this thing called life.

the ins & outs of my little world.

suitcases

She didn’t keep waiting. And that was not her fault. She silently warned you. She desperately hoped for an inkling of truth, of feeling, of anything to signify her importance. That she could be loved, or held in a way that proved that what they had was a reality for him also. He left with nothing more than a suitcase, a brush of his lips to hers and a simple “see you”.

He was not to return for at least six months. She had no promise. She had nothing. She sobbed, she gathered herself, and she left the airport with her own suitcase; a suitcase full of unspoken words, new resolutions of strength, and promises to herself that she would no longer wait. She moved on.

losing and keeping.

Looking back, I see that we had only a small pocket of time to explore our affair. That was the beauty of it. Once we were available to immerse ourselves fully, I realised that we loved each other by repeatedly losing each other. It was a desperate feeling, losing someone you long for. Once I knew I could keep you this time, the urgency was gone, the desperation disappeared, and I saw you. I saw that you weren’t as exciting as you once were.

Unfortunately for you, the desperation continues, as you have lost me once again.

humansofnewyork:

"If you could give one piece of advice to a large group of people, what would it be?""Stay together.""Is there someone specific that you wish you’d stayed together with?""Yes. My wife. But that was nature’s fault, not mine. And also my son.” "Who’s fault was that?""Mine.""What happened?""Issues surrounding his mother, things like that. But honestly, he’s getting to the age now, that I really think it’s time he reached out.""Why don’t you reach out?""I can’t find him.""If you could say one thing to him, what would it be?""Please."

humansofnewyork:

"If you could give one piece of advice to a large group of people, what would it be?"
"Stay together."
"Is there someone specific that you wish you’d stayed together with?"
"Yes. My wife. But that was nature’s fault, not mine. And also my son.” 
"Who’s fault was that?"
"Mine."
"What happened?"
"Issues surrounding his mother, things like that. But honestly, he’s getting to the age now, that I really think it’s time he reached out."
"Why don’t you reach out?"
"I can’t find him."
"If you could say one thing to him, what would it be?"
"Please."

My parents always tell me
to never fall in love with someone else
who has baggage.

The problem with that is it disproves this fact:
you have been places and you
are going places, separately from and with me.

I want to lie down in bed with you
and have you lay out all of your suitcases.
I want you to show me the dress you
wore when you were seven and that neighborhood
girl, Sara, kissed you on the nose.
I want you to show me the pair of shoes
you wore when we first met, with your
shoe laces so dirty from walking
around this city and finding pieces
of yourself in the alleyways.

Please lay out that gown you wore
those three days when you were in the hospital
with scars on your skin because
it was easier to hate yourself than to love.
Please let me hold that bracelet
you threw into the Ocean from the first
boy that broke your heart and ended up
kissing another girl that same night
and taking her home, fucking her
so hard that the Milky Way wasn’t
a good enough metaphor
to articulate how he felt coming
home.

I will dress you up in my
eighteen year old skin where B.
and I sat instead of danced during
prom, crying over certain things
that we could not keep inside for
much longer. I will let you wear
that sweater I wore the first night
I kissed you underneath a street lamp,
as the snow was falling into the light,
I was falling into you, wholeheartedly.
I will let you wear that shirt you slipped
over your self after that first night we spent
together, in bed, learning how to love someone
properly, in a more physical sense than ever before.

And then I want to pack all of these bags
and stuff them back into our lungs,
so that our histories will always leak out of
our breath. We will not forget
how heavy we felt once and how light we feel now,
in comparison. I want to know your history, simply,
even the darkest corners, so maybe me being there
will make them lighter and make both of us
appreciate the dim light of the Moon
because it was there, even if we did not always
notice it.

—Andrew M., Going / Growing (via deliciates)

(Source: andrewmicah)

One chapter.

Last night I poured a page of my past out to you. I wrote it down, word for word, tear by tear, scar by scar. It was just one page, but it was the opening chapter, a prologue of sorts, one of the most important parts to read before engaging in the body. If not for that page, the rest of this story is a lot harder to make sense of, and I knew, eventually, you would want to read the whole book.
 
You quietly listened, hanging on to each word, interjecting only with a touch or a sigh. It was your way of turning the pages, not forcefully or rushed, but with a slow motion, drawing out the truth and letting each sentence soak into your mind.

When I finished the chapter we stopped and we breathed. We breathed hard and heavy and our words were so much richer through the knowledge we now shared. Our hug had never been tighter, our words had never meant more. You read me, you listened to me, and I allowed you to.

You cried with me, you held me close, then you stroked my skin to sleep.

Artist’s statement:

“The world seems to me increasingly incomprehensible, and there are times when I feel there isn’t anything that I know for certain. For me, making photographs (or painting, or whatever) is necessary to translate the unintelligible reality of being into a more coherent form. Or at least to illustrate my best guesses. There is vastly more nothing in the universe than something, and I try to create images that recognize the grace by which anything at all exists.”

—Ryan Hancock

Two words.

A poignant reminder from an unlikely source. Someone I would never take relationship or life advice from, provided a flippant comment that has resonated with me since, and has alerted me to the over-analytical state of frenzy that people (me) put ourselves through when it comes to deciding a whether a person deserves a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ in regards to the fatal choice of embarking into a relationship.

All it takes is two words to unravel, rewind, and undo the mess of interwoven lifestyle decisions.

"It’s over."

Yes, there is a lot more pain, explaining, and healing needed that stems as a consequence of those words, but those two words are the catalyst, and they are all that need be uttered to snap the ties which you so carefully knotted.

So what is that we’re so scared of? Feelings. Just feelings. Protecting our own and the ones of whom we love or care about. Perhaps that is the single most important thing, but feelings can’t hurt you. It’s up to you how strong or weak they are, and how long they stay.

Don’t be scared. Jump in head-first. Soak up the loveliness and be prepared to say (or hear) two words if it all goes askew.

day by day.

You’re stitching up my scars, mending my fragility and piecing together my puzzle slowly. Maybe I’m letting you figure me out, maybe I’m composing the most beautiful story ever written. It’s so much harder to let you in than it’s ever been to shut someone out. The secrets are etched in my bones and you are slowly digging beneath the flesh. When they are uncovered, the choice will be yours to to stay or go; but once you have buried under my skin you will remain there, and I will be exposed.