He keeps asking me what’s wrong. I keep telling him I’m not ready to talk about it. As if one day I might be. They all know (to some extent) something’s wrong — when they ask, I just smile patiently and say my pre-rehearsed line. I’m fine. It’s easy to pretend. That quick smile that doesn’t quite reach the eyes and those two simple words slipped so effortlessly from quivering lips that seem to make everything better, at least for a little while because they believe you and when they believe you, you can believe you too. They think, maybe she is fine. Maybe everything isn’t as bad as I had feared it might be. Maybe she didn’t really look that sad. Maybe I imagined it. And I’m okay with them thinking that, I prefer it. Because I don’t want anyone to know. I can’t talk about it. Talking about it would make it seem real, and when I’m just barely holding it together as it is, making it seem real would make me fall apart.
I can’t afford to fall apart right now.
I finally started a photoblog for my photography. Y’know, for all the pictures that don’t quite make it to flickr, but are still special in their own rights. Or for all the personal photographs that I don’t want to post on flickr or facebook but feel the urge to sneak in every once in a while between posts.
Anyways, yes. I’m super pumped about this.
I’m also coming back to tumblr soon. School started up again and it’s been a crazy whirlwind of a ride. But I miss this place and I miss tucking secrets between half-smeared pages of half-forgotten memories that can only hope to be half-understood because, as always, they’re half-laced with lies.
(I tend to ramble around things, but the point of this was to say if you have a blogspot, you should follow me so I can follow you too)
“I don’t get you at all." (My nose twitches.) “Why not? ”“You’re just so much weirder than everyone else.” “Oh.” “You’re really hard to be around.” “Because I paint the same thing over and over?” (He sighed, looking past me.) “No…because you’re like…haunted. You are so haunted. And everyone feels it.” can you tell us a little bit about this conversation :)
I’ve lost a lot of people over the years. Not in a silly break-up sense, but in a they’re gone from the face of the goddamn earth sense. This conversation took place a few years back during one of those dark times, and the boy with whom it took place probably saved my life a little bit if ya know what I mean. I think I’ve talked about him on here a few times or at least alluded to his existence — he was the boy who helped me understand that we’re all dying to live and living to die and it’s hard when our last chance to live is also our first. The boy whose voice rose like smoke and dripped like ink. The reason my favourite smells are cinnamon and turpentine. He could hear colours and see sounds and I used to think what a goddamn beautiful life he must lead. He told me my words sounded like wish white and sky blue, sometimes earl grey, and I always wondered whether he meant the tea or the shade or perhaps some half-hemmed amalgam in between. He was also the boy I dreamed about for nearly two years, and not in a lovesick puppydog kind of way. I like to think it was more of in a this is an important moment in your life Molly and you should remember it kind of way, but I don’t really know and it doesn’t really matter. The dream was always the same —
“I don’t get you at all.”
(My nose twitches.)
“You’re just so much weirder than everyone else.”
“You’re really hard to be around.”
“Because I paint the same thing over and over?”
(He sighs, looking past me.)
“No…because you’re like…haunted. You are so haunted. And everyone feels it.”
I don’t know, sometimes I wonder where he is or what he’s doing, but people like him, people like that, they have this proclivity for finding their way back into our lives, so I don’t really concern myself with the details.
One year ago you said you wanted to meet someone that inspires the fuck out of you, and I just wanted to let you know that you inspire the fuck out of me.
People move on orbits so distant from one another. But sometimes they collide, and when they do, what a goddamn beautiful thing.
This is for all the people I’ll never meet. This is for the person I might have kissed had I taken a different subway line on Saturday and the person I might have been if that boy hadn’t broken my mother’s teenage heart. This is for the people I would have loved if last winter hadn’t been so cold and for the city I would have called home if I had written haikus on napkins and carried pens in dress pockets and in the knots of my hair. This is for who I was, who I am, who I might be. This is for you.
Words can be like X-rays if you use them properly — they’ll go through anything. You read and you’re pierced.