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I started taking pictures recently because I felt no connection to my past. However, as I recollected on them I realized I started to harbor too much nostalgia. I miss him too much as it is without the reminder.
I’ll attempt to find the most comfortable spot I can in my bed but without him my mattress is uneven. Too high on one side from consistent absence and sunken in on the other. It is perhaps a blatant metaphor, he unknowingly balances my extreme personality characteristics.
Besides the reliable empty bed, there is one other consistency I’ve noticed. Right as I train myself to find comfort, I’ll sigh the words “I miss you so much.”
As soon as I wake up, I check all signs that maybe he thought of me. No call, no messages, no notifications. I’ll tread through the list of excuses why he didn’t contact me and why I should contact him- but I never do.
I didn’t believe in it until recently. The way we met accommodated my anxiety. I didn’t stutter and it portrayed extroversion. My nose which typically would have started to feel as if I suddenly had allergies and reaction that looked as if I was snorting something were missing but not missed. There was a five minute gap of time that decided I would meet him, and I didn’t believe in it then either. Every encounter after the very first was not forced. I’ve never ran into someone accidentally so many times. A greeting was never necessary and our eyes somehow always found each other. Even if that’s all it was, it was all I needed to believe in fate.
Note to self:
*insert introversion writing perhaps?*
*to be continued
next topic: timing, hurting heart
I wonder if the most well known novelists/writers/playwrights on this earth had doubt about their ability to be able to write so many pages. I feel I have this overwhelming drive to write something great. I have characters, settings, conflicts, and scenes all planned out and tucked away some place secret. However, I still feel like I am in a composition course where there is a page limit that I have not yet reached on a core paper and that I will never. I need some encouragement. Did C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, J.K. Rowling, Charles Bukowski, Hunter S. Thompson, Steven King, Shakespeare, or Jack Kerouac ever go through this perhaps even momentarily? Or maybe that’s just what makes them great.
4,903 notes (via songofbaltimore & henrycharlesbukowski)