you can spend such a long time longing for something (or someone) weeks that feel like months or months that are years or years and then it comes so suddenly, so quietly standing on your doorstep like happiness is easy and the longing feels like an awful, far away dream.
There’s a point when you realize that taking pictures for facebook, tweeting how amazing your life is, or blogging to make your life appeal perfect is unnecessary. You no longer need to impress or document every single happy moment to show others for that hour you were blissful. You live for you, privacy brings meaning back in your life. And you grow out of little antics that use to mean something. Lately I just really don’t care about any of it. My life isn’t perfect & either is anyone else’s. I have equally amazing moments as I do unhappy ones. I won’t constantly update which emotion I wish to convey in order to prove I’m living a better life than you. Because in the end we all know that isn’t true.
Also, trying to document everything can sometimes diminish it. Beauty is fleeting, but it is real, and it’s important to really feel it & soak it in as it comes. Otherwise we’re living in nostalgia, and little else.
“you must refuse to join them.
you must remain yourself.
you must open the curtains
or the blinds
or the windows
to the gentle light.
to joy.”—Charles Bukowski - a vote for the gentle light (via henrycharlesbukowski)
“Just go with it. See what happens and go with it. Let everything come naturally, it’s okay to be a little scared, that just means you’re really careful. But don’t let your fear keep you away from something potentially amazing.”—(via keshialee)
“Because there is no such thing as An Asshole and A Nice Guy and if that’s all we can say about these people, what they really are is An Actor. A one-dimensional character whose actions are motivated by the desire to project a controlled, steadfast image to the world.”—
Here’s where I weigh in on the nice guy/asshole divide. It’s bull. Niceness, or lack theoreof, is not a personality trait. Niceness is a point in a range. I want a guy who’s interesting, who I enjoy being around. I can’t stand the idea of dating someone who’s “so nice" but mind-numbingly dull. I know people who are nice, but dull, and I respect them, but I don’t really want to hang out with them much. I don’t say this as a bitch. I try really really hard to be a kind person. But I also value people who do things. People who cultivate something, who make themselves dynamic & ever-learning. No one is “the nice guy.” No one is “the asshole.” People are complex, moving beings. I guess I’m more concerned with who you are, in addition to your niceness. If I like a guy for all the interesting little things that make him who he is, as long as he’s not too far gone one the terrible person scale, I’ll probably want him.
Stop worrying about whether you’re fat. You’re not fat. Or rather, you’re sometimes a little bit fat, but who gives a shit? There is nothing more boring and fruitless than a woman lamenting the fact that her stomach is round. Feed yourself. Literally. The sort of people worthy of your love will love you more for this, sweet pea.
You are not a terrible person for wanting to break up with someone you love. You don’t need a reason to leave. Wanting to leave is enough. Leaving doesn’t mean you’re incapable of real love or that you’ll never love anyone else again. It doesn’t mean you’re morally bankrupt or psychologically demented or a nymphomaniac. It means you wish to change the terms of one particular relationship. That’s all. Be brave enough to break your own heart.
There are some things you can’t understand yet. Your life will be a great and continuous unfolding. It’s good you’ve worked hard to resolve childhood issues while in your twenties, but understand that what you resolve will need to be resolved again. And again. You will come to know things that can only be known with the wisdom of age and the grace of years. Most of those things will have to do with forgiveness.
Don’t lament so much about how your career is going to turn out. You don’t have a career. You have a life. Do the work. Keep the faith. Be true blue. You are a writer because you write. Keep writing and quit your bitching. Your book has a birthday. You don’t know what it is yet.
You cannot convince people to love you. This is an absolute rule. No one will ever give you love because you want him or her to give it. Real love moves freely in both directions. Don’t waste your time on anything else.
Most things will be okay eventually, but not everything will be. Sometimes you’ll put up a good fight and lose. Sometimes you’ll hold on really hard and realize there is no choice but to let go. Acceptance is a small, quiet room.
One hot afternoon during the era in which you’ve gotten yourself ridiculously tangled up with heroin you will be riding the bus and thinking what a worthless piece of crap you are when a little girl will get on the bus holding the strings of two purple balloons. She’ll offer you one of the balloons, but you won’t take it because you believe you no longer have a right to such tiny beautiful things. You’re wrong. You do.
Your assumptions about the lives of others are in direct relation to your naïve pomposity. Many people you believe to be rich are not rich. Many people you think have it easy worked hard for what they got. Many people who seem to be gliding right along have suffered and are suffering. Many people who appear to you to be old and stupidly saddled down with kids and cars and houses were once every bit as hip and pompous as you.
When you meet a man in the doorway of a Mexican restaurant who later kisses you while explaining that this kiss doesn’t “mean anything” because, much as he likes you, he is not interested in having a relationship with you or anyone right now, just laugh and kiss him back. Your daughter will have his sense of humor. Your son will have his eyes.
The useless days will add up to something. The shitty waitressing jobs. The hours writing in your journal. The long meandering walks. The hours reading poetry and story collections and novels and dead people’s diaries and wondering about sex and God and whether you should shave under your arms or not. These things are your becoming.
One Christmas at the very beginning of your twenties when your mother gives you a warm coat that she saved for months to buy, don’t look at her skeptically after she tells you she thought the coat was perfect for you. Don’t hold it up and say it’s longer than you like your coats to be and too puffy and possibly even too warm. Your mother will be dead by spring. That coat will be the last gift she gave you. You will regret the small thing you didn’t say for the rest of your life.
We make cliches out of star-dappled night skies and the symphony of a sunset. But they are real and they are magnificent and we cannot pin them down in pictures so that they feel like they do when nature’s made them before us.
my mind is a big hunk of irrevocable nothing which touch and taste and smell and hearing and sight keep hitting and chipping with sharp fatal tools in an agony of sensual chisels i perform squirms of chrome and ex -ecute strides of cobalt nevertheless i feel that i cleverly am being altered that i slightly am becoming something a little different, in fact myself Hereupon helpless i utter lilac shrieks and scarlet bellowings.