Anonymous said: do you find it exhausting to love people the way you do? do you feel sad by the end of the day?
i’m in tender with a lot of people, in sweet with a handful and a half, can cute around as much as i do, but i don’t love very easily. so on a day-to-day run it’s not very exhausting, but that’s primarily because i distract myself very often with little things, with small details, with textures and slight nuances and giant gulps full of air and laughter! the collection of laughter of people i love. small, soft smiles. so no, the small loves that i know here, the small loves that i have met and have known in this too-small too-large city of new york, no, it’s not exhausting. it’s liberating. i love loving the people that i love. it gives me light, dude. it gives me such immensity. but yes. yes, fine. when it comes down to it, when i have a moment to myself and let myself think about the past few months, the past few years, when i think about the geographical obstacles, the hundreds of thousands of miles that keep me from so much of my heart, when i think of all the who’s that i think of when i think of the places that i want to go, yes it hurts, but i’m only human, and when i’m alone — when i have the luxury of time to miss — boy, that’s all i do. it’s sweet and it’s repetitive, this missing business. i run loops of the same memory, of being a young child standing on the balls of my feet touching the lace of a blue dress, the hem of a wave on this sea of the woman who i could never call mama but did anyways, when i think about how so many of the people who know me best are scattered overseas and across the continent, sure it makes me sad, but i feel their love. i feel it, i do. it’s exhausting to love people that you can’t touch, that you can’t hold onto, but we do it anyways, hoping that they can feel that we love them, no matter how far apart. and here, for the people close, always close by — love shouldn’t exhaust you. loving shouldn’t exhaust you. it should move you deeper, closer into the world. man, it makes my days so warm. to love and be loved in return, with good intentions, with warm hands. isn’t that all there is here? isn’t that all there is?
being really into history is cooler than being into math or science… someone who likes math and science is called a “math nerd” or a “science geek” but someone who likes history is called a “history buff” because of their strong, sensual arms
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up
waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through
the open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high in here and I can’t turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,
I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,
I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss–we want more and more and then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:
I am living. I remember you.
I love being horribly straightforward. I love sending reckless text messages (because how reckless can a form of digitized communication be?) and telling people I love them and telling people they are absolutely magical humans and I cannot believe they really exist. I love saying, Kiss me harder, and You’re a good person, and, You brighten my day. I live my life as straight-forward as possible.
Because one day, I might get hit by a bus.
Maybe it’s weird. Maybe it’s scary. Maybe it seems downright impossible to just be—to just let people know you want them, need them, feel like, in this very moment, you will die if you do not see them, hold them, touch them in some way whether its your feet on their thighs on the couch or your tongue in their mouth or your heart in their hands.
But there is nothing more beautiful than being desperate.
And there is nothing more risky than pretending not to care.
We are young and we are human and we are beautiful and we are not as in control as we think we are. We never know who needs us back. We never know the magic that can arise between ourselves and other humans.
We never know when the bus is coming.”