I’m lying here with the chill march air seeping out of the already tightly shut windows, frosting up the metal sides. The grey illuminates through the slits of the blinds, leaving everything in this room as stale as the sound of all the books left unopened. The snow was once wonderful, but now it just seems to linger, hardening and icing over, the crunch of salt and slow rhythmic beats of heels crunching and scraping the ground, making trails throughout campus, never looking up to see new eyes. I’m trapped in this winter wonderland of icyhot lungs and frozen stars, and all of the work I promised I’d commit to- slipping through my fingers as fast as the rain from last fall.
I am uninterested and unmotivated. I find education and learning within people, I find discovery and excitement within conversation I am so privileged yet so aloof What if spring comes, as sweet and innocent as it had been just last year But i’ll be left behind unable to thaw
“We have a natural tendency to assume that a remarkable chemistry between two souls is confirmation that they are meant to be together. In the heat of profound feelings, it seems counter-intuitive to imagine ourselves separate from our beloved. But chemistry and longevity are not natural bedfellows. Just because we feel earth-shatteringly alive with someone doesn’t mean they are supposed to be our …life partner. They may have come for a very different reason - to awaken us, to expand us, to shatter us so wide open that we can never close again. Perhaps they were sent from afar to polish the rough diamond of your soul before vanishing into eternity. Perhaps they just came to give you new eyes. Better we surrender our expectations when the beloved comes. (S)he may just be dropping in for a visit.”—Jeff Brown (via birthofasupervillain)
I just became scared of myself
I turn my head on my pillow
!!!.. !!!.. !!!..
Why is my heartbeat so heavy and loud
My heart is beating. Actually beating.
Well yeah Tala, that’s what hearts tend to do.
No..how is it so automatic..I can feel the half-paced vibrations on my ear pressed against my pillow. I put my hand to my chest and feel the delicate organ of my own body dancing under my skin. How scary..am I in control of this? Not at all..it’s happening on it’s own. It’s part of me, yet it is not me. What if it just stops?
What if it speeds up faster than my body can accommodate?
What gave the part the capability to destroy the whole?
How scary that a whole system of organs and factoryline-like processes are occuring inside me, that I have absolutely no control of.
What if they start a riot?
As lame as this thought came to be, from a childish fear of the unknown within (literally), I can’t help but realize how amazing our bodies really are.
My body is giving me its all, so I should return the favor. Not to waste a day doing nothing.
I’ll give my heart a reason to keep beating, sometimes faster, expand my stomach, stretch my face muscles.
I don’t have control over my organs, and that scares me..
But I do have control over the reason they function in the first place.
I don’t know, this may make no sense in the morning.
“Do you ever think about all the people who you might have fallen in love with if only you’d taken a different way home or stood a little longer in the bread aisle at the supermarket? All the people who might have been an integral part of your life but instead you’ll never know them. The unimaginable impact that our mundane choices have on our lives really gets to me. Think of how many times I might have died if I’d made different choices. Maybe I’d be homeless. Maybe I’d be famous. Maybe I’d be rich. Sometimes I’m so overwhelmed by the impact of my choices that I can’t choose anything at all because I’m afraid today will be the day that I make the choice that changes everything.”—Unknown (via sundaylatte)
my social studies teacher once told us “human beings are the most selfish of all. even when someone dies, you shed tears only because they are no more around to provide you with whatever they had been for so long”
and it has been 3 years since she said this and this is still what i think about at night
I didn’t even know you yet I can’t help but feel like crying for you. You were so young. A year older than me, but a year that should have been the stepping stone for all your years to come.
It’s scary how unexpected life is. How one decision, something as miniscule as deciding to eat breakfast or taking the time to tie your shoes or turning right instead of left.. can be the difference between life or death.
Nothing should ever be taken for granted, and that seemingly overused expression alone is already constantly, ironically, taken for granted. We should see each day not as something not going bad, but as everything going good.
It leaves me in this type of stale silence, the type that mutes the sound of my heartbeat, the type that tries to forget the sound of crying. I can’t imagine what your family must be going through. To have to bury their son, brother, cousin, nephew. Too young. Too fucking young.
We’re reminded everyday about just how cruel things can get. People die everyday. Catastrophe everywhere. It’s so selfish of us to only pay attention when it’s relevant to us. When it’s someone from our neighborhood, or people within our ethnicity, or someone you have mutual friends with. We only pay attention because we know that that could have easily been us. Because the possibility of death actually exists.
After living for 18 years, I still don’t understand how people can make such a big deal out of the littlest things when none of that even matters. I don’t understand how immaturity is still prevalent in social relationships and naivety is, if anything, growing and creating a false comfort in the form of the “present”. Everything you do, every person you meet, should be as significant and wholesome as you allow yourself to create. Life can go from black to white in an instant.
Nothing really matters unless you want it to matter.
I wish he didn’t have to die for me to feel the emotions dedicated to this rant. I wish nobody has to die for people to really start to appreciate all they are, all they have.
I’ve always wanted to have a nice conversation with a stranger on a long trip, like an airplane ride or bus ride. It never really happened, maybe because I just fall asleep, also because the age difference leaves much space for hesitation.
You sat, holding George Orwell’s 1984, straining your eyes against the already-set sun and dim blue light of the remnant day, reflecting off the winterpale snow and the glossy windows around us. My elbow was leaned against the armrest, my head leaned against my bent hand, and my thoughts leaned toward my mouth as I chuckled and ask how you could possibly see anything.
You shrugged and smiled in defeat, closing the book shut and saying it was worth a try.
We talked about books. Dystopian novels. The artistic values in Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close.
We talked about school. Our equal fascination in Psychology, and when my motion sickness acted up, you recited the exact paragraph I always knew.
We talked about our travels. Our hatred for crosswalks in London, our love for everything else.
Mostly, we talked about food.
Which place is good for what, what tastes good with what. After 3 hours in, we realized this bus wasn’t going to have any pit stops to grab munchies and satisfy our dry mouths spewing out pieces of our lives in strategic, worded sentences. We talked about food around our neighborhoods, and food in the city. We are both from Brooklyn.
I told you where my boyfriend likes to take me, and your mouth relaxed in an
“Were you trying?”
A shy smile with two fingers parallel,
But this ride had nothing to do with that.
We talked about art, how I love watercolor, how you love sketching.
I told you how I’m bad with graphic patterns, and you finished our sentence with how you’d rather sketch realistic things. Like flowers and people, I continued. Like things in front of you, you concluded. Saying this as we were in front of each other, bodies turned due to conversational magnetism. If I had a pencil at this moment, I would sketch the dark row of chairs behind you, the windows with already lit streetlights, replacing each other within seconds because they’re all the same, they’ve been all the same throughout the line of road this bus has been traveling. But you are not. I would sketch everything except for you, leaving the white space of the paper to hold the spot where you would be. Because we are still strangers. I know windows, I know streetlights. I could close my eyes and draw one, one in the same.
But I don’t know you.
As the bus pulled into port authority and we gathered our belongings, the yellow Q sign on the left, and the blue A sign on the right determined the fork in our destination. With a smile and a goodbye, we continued in opposite directions, blending in once again into the sea of strangers.