out and turned away, hiding yourself from me. But I found you again. You weren’t hiding. You were protecting me from you. I don’t need to be protected."


"What if our hearts could be connected like constellations?"

I love you, I miss you, I’ll meet you in our dreams.

"The only thing standing between you and your goal is the bullshit story you keep telling yourself as to why you can’t achieve it."

I write to people by addressing them as “you” in the hopes that they’ll never notice when something is about them. I write to people who don’t exist and never have or to people that used to exist but never will again. I write to people who will never really know a thing about me because it’s so much easier when you don’t say the names of people that used to mean so much. August 25, 2012
Today, I bought a typewriter.
I wrote something similar to this once when I first started my 365 project two+ years ago. If you remember seeing it back then, that makes you pretty rad for still being here. 
Unfinished business.
Courage. Or lack of.
March 23, 2012
March 23, 2012
March 6, 2012
I don’t really know what this is that I just started, but I think it might only be the beginning.
February 5, 2012
January 19, 2012
January 4, 2012
December 25, 2011
December 19, 2011
December 15, 2011
For a friend.
December 14, 2011 Part Two
December 14, 2011
December 3, 2011
I’m terrified that when I’m married, with two lovely kids and a man who truly loves me… I’ll still be thinking of you. Wondering about endless what-ifs. What if I had the courage to stay. What if I had the courage to defy my family. What if I had the courage to battle the endless obstacles that we would have to go through if we were still together. 

It took all of me to walk away, it took all of me to stay away. I didn’t know if I had any more than that to stay. You were the one boy  I’ve ever truly loved, X.

It’s difficult to watch the magic die, the stars fall, the eccentricities replaced by mundane acceptance. 
It’s difficult to feel the emotion fade, the vitality drain, the feelings moderate. 
Logic and complacency simplify everything. But true joy can only come from pain. But one day the hurt is too much and one resorts to complacency. 

i’m afraid of losing you one day, just as i am afraid of the words i’ve written for you and about you if this one day ever arrives. because, a last goodbye from you transforms them into painful reminders of your absence and the death of something that i think is one of the most beautiful things i’ve ever experienced. i’m afraid i will never be able to wrap myself around these words for one last time, and throw them away. i’m afraid you’ll leave, and your fingerprints stick around—imprinted inside my memory and in everything i see—and i won’t be able to wash them off.

I’m scared that I might be falling for you, even if I’ve forbidden myself to...  And in spite of everything, against my own will… I still might be falling for you. And now I need you to give me either a reason to stop, or a reason to let myself fall completely.

OBSESSION. That’s really all it comes down to now. My heart skipped a beat when I saw you. I really just need you in my life. I guess what really sucks is that you’re not interested in me, and I won’t accept that. I can’t accept the fact that this barrier cant be broken It makes me want to die. I love you, forever and always.

if i knew
what kept me so attached to you
i’d burn it all down
until the ashes could finally blow away
just like you did 

But you can’t rely on a concept, an idea can’t love you back.
I still love you, it hasn’t faded out, I’ve just covered it up with lots of dark matter.
Maybe I’ll find you somehow, somewhere else.
When time is kind, when I’m ready to

This summer alone made me realize how stupid i am, looking for you in our old town. I think about you frequently, although i am not heart broken anymore; just longing and curious. I think about how happy i was during the time i knew you, and try to remember life before you. I force myself into schoolwork and strive to be more like the girl you fell in love with. But i catch myself sometimes, and wonder why i am pretending to be someone i no longer am.
 Do the things that remind me of you, remind you of me? The smallest mention of you seems to make my day drag by. You took a part of me last August and never gave it back. I want to see you, I miss you. 5000 miles and an ocean separate us now, but sometimes I still feel like you’re by my side.

I might never stop writing you letters. my life’s about to change again and I’m the only one who doesn’t believe I’m ready. and I’m afraid because every day I meet more people and none of them are you. and the people I meet are kind and sweet but still none of them can make me feel real like you did

when you lie to someone else, you can at least control it. when you lie to yourself, it’s unbearable. you turn on yourself, cheat yourself and cause conflict within your own self. pain fills you with no escape and with every denial, a thick cloud builds and covers your eyes so you have no view of a way out, the future or the past. i’ve been lying to myself from the very beginning. that this wasn’t a habit, that i had stopped, that i was ok and that i was healing. i lie to them that i’m “better” and “fixed” and i lie to myself when i say that i know who i am and what i’m thinking.

I was in love with him, but I wasn’t really. I respected him greatly. I wanted to follow him around wherever he went, not in a stalker kind of way, but in a grateful minion kind of way. No, what I wanted was to be his friend. Actually, what I wanted was to run my fingers through his thick, wavy, dark brown hair, to kiss his lips that were always in a sneer or a pout, but rarely a smile. I wanted to gently trace his jawline, his Jewish nose. I wanted to feel his arms around me. I wanted to feel him pin me against a wall, to unhook my bra with one hand, to want me like he wanted other women. The thought of him intoxicated me. Like whiskey. Whiskey was my weakness, but it had always made me sick. My hangovers were always worse when whiskey was consumed. And that was how I imagined being with him would be like. So wonderful and lovely, fuzzy, but in a good way. That giddy kind of topsy turvy way you feel when you’ve drunk too much, but you don’t realize it yet, and you can’t help but drink another. Being around him was intoxicating enough. I didn’t seem to know how to create words when we were standing in close proximity. My tongue and my teeth wouldn’t create the correct sounds, and instead words came out a muddled mess, unable to emphasize the point I wanted to make. He intimidated me, scared me, made me feel more alive. In the days leading up to another show, another meeting, I would start training myself. I would have conversations—sometimes to myself out loud, sometimes while looking in the mirror, sometimes on paper— and I would dissect the words that I would say, syllable by syllable, vowel by vowell until there was nothing left. My self-respect would land somewhere on the ground alongside the pieces of words, and I wound up being more nervous than I probably would have had I just acted like a normal person. Rehearsing did nothing but make me more anxious, but rehearsing gave me something to fill my mind up with until the day came again… I really had no reason to feel the way that I felt, to feel so self conscious, other than the fact that he was one of the most beautiful men I had ever seen. He was whip-smart. He was dry and sarcastic, mellow. But when he smiled… When he smiled, it was like fireworks over the ocean waves on a dark winter night, or millions of bluebirds taking flight into the horizon. His smile made my heart burst into flames, burn out, and then set aflame again. It was so silly, but when he smiled, I felt complete.

We all have to grow up sometimes, and I guess once in a while that means growing apart

I miss you. I tried hard not to, I still am, but I miss you. I constantly wonder if you miss me to, miss what we had, what we could have had, and it eats me up inside thinking about how, at least on some level, you probably do, but your pride would never have you say it. I still want us to have a future, and I still want us to grow old together. I love you and I always will, I just wish you still felt the same.

“Blue-eyed boy meets a brown-eyed girl…”

So I’ll wait here, and maybe I’ll get lucky.
Or maybe I won’t. 
But I’m beginning to become okay with that. 

This is for you, my forever love. I’ve been waiting for a moment, a moment that may never come; the moment when you realize that you can’t live without me. I’m convinced that someday this moment will come. But until that day, I’ll be distracting myself with meaningless relationships, comfort food, and lots of books. You are my love. You are my soul-mate. Please don’t let me down again.

We all stopped telling the truth when it started meaning something else. Truth means change. It means pain, hurt, and confusion. It ends what ever lie we’ve managed to convince ourselves to be true, and it starts journeys we’re not ready to take. Whatever the hidden truth is now is insignificant to what it could do. Writing this should be some kind of revelation, from which I go forth and only tell the truth. But I’ll still pull my sleeve down to cover the fresh cut as soon as blood reaches the surface, I’m not ready to accept what I’ve just done. I’m not ready to fit the pieces together and see that there really is something wrong.So we keep the lie. 
\We tell ourselves lies because they sound better, because they’re easier to handle. The truth is cruel. It’s raw, messy, and uncomfortable. We all run from it, afraid one day it might catch us up. But it already has. It’s just waiting for us to recognize it’s there, and I’m too scared to open my eyes. 

It is soon. It is so soon, too too soon…and I think it’s too too late. Because I’ve fallen. It doesn’t have to be 11:11, or an eye lash, silver punch buggy or shooting star. I want him—I wish for him all the time. Any time I’m alone, any time we’re not talking, any time we’re together and my finger tips can’t reach his…its never enough. And it scares me that…maybe I’m not enough. Maybe I’ll never be enough. and maybe it will only be a matter of time before he sees that… you said “if your finger tips tremble…you’re doing something right”. I must be doing a lot of “right” because my fingers just trembled over the delete button one too many times. I can’t admit it. Not yet. Not to him, not to them…barely to myself. But the mirror knows. She sees it. She’s getting in the way and fucking things up, screaming “you aren’t worth it. You don’t deserve it, you aren’t enough. He can do better. So. Much. Better.” and I’m actually starting to believe it.

A light that shines, is a light that blinds. So walk with your eyes closed, and you’ll be perfectly fine. Seeing isn’t believing, believing is believing. So follow your heart and never your eyes, because a light that shines, is a light that blinds.

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