… was the day I wrote this:
It was the day of the phone call.
It was the day I stopped believing.
It was the day I died.
It was the lowest point in my life.
It was the day.
It would always be the day.
… was the day I wrote this:
It was the day of the phone call.
It was the day I stopped believing.
It was the day I died.
It was the lowest point in my life.
It was the day.
It would always be the day.
… was the day I managed to suck this straw and finished my drink in one breath.
It was the day you told me you had to go.
It was the day I told you you didn’t actually have to go.
It was the day you went anyway, leaving me alone at the parking lot to finally gain the strength to carry on.
It was the day I told myself to think that everything would be alright.
It was the day I believed that “Tomorrow will be better.”
It was the day before the day I died.
It was the day the 2012 apocalypse started (silly Mayans had no clue at all!)
It was the day.
It would always be the day.
I went on a date last night and then you texted and asked, again, whether I would come there. Start our days with coffee, end with you making dinner. Forever. I feel myself tug towards yes and then I remember why it will always be no with you and I.
There are people in your life who are going to love you for all of the wrong reasons. They will love you for the best part of your face, the best part of you naked, the best mood on your best day, the best story you ever wrote, the best outfit you ever wore.
They are going to miss the scar on the underside of your nose from the time your older brothers dared you to run across a pile of logs. They won’t know that you fell on a hidden nail just as you completed the challenge. They’ll miss the scar on your finger, too from the time you were seven and closed a swiss army knife on it. They won’t understand that these are two of only a handful of things you can remember about your childhood. They’ll notice that you have great tits, but they’ll miss that your thumb tucks into their palm when you’re walking together and that your eyes have darker circles when a migraine is coming. They won’t know you get migraines. They won’t ask where the story you wrote came from, so they’ll never know that it was true. They’ll love it because it feels real to them. They’ll miss knowing the sweatshirt full of holes that they criticized you for wearing was your dads. You might tell them some of these things along the way, but they will remember the best things instead.
They will love your good moods, your energy, your sense of humor, but miss that you never turn to them, but rather to a shower or a pillow or the back of your throat to shed tears. They won’t ever consider you strong.
When the parts that aren’t your best come out, some people will shield their eyes as if you have just forced them to look directly into the sun for hours until their irises burn. They’ll silently make you promise to never show them that again. Those things are not to be shown. Be at your best so I can love you. I would love you more if only you never show me those things.
And you do not marry those people. You do not sit and sleepily drink coffee with those people. You leave those people and you remind yourself that they missed the better parts of you.
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Let’s be honest here: both A and I are not really into either art, design, or jazz, so generally Locafore is not our cup of coffee. However, never having gone out of the town to the west together before, we decided to go anyway. Luckily, Locafore turned out to be a lot of fun for us. The arts were not the kind of confusing art (you know… the abstracts and the likes) and we got to see Jubing Kristianto, an Indonesian guitar soloist. I had planned to see Raisa on stage, but alas we got to the venue right when she got off the stage. Haha
I realise I’ve never properly introduced Miss Molly’s three kittens (or The Diablos, as I like to call them) in this blog. Here they are:
Billy |
Lily |
Luna |