#let The Man Rest

"So if I asked you about art you’d probably give me the skinny on every art book ever written. Michelangelo? You know a lot about him. Life’s work, political aspirations, him and the pope, sexual orientation, the whole works, right? But I bet you can’t tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. You’ve never actually stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling. Seen that. If I asked you about women you’d probably give me a syllabus of your personal favorites. You may have even been laid a few times. But you can’t tell me what it feels like to wake up next to a woman and feel truly happy. You’re a tough kid. I ask you about war, and you’d probably, uh, throw Shakespeare at me, right? “Once more into the breach, dear friends.” But you’ve never been near one. You’ve never held your best friend’s head in your lap and watched him gasp his last breath, looking to you for help. And if I asked you about love you probably quote me a sonnet. But you’ve never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable. Known someone could level you with her eyes. Feeling like! God put an angel on earth just for you…who could rescue you from the depths of hell. And you wouldn’t know what it’s like to be her angel and to have that love for her to be there forever. Through anything. Through cancer. You wouldn’t know about sleeping sitting’ up in a hospital room for two months holding her hand because the doctors could see in your eyes that the term visiting hours don’t apply to you. You don’t know about real loss, because that only occurs when you love something more than you love yourself. I doubt you’ve ever dared to love anybody that much. I look at you; I don’t see an intelligent, confident man; I see a cocky, scared shitless kid. But you’re a genius, Will. No one denies that. No one could possibly understand the depths of you. But you presume to know everything about me because you saw a painting of mine and you ripped my fuckin’ life apart. You’re an orphan right? Do you think I’d know the first thing about how hard ! your life has been, how you feel, who you are because I read Oliver Twist? Does that encapsulate you? Personally, I don’t give a shit about all that, because you know what? I can’t learn anything from you I can’t read in some fuckin’ book. Unless you wanna talk about you, who you are. And I’m fascinated. I’m in. But you don’t wanna do that, do you, sport? You’re terrified of what you might say. Your move, chief."

-Sean Maguire, Good Will Hunting

The metaphysics of little things

I take an absolute pleasure out of existing day after day my spirit takes a simple turn for the loveliest of sentiments like washing my face in the shower and finding out I own a skin — a rosé, flushed skin and that my face in the mirror is so gentle because I become myself every time I look at it as if I had utter control over my forming substance — stirring cold milk on a hot afternoon

Remember when Fleabag said, ""I want someone to tell me what to wear in the morning. I want someone to tell me what to wear EVERY morning. I want someone to tell me what to eat. What to like, what to hate, what to rage about, what to listen to, what band to like, what to buy tickets for, what to joke about, what not to joke about. I want someone to tell me what to believe in, who to vote for, who to love and how to tell them."

The last line made me think about this a lot. It's okay to be dependent for a bit, rest ourselves on someone else's shoulder without feeling like we are living a cliché.

actually, growing up is feeling like i turned sixteen two days ago. i’ve been eighteen for years. fifteen year olds seem so young. wasn’t i fifteen just a few weeks ago? all my friends and i are still twelve. i’m closer to thirty then to being a baby. i never got to be a kid. i never grew past eight. i can’t talk to my mom. i want to sit in her lap forever. the week is going by so slow. an entire year has passed. i want to decide everything for myself. i need someone to tell me exactly what to do.

"and perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone."

-Madeline Miller

repeat after me: i will not make myself small for other people's convenience.

i can tell i'm sleep deprived bc i just made myself cry about tutankhamun and i have, like, negative interest in the kid

"When I think of what life is, and how seldom love is answered by love; it is one of the moments for which the world was made."

-E.M.Forster, A Room With a View

I think I love you.

I think I Iove you too much to let you be on your own when I don't trust you. But how do I keep this love alive if I don't trust you?

I think I hate me because I love you.

Am I crazy to love you?

Do you even want to be loved the way I love you?

I think it's beautiful how cute we get when we are lonely. Calling up our bestfriend to talk about just anything before they ask if anything's wrong. Telling them it is, you are intimidated by the changing ways of life because you were finally getting used to the quiet life. Remembering school and your after school ice-cream dates, driving up to that quiet place behind school property where you can see the most beautiful sunset in the city. Writing I miss you and wish you were here to each other. Telling each other, you'll meet soon. Hugging your pillow and falling asleep to the playlist they made you on one of your birthdays. My heart is too fragile for reminiscence. I don't know how to contain all these so I sleep.

who cares how you talk about love? be passionate about it if it lets you unleash the rotting fury on a world that isn't even alive enough to see the colour on your face when you are in love; be bitter if your broken heart pricks you from the inside; be warm about it if it kisses you goodnight; be cold if you are paralyzed by it. tell the world how you feel if that makes you feel lighter. pull a frank gallagher on your love life. be reckless.