it must mean something.
it must mean something to choose reading over writing.
to settle with an all pop novel, not knowing if it was the better choice but knowing that it was better than staring up at ceilings and facing my blog. there is a certain comfort that comes from books. a certain feeling, that when you're done you aren't the person you were when you first started. or perhaps because summer is here and the nights get too melancholic so i choose to swallow sadness and read. i read because my mind gets clogged up by the wonder of words fusing worlds. i read because i am able to think. and when there is too much to think about, i forsake sadness. i could just fuss over James and Materia and their kids, and their New World without ever having to worry about how my own is doing.
because when i don't write, i do not have to admit things.. i wouldn't have to say that i am neither good nor fine. worse, i wouldn't have to admit that even up to now i am uncomfortable with all the silence. mental telepathy works and fails, but i do not know when it does and when it doesnt. i wouldn't have to say that at 3am, it's your hug that i need most. and by 4, i realize that i have no one but myself to be with. i wouldn't have to publicly admit that i sleep too much-- all day, because i hope of waking up with your arms around mine. i wouldn't have to let you know how miserable it is because by then, id be the someone who finds it hard to understand.
but there is nothing to admit anymore. and when there is nothing to admit, there is no truth. no reality. no heart falling off the door because the hinge was too loose.
i prefer to read because when i do, i escape from being too dramatic. because when i do not write, i can continue to pretend. the more pages i read, the longer i could pretend.
that yes, i am the world's happiest person. i am loving all this distance. i understand. and of course, i am falling in deeper with April.
(there are more pretensions i could give you in various patterns and phrases)
it must mean something.
an escape.
p.s
i JUST wanted to express myself the fastest way i know of. blame me for all the errors there are. you are forgiven, i still have a book to finish.
p.s
i miss you. still.
too much.
------------------
it must mean something to choose reading over writing.
to settle with an all pop novel, not knowing if it was the better choice but knowing that it was better than staring up at ceilings and facing my blog. there is a certain comfort that comes from books. a certain feeling, that when you're done you aren't the person you were when you first started. or perhaps because summer is here and the nights get too melancholic so i choose to swallow sadness and read. i read because my mind gets clogged up by the wonder of words fusing worlds. i read because i am able to think. and when there is too much to think about, i forsake sadness. i could just fuss over James and Materia and their kids, and their New World without ever having to worry about how my own is doing.
because when i don't write, i do not have to admit things.. i wouldn't have to say that i am neither good nor fine. worse, i wouldn't have to admit that even up to now i am uncomfortable with all the silence. mental telepathy works and fails, but i do not know when it does and when it doesnt. i wouldn't have to say that at 3am, it's your hug that i need most. and by 4, i realize that i have no one but myself to be with. i wouldn't have to publicly admit that i sleep too much-- all day, because i hope of waking up with your arms around mine. i wouldn't have to let you know how miserable it is because by then, id be the someone who finds it hard to understand.
but there is nothing to admit anymore. and when there is nothing to admit, there is no truth. no reality. no heart falling off the door because the hinge was too loose.
i prefer to read because when i do, i escape from being too dramatic. because when i do not write, i can continue to pretend. the more pages i read, the longer i could pretend.
that yes, i am the world's happiest person. i am loving all this distance. i understand. and of course, i am falling in deeper with April.
(there are more pretensions i could give you in various patterns and phrases)
it must mean something.
an escape.
p.s
i JUST wanted to express myself the fastest way i know of. blame me for all the errors there are. you are forgiven, i still have a book to finish.
p.s
i miss you. still.
too much.
------------------
“Look at the sky: that is for you. Look at each person’s face as you pass on the street: those faces are for you. And the street itself, and the ground under the street, and the ball of fire underneath the ground: all these things are for you. There are as much for you as they are for other people. Remember this when you wake up in the morning and think you have nothing.”
— Miranda July (No One Belongs Here More Than You: Stories)