I just want to sleep. Because she’s there. And everything makes more sense when I’m with her. Everyone else fades into the background. They sound a lot less loud. And we’re in the airport traveling far away. It’s a big airport with lots of elevators and stairs and even bridges. And we’ve got our tickets in our hands. We’re driving to the airport. We’ve got to go across town to get there. It’s the night before and we’re crammed into a tiny twin bed somewhere. It’s just us and we’re sneaking in somewhere. We’re 16 now. We haven’t met yet but we’re growing up together. Planning our escape. One day when we’re older we’re going to take a plane far away from here. From them. From the noise.
“It is dreadful when something weighs on your mind, not to have a soul to unburden yourself to. You know what I mean. I tell my piano the things I used to tell you.”—Frédéric Chopin (via naimabarcelona)
It was getting late. The music and lights were turned low quite a while ago and nearly everyone had shuffled out. They slurred their ‘Thank You’s and ‘Good Bye’s as they abandoned half-filled cans on the coffee table. He shuffled behind them, out the door and onto the patio where he could feel the cold through his socks. A stray bottle sat atop the corner post where its soft reflection caught his attention. As he finished a wave, he grabbed it and made his way back through the red door. Red because he wasn’t sure if there was a better word for what’s half way in between magenta and crimson and yet a little bit darker than either of those sounded. That was what he was thinking when his half opened eyes noticed that she was still firmly nestled into the corner of his couch, legs crossed and a glass of Cabernet in hand. Maybe that’s what he would call the door: Cabernet. No, that’s a bit too dark to describe it. He yawned then glanced over to her, eyebrows slightly raised, his left hand still covering his mouth a bit. As he walked round to the other side of the couch, she set down her glass and slid herself down, stuffing a pillow under her head and stretching her legs out to where he would have been sitting after placing that almost-forgotten bottle amongst the cans and now her glass. She turned onto her side and smiled a bit at her own coyness as the brown of her eyes met the green of his. So of course, with his gaze fixed, he turned his head towards the other room and half smiled before glancing back behind him and then again to her. Both of them knew they were in control of the situation. Playing into each other’s subtle indications. He took her hand as she sat up and they walked the few steps to his bed where she waited until he peeled back the sheets and crawled in as if to lead the way. He lay on his side, holding up the blankets. That was when she did the thing that made him fall in love with her. A small act of endearing defiance, asserting that in reality she was the one guiding them. Funny how something can make such an impression simply for being unexpected and frankly a little odd. As she crawled in and rolled towards him, he couldn’t help but notice a throw pillow pushed into his lap like a ball of cotton squished between two spoons. Just a few more layers of fabric saying, “This will be a little more difficult than you thought”.
Have you ever just looked at someone and thought, “I really love you”. They’re just talking or humming or watching a movie or reading a book or laughing or something, and there’s something about them in that moment—their body is alive, there’s a light in their eyes, something—that makes you think, “I just really love you.”
Today I was asked how I thought someone like Robin Williams could be depressed when they had so much and were so loved.
I tried to explain to them that depression doesn’t work like that. In fact, the more you yourself feel like you shouldn’t be depressed, the more depressing it is. There is a crushing feeling that no matter what you do, no matter what you achieve, no matter what you have, who you’re with, there is nothing you can do to be happy. It’s incredibly scary to feel so hopeless.
Remember that depression is an illness and a struggle and it hurts so much because it doesn’t make sense.
that you can be without someone for six months, a year, five years and have mastered not thinking about them, but no matter how much time passes there will always be that moment where you see a photo of them or catch a little of their cologne on a crowed street and suddenly you’re plagued with a rapidly sinking stomach and the relentless question, “what did i do wrong?”
Please know that if you date me, I am a very touchy person. I will like to pet your head and hold your hand, rub your shoulders or hug you a lot. Simply put, to physically feel you in some way is very comforting to me and I can’t really apologize for it, it just feels natural to me and makes me happy.
And then he saw her. And he knew. He would never live happily ever after. He would never grow old with her. There would be no little house. No white picket fence. They wouldn’t lay awake at night pondering the names of the children they would never have. He would never surprise her with a rental car that they wouldn’t drive along the coast to get away from the humdrum of daily life. They would never have a first anniversary where they wouldn’t return to the spot they met. She would never spend the night at his apartment long enough for him to give her a drawer and she would never slowly but surely move her things in. He would never over think that first kiss and how much she doesn’t like him and how much he isn’t sure he doesn’t like her. He would never wonder if he shouldn’t mark in his calendar their first date just in case he wouldn’t want to remember that moment for years to come. Never wonder how long to wait to text her after the awkward exchange of numbers that never took place. She would never return his gaze after he didn’t stare at her for far too long.
And so he stopped looking at her. Stopped looking at all.
You make me so very curious. I want to get to know you, all of you, like your favourite songs, your favourite places and favourite people. There’s just something about you that makes me just want to listen.
in the moments that pass where words are unexchanged, I’m thinking of you most. throughout the days that you don’t here a word from me, I am thinking of everything that I could possibly say to you that I haven’t already. my silence isn’t your absence within my mind, it’s the very opposite and maybe that’s why I’ve accepted yours.
“I think once you’ve thought about how a person sleeps, how they’d feel pressed up against your back, or your head on their chest, how compatible your bodies would be in the same space of a bed — once you’ve thought about that, you’re fucked.”—All These Things You Wish You’d Say (via modernmethadone)
i want to know what color you like best, your middle name, if you sleep on your stomach or curled up on your side, the way you laugh when you think something is hilarious, if your hands are tough like leather of soft like velvet. i want to know what my name sounds like escaping your lips, the song you can’t help but sing along to even though you can’t stand it, what your eyes looking into my own feel like. i want to know you, everything about you.
“Intimacy is not who you let touch you. Intimacy is who you text at 3am about your dreams and fears. Intimacy is giving someone your attention, when ten other people are asking for it. Intimacy is the person always in the back of your mind, no matter how distracted you are.”—
“I think the whole point of being with someone is so you can talk to them and let go of everything, and even when you’re at your worst, they still like you, they still want to speak to you and care about you.”—Unknown (via psych-facts)