“The idea of my future simultaneously thrilled and terrified me, like standing at the lip of a very sheer cliff- I could fly, or fall. I didn’t know how to fly, and I didn’t want to fall. So I backed away from the cliff and went in search of something that had a clear, solid trajectory for me to follow, like hopscotch.”
I want to shoot myself when being in this dreadful class. It genuinely feels like I have to endure a stage in hell when I’m in here.
You have this 4’6 Asian bitch that sings call me maybe and talks about how hyper she is. Then you have this Dora looking girl who praises her every move and laughs at the idiotic things she does and says.
“Look at the trees, look at the birds, look at the clouds, look at the stars… and if you have eyes you will be able to see that the whole existence is joyful. Everything is simply happy. Trees are happy for no reason; they are not going to become prime ministers or presidents and they are not going to become rich and they will never have any bank balance. Look at the flowers - for no reason. It is simply unbelievable how happy flowers are.”
“I hit the intersections where your shoulders meet your neck, passing through the car wrecks of ex-boyfriends who parallel parked on the dead ends. and I just hope your skin lends me an extra mile so I can slow down, take a while to admire the landscape, drape my arm over your being there. this time when it comes to your skin, I’m a drunk driver trying to walk a straight line.
I’ve been pulled over so much that your simple touch is enough to make me assume the position - wishing I could stay there, where your hand searches my body for contraband that could land me in the jail of your ribcage. because road rage is a sickness and my medicine is your skin. I could spend the rest of my life circling the same block, wondering where does the world hide its private stock of people like you.”
After you die, it is believed that you have 7 minutes of brain activity left inside you, and in the 7 minutes you experience your entire life over, in a kind of dream… Because in a dream time is stretched.
So if this is the case, what if right now you’re in that 7 minutes. How do you know if you’re alive or just reliving old memories.
“I must see new things and investigate them. I want to taste dark water and see crackling trees and wild winds. I want to gaze with astonishment at mouldy garden fences. I want to experience them all, to hear young birth plantations and trembling leaves, to see light and sun, to enjoy wet green-blue valleys in the evening, to sense goldfish glinting, to see white clouds building up in the sky, to speak to flowers. I want to look intently at grasses and pink people [and] old venerable churches, to know what little cathedrals say, to run without stopping along curving meadowy slopes across vast plains, to kiss the earth and smell soft warm marshland flowers.”
Someone told me they were listening to Mumford and Sons in the morning and it reminded them of me. I looked at that guy in the face with such a puzzled look. I’ve never listened to a song by them, and I was never in favor of them either. Why couldn’t it of been some popular Belle and Sebastian song— I don’t know something of my liking.
I shouldn’t even be complaining. Usually no one thinks of me whilst listening to music.
karenfelloutofbedagain: Lots of things might happen. That’s the thing about writers. They’re unpredictable. They might bring you eggs in bed for breakfast, or they might all but ignore you for days. They might bring you eggs in bed at three in the morning. Or they might wake you up for sex at three in the morning. Or make love at four in the afternoon. They might not sleep at all. Or they might sleep right through the alarm and forget to get you up for work. Or call you home from work to kill a spider. Or refuse to speak to you after finding out you’ve never seen To Kill A Mockingbird. Or spend the last of the rent money on five kinds of soap. Or sell your textbooks for cash halfway through the semester. Or leave you love notes in your pockets. Or wash you pants with Post-It notes in the pockets so your laundry comes out covered in bits of wet paper. They might cry if the Post-It notes are unread all over your pants. It’s an unpredictable life.
But what happens if a writer falls in love with you?
This is a little more predictable. You will find your hemp necklace with the glass mushroom pendant around the neck of someone at a bus stop in a short story. Your favorite shoes will mysteriously disappear, and show up in a poem. The watch you always wear, the watch you own but never wear, the fact that you’ve never worn a watch: they suddenly belong to characters you’ve never known. And yet they’re you. They’re not you; they’re someone else entirely, but they toss their hair like you. They use the same colloquialisms as you. They scratch their nose when they lie like you. Sometimes they will be narrators; sometimes protagonists, sometimes villains. Sometimes they will be nobodies, an unimportant, static prop. This might amuse you at first. Or confuse you. You might be bewildered when books turn into mirrors. You might try to see yourself how your beloved writer sees you when you read a poem about someone who has your middle name or prose about someone who has never seen To Kill A Mockingbird. These poems and novels and short stories, they will scatter into the wind. You will wonder if you’re wandering through the pages of some story you’ve never even read. There’s no way to know. And no way to erase it. Even if you leave, a part of you will always be left behind.
If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die.
“This is about all the bad days in the world. I used to have some little bad days, and I kept them in a little box. And one day, I threw them out into the yard. “Oh, it’s just a couple little innocent bad days.” Well, we had a big rain. I don’t know what it was growing in but I think we used to put eggshells out there and coffee grounds, too. Don’t plant your bad days. They grow into weeks. The weeks grow into months. Before you know it you got yourself a bad year. Take it from me. Choke those little bad days. Choke ‘em down to nothin’. They’re your days. Choke ‘em!”
“All these soft, warm nights going to waste when I ought to be lying in your arms under the moon- the dearest arms in all the world- darling arms that I love so to feel around me- How much longer before they’ll be here to stay? When I do get home again, you’ll certainly have a most awful time ever moving me one inch from you.”
“There is a fundamental reason why we look at the sky with wonder and longing—for the same reason that we stand, hour after hour, gazing at the distant swell of the open ocean. There is something like an ancient wisdom, encoded and tucked away in our DNA, that knows its point of origin as surely as a salmonid knows its creek. Intellectually, we may not want to return there, but the genes know, and long for their origins—their home in the salty depths. But if the seas are our immediate source, the penultimate source is certainly the heavens. The spectacular truth is—and this is something that your DNA has known all along—the very atoms of your body—the iron, calcium, phosphorus, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, and on and on—were initially forged in long-dead stars. This is why, when you stand outside under a moonless, country sky, you feel some ineffable tugging at your innards. We are star stuff. Keep looking up.”
I’m so fucking pissed it’s not my senior year. It’s blasphemy! I don’t want to be in this wretched high school any longer. I know people claim that once they leave high school they start to miss it a whole heck of a lot, but I know for a fact I won’t. No, no indeed. I will never miss it. There was nothing great there. Sure I made a few friends who I will most definitely forget, and sure I might have learned a few things but I certainly won’t consider high school a perfect illusion that was once my “happy years”. No to hell with that idea! I hate hate hate loathe despise high school so much with such a burning passion.