I want to write to you every moment of every day.
I want to tell you what my intestines, veins, and nerves scream whenever you are by my side and whenever you are not by my side; and what they yearn for — who they yearn for — whenever you are with me and whenever you are not with me. I want you to know how your smile triggers mine and how your frown triggers the tears in me. I want you to feel the same breeze and air that I inhale and exhale; for my every breath contains fragments of my heart dedicated to you and only you. I want you to hear the explosions inside of me and the bursting in my chest.
I want to tell you every thing. Every single thing. Every little thing.
I. The positive pregnancy test on your sink deems harmless not until what’s woven in your womb started to kick in the middle of your Algebra examination. Also, you could wear that reassuring smile for yet another day to mask your guilt for having your best friend’s lover as your daughter’s father. You tried to convince yourself that you will never become a liar; that you’re simply delaying the truth.
II. Nine years from now and an old man found you sitting alone and lonely, and offered to buy you a drink. He asked what’s the story of your life, and you flashed your sixteen-year-old smile and told him that you’re just another girl in the bar. You felt his tongue in your nape the way your haunted past slit your throat every night. You tried to convince yourself that you were not lying; that you’re simply denying the opportunity to tell the truth.
III. It was your mother’s 9th death anniversary and you visited her grave for the first time. You brought tulips for her, the flower she used to tuck behind your ears as her eyes shout out how much she loves you. You reminisced about the cold nights when she sang you to sleep, only to realize that you’re just recalling the illusion you used to tell to your friends, even though she won’t claim you as her own child in front of her new man. You tried to convince yourself that you’ve never became a liar in your whole life; that you’re simply fond of distorting the truth.
Humans like to lose control. Don’t they?
As much as we strive to be in control of everything in our lives, I believe we all secretly wish that we could just lose it.
More often than not it goes haywire: explosions of emotions, terrible breakdowns followed by subsequent dark days of self loathing and depression.
But sometimes, just sometimes, losing control is plain euphoria.
The hardest problem is letting go and trusting the world will catch us when we stop trying to control every variable in our lives. We all wish that when we do lose control, we are pleasantly surprised instead of greeted with bitter disappointment.
Well, there can never be any guarantees. But to miss out on this feeling of vulnerability, where you don’t know what the world can do with you next, well… to miss out on that is a real shame.
i dont date in high school because no one is rich yet so whats the point
if gatsby wrote a letter to nick it would be addressed to “old sport” because i firmly believe gatsby doesnt know nicks name