Perhaps happiness, the lasting kind, comes from embracing the quiet loveliness of our own insignificance — relieving ourselves of the responsibility that comes with the never-ending chase.
I should be able to look at you objectively, in all your importance and all your insignificance, and I should be able to shrug. But I can’t.
We remember the way they held us, the way they kissed us, the way they made us feel so secure, so reassured.
I should’ve pushed through the crowd, I should’ve navigated the mess of drunken patrons and moved in your direction; placed you in my path. I should’ve said hello.
We’re all just a little tired, a little lost, a little stuck on our respective paths, waiting for something or someone to intercept us – waiting for a smile or an expression of understanding.
It’s the dull ache of a hangover, it’s the the clicking of a hashtag, it’s the inevitability of heartbreak.
Nothing in the world is quite as beautiful as emptiness; the way it swells with untouched, unbridled potential – the way it lets in new light, lets in new love.
Our lives are unwritten, our futures are blank, and we are nothing but ink being pressed into lines and shapes and patterns and textured, unfocused scribbles.
I guess that’s what we do for people we like: we add nuance, tone, poetic justice. We complete their sentences in order to meet them half-way.
I need you to look at me in a way that doesn’t end, in a way that flows just as steadily in autumn as it does in spring.