Well I don’t wanna be with someone who’s afraid to be who they are, I think it’s pathetic.
'Sad is the man who is asked for a story
and can’t come up with one.’
She was a girl who knew how to be happy even when she was sad. And that’s important—you know.
One day, whether you
you will stumble upon
someone who will start
a fire in you that cannot die.
However, the saddest,
most awful truth
you will ever come to find––
is they are not always
with whom we spend our lives.
One day we’ll both
forget the storms we danced through.
You’ll find a nice girl
to fall into peace with
and you’ll forget about the days
we lost our minds together.
I’ll be across the world
and still know the exact moment
I’ll pretend that I don’t
and I’ll forget you
the way I forget every dream
I’m not brave enough for.
I’ll meet someone who reminds
me of the years I gave my best
to a boy who held me like he meant it.
And I want you to know that it
could have been you.
That it almost was you,
but we didn’t know how to be good for each other
and how to stay that way.
In another world, it is you,
and we’re better for it.
I hope you know that I wanted that.
That a part of me always will.
She didn’t understand that. “How can anyone be afraid of love?”
“How can they not?” His face was completely aghast. “When you love someone… truly love them, friend or lover, you lay your heart open to them. You give them a part of yourself that you give to no one else, and you let them inside a part of you that only they can hurt—you literally hand them the razor with a map of where to cut deepest and most painfully on your heart and soul. And when they do strike, it’s crippling—like having your heart carved out. It leaves you naked and exposed, wondering what you did to make them want to hurt you so badly when all you did was love them. What is so wrong with you that no one can keep faith with you? That no one can love you? To have it happen once is bad enough… but to have it repeated? Who in their right mind would not be terrified of that?
No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream.
Am I walking toward something I should be running away from?
A person is, among all else, a material thing, easily torn and not easily mended.
You don’t love me well and I’m
too broken to notice when you
do. You are a steel dam and
I’m an open floodgate; you
break my self-esteem and I ruin
your few good days. Here we
are, monster and monster, all
teeth and claws and blood on
the ceiling, but I still crawl to
you when it hurts. You still talk
to me last before you sleep. Not
every day is bad, but I don’t
love you any less when it is.
When I think about my immediate reaction to that redheaded girl, it seems to spring from an appreciation of natural beauty. I mean the heart pleasure you get from looking at speckled leaves or the palimpsested bark of plane trees in Provence. There was something richly appealing in her color combination, the ginger snaps floating in the milk-white skin, the gold highlights in the strawberry hair. It was like autumn, looking at her. It was like driving up north to see the colors.