Don't Make Me Find Pleasure In The Little Things

yall see “love” and immediately go to “romantic love” if you translate “love is the whole point” to “romantic love is the whole point” you need to rethink everything because love is found in everything. in community, in friendships, in family, in food, in nature so actually love is the whole point and u can die mad about it. hope this helps <3

my aunt used to be a beauty pageant kid. had long, beautiful red hair with a curl pattern that made hairdressers jealous. her mother would pay people lots of money to spend hours styling my aunt's hair

predictably, as a young adult, my aunt cut all of her hair off. buzzed down to the scalp. she still keeps it pretty short- long enough for curls to develop, but only on the top of her head. she says she can't stand the feeling of her hair touching her ears or neck.

recently she's started collecting and styling wigs. she'll even wear them, occasionally, to a fancy event or if she just doesn't want to be bothered by distant family when she goes shopping. and she spends hours styling these wigs, even though she doesn't use them all that often.

i asked her about it. she said that sometimes, growth looks a lot like regression with a twist. that she's reclaiming something she enjoyed as a kid, and could have enjoyed more. she said she's practicing having agency, and that it's a skill that doesn't come very naturally for her. having agency, i mean. she's really good at styling wigs.

Pablo Neruda, tr. by Mark Eisner, "One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII", The Essential Neruda: Selected Poems

Danez Smith, from "summer, somewhere"

Details: Anguish, August Friedrich Schenck - 1876/1880

“I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine”

— Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, [Act II Scene I Line 249]

I had to read this one book for school and after I'd finished I sat down and just. Seethed. I'd just spent multiple hours reading when I didn't want to. I wrote essays that weren't 30% as heartfelt as the average Tumblr post about how excited we are about a new episode of smth. Because I was being judged on it and criticised on it and why would I be vulnerable.

It was a good book. That's what made me so angry. It was a good book and I'd have enjoyed it if it weren't eternally connected to an unfair German teacher and tense hours reading as fast as I could now.

"It's okay if you don't want to read the classics" okay but you should try. Books hit different when you're not being forced to read them.

“you’re my best friend, now i’ve got no one to tell i’ve lost my best friend.”

….

"there is no platonic explanation for this--"

I fell asleep in my friends' arms. It was eleven at night, we were tired, curled up in a small pile on my tiny bed. I had my head buried in my roommate's side, and one of my closest friend's hand on my shoulder, steadying me. It was quiet and nothingness and peace and their heartbeats in my ears, my hands in their hair.

"there is no platonic explanation for this--"

We pack four people to that little bed, you know. Laps used as footrests, collarbones as pillows, little lights like moonlight in rustic yellow bathed on their faces. The TV plays an anime. The words are repeated by my dear friend on my shoulder, curled close. My legs are asleep; my roommate may be, too.

"there is no platonic explanation for this--"

The cat curls on top of our criss cross mess of legs and arms and heads on chests to absorb the warmth of us all. She purrs in contented peace. When my roommate and I are left alone in the quiet, she cries, and watches the door for our friends' return.

"there is no platonic explanation for this--"

I will never kiss them but the top of their heads. I will never touch but the warmth of their arms. I will never take more than what's freely given, and in return I put my glasses on the bedside table fashioned from a guitar amp, and when I lean into their sides, I pick up my vulnerability and place it in their capable, tender hands.

"there is no platonic explanation for this--"

I sing for them. I cry for them. I work and I run and I withstand the worst of the world for them, because some days I get to cradle their forehead on my shoulder and some days I get to see their shining eyes.

"there is no platonic explanation for this--"

Maybe to you. But look beyond explanation. I love them. With my heart in my unsteady hands, with my nose pressed to the side of their head, with the buzzing in my feet and the warmth all around Iike the sunset pushing into the window.

"there is no platonic explanation for this--"

Is it enough to say I love them? With no strings attached? With reckless abandon and utter devotion and freedom and kindness and fear?

"there is no platonic explanation for this--"

I cannot explain it any clearer. I love my friends. There is no more to say.