You loved me sometimes- I know this. I know the exact moments when you did because I saw it written on your face. That’s so cliche, but I could literally see it when you looked at me. I loved those moments and I can count them on one hand
If I keep living for tomorrow rather than today, how will I spend the last day of my life?
The surest way to corrupt a youth is to instruct him to hold in higher esteem those who think alike than those who think differently.
Friedrich Nietzsche
That time last summer a few weeks after I told you I had just wanted to be friends and we stood in your room after i got my shoes back on and my bag slung around my waist . Reached and gave you a big hug and just stood there and asked you if my hair smelled nice and you hugged me tighter and said it did
I regret nothing. I bitterly drink my coffee this morning, staring blankly out of my window- and even though it’s perfect outside- I’m good here.
Last night, I had the funniest dream. You were dating a girl named Stacy and I was on a bus explaining to my friends that I wasn’t concerned because I was the one that ended it so you had my blessing (even though you didn’t need it). I kept talking it out in circles with them, until the bus disappeared and my friends disappeared and then it was just me explaining to nobody, to myself.
Stacy, if you’re out there- fuck you
— Dr. Seuss
“Every day we slaughter our finest impulses. That is why we get a heartache when we read those lines written by the hand of a master and recognize them as our own, as the tender shoots which we stifled because we lacked the faith to believe in our own powers, our own criterion of truth and beauty. Every man, when he gets quiet, when he becomes desperately honest with himself, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. there is no mystery about the origin of things. We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, only to discover what is already there.”
― Henry Miller
I’m blessed with a lovely apartment in the village with floor to ceiling windows in the living room. I can see straight into the identical building across the street that juts halfway into my picturesque view of the city. I was excited about it when I first moved in, because I felt just like James Stewart in ‘Rear Window’. My across-the-way neighbors are settled into a routine that I notice when my day slows down. They’re a married couple in their late 60s, both with gray hair down to their waists. Faded posters and dying plants litter their home, they both walk around in tees and loose sweats. They orchestrate a ballet around the apartment, never running into each other in the cramped kitchen as they make their dinner and settle into the couch for the rest of the night to watch TV. Same time every night, all their conversation is directed at the TV so that when the it goes off, the lights do, and they go to sleep.
You ask me why I don’t want a relationship and I just want to tell you all about the ex-hippies across the street. What did they rebel against when they were our age? They are comfortably placid artifacts of their own pasts. But they don’t see see the city when they look out of their window- they see me and they see the arguing couple next to me and the family with the whiny dog above me. Every time I look out onto the choppy streets in the distance, nothing is ever the way it was the last time I looked and that consoles me. But catch me looking a little to the right into their room and that scares me more than any Hitchcock killer ever could.
