Damara Likes Cats

Something made me cry when I read it, so I bookmarked it. Every time I realized I felt numb, which was every few days, I read it again. Every time, I cried. Then with each reading I cried a little less, until I didn’t cry at all. I memorized the excerpt over a few weeks. I recited it when I was driving, cleaning, walking the dog. I saw it in everything around me. Until I didn’t. 

I can’t recite it to him, because it’s too sad. I can’t recite it to anyone else, because it’s too personal. I can’t recite it to myself, because I feel alone when I do. I only know that once, it meant everything.

Sep 17
&

"All the hardest, coldest people you meet were once as soft as water. And that’s the tragedy of living."

- Iain Thomas, from I Wrote This For You

(Source: psych-facts, via thatkindofwoman)

Jun 17
Jun 11

Seagoat - Comfort Girl

"I can be someone’s and still be my own."

- Shel Silverstein  (via thatkindofwoman)

(Source: onkh-m-maat, via thatkindofwoman)

May 7

The other night someone close to me, possibly closest to me, said that I can’t get along with certain friends because I take things too seriously. He didn’t mean that I get morose when others are laughing, though I can do that, too. He meant when someone says something ridiculous, I turn to them and go, “Really? Tell me about that.”

I know people who can have hours of conversation without saying anything real. Literally, nothing is true. They build stories onto each other’s stories. And it’s fine, because everyone gets that they’re just funny stories. Except me. I don’t get that they’re only supposed to be funny. They chuckle as I sit, my blank face waiting for an answer.

It leads to awkwardness (on my part) and embarrassment (again, on my part). But my seriousness doesn’t just extend to these little reunions. Sometimes, when I meet someone, I immediately start to probe. There is no grace period, no toeing the water. For the willing, it’s a slightly uncomfortable setting. For the unwilling, it’s an interrogation. 

But some of the best friendships I’ve had have resulted from my seriousness. Relationships, no. The boys before my current relationship dove in only to scramble out once they were fulfilled. Even the boy I live with was drawn to my serious nature at first but now has a slight distaste for it, opting for a playful version of myself instead. (I love to have fun, but it’s misery unless the primary, morose me is fulfilled.) But friendships that survived my initial interrogation were the best. It’s achieved the closeness that I’m sure we all yearn for in our own ways. Or is that just me?

As much as I would love to be the perfect balance of fun and serious, I’m okay with who I am. It’s enough for now. I have to be nourished in one area order to spring in others. It’s complicated, I know. But as much as we try to prove the opposite, happiness isn’t simple.

Apr 24
An Appeal for Seriousness

(I put everything into this because I thought I would always wonder what if if I didn’t, but now I know that trying my best means I can only blame myself when I fail.)

(I don’t like to fail.)

Apr 9
*

Someone can change so much that she doesn’t quite recognize who she was before. How on earth could I have thought that? Someone could become wiser, but much, much sadder. Someone could be unable to pretend to be happy and social. Someone could no longer fit in with her old beliefs, her old family, her old friends. This isn’t going how I thought. Why can’t I seem to make eye contact? Why don’t they believe I’m happy? Someone could be happier alone. Someone could get in the car to go to work and revel in the silence, the vents tipped just right, the darkness of the early morning as it blurs by. Someone could let guilt grow, and cry over everyone she has abandoned. Or maybe she could imagine that abandonment is necessary. She could stay where she is. Someone could watch the light she once possessed in solitary silence. She could look on as it moves like a 7 a.m. sunrise, up and up. Farther. And then she could shut the door, lock her car, and go to work. 

Mar 31
&
Mar 11

P.S. Hoffman - A Tribute

(Source: putablueribbononmybrain)

"There was another life that I might have had, but I am having this one."

- Kazuo Ishiguro, The Unconsoled

(Source: itsfromabook, via misscaitie-deactivated20140816)

Dec 8
Nov 3

(Source: didyoueatallthisacid, via la-persienne)

"So plant your own gardens and decorate your own soul, instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers."

- Jorge Luis Borges

(via fondfarewells)

Sep 14

I don’t sleep anymore. I wait until you’re under our covers and I sit on our couch and wait for sunlight. You said that you worry about me, that maybe I don’t take care of myself. I asked what that meant and you said emotionally and then I asked what that meant, too. You sighed. You didn’t want to start a discussion. But I feel fine. I mean, I feel okay. Not bad. Why is everyone obsessed with happiness? It’s “do this, buy this, be this, and you’ll be happy.” The Grand Prize, the ultimate goal, is happiness. But I don’t want it. I never want to become perpetually happy, smiling to my death. I want to feel, I want to react, and I want to be whole. When I give up on sleep and watch the hours pass in our living room, I am okay. I am feeling. That’s my “happiness.”

Sep 13
*

I said I wanted a desk to work at, or a chair with a back, because mine had grown sore while I bent over the page. I said I thought I needed my own space. “This one?” you asked, pointing to the one in our bedroom, the one that groaned under the assets of your work. “Just one that is clean and private,” I said, recognizing the dismay in your voice. “This one is cl—” you almost said, but you looked down at the keyboard, and the headphones, and the trash, and the endless cords that bloomed from the wood like the notes of your songs, reaching up and outwards until they hung by your string. Sometimes I feel like we hang from a string, the same one, and when you pull I am dragged behind you, and then I pull and you topple backwards. It happened again tonight, over a desk and space, and independence, so I’m bent over the page behind a locked door on the edge of our bathtub, where we undress and try to scrub our bodies clean. 

Jul 28
7/27/13

"I had no one to help me, but the T.S. Eliot helped me. So when people say that poetry is a luxury, or an option, or for the educated middle classes, or that it shouldn’t be read at school because it is irrelevant, or any of the strange and stupid things that are said about poetry and it’s place in our lives, I suspect that the people doing the saying have had things pretty easy. A tough life needs a tough language — and that is what poetry is. That is what literature offers — a language powerful enough to say how it is. It isn’t a hiding place. It is a finding place."

- Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal? by Jeanette Winterson (via honeychurch)

(Source: nouvelliste, via filthiestlaugh)

Jul 13

awritersruminations:

Vincent van Gogh, whose depression, some say, was likely related to temporal lobe epilepsy, famously saw and painted the world in almost unbearably vivid colors. After his nearly unsuccessful attempt to take his life by shooting himself in the gut, when asked why he should not be saved, he famously replied, “The sadness will last forever.” I imagine he was right.

—Maggie Nelson, Bluets

Jul 10