Little private “library” on Woodlawn between 36th and 37th. Also, I love this book! What are the odds?
It’s so strange that those pains fade into complacencies, and tumble from our hearts like the ghosts of lies. It tinges the room with the dull taste of stupidity: genuinity stripped from the core like sheets off a bed. And our memories lay bare, self-conscious in their plainness, holding nothing in their hands but the offer of apologies. The novels never written, sorrows never documented—as if the pain didn’t exist.
So what then does that make of the feelings pain replaced, and all the adventures and longings you felt were the greatests?
Mortality is one thing, but this is somehow harder: the eternal death of one’s love instead of body.
Ink will fade to shadows and machinery will fail us. The language will soon die too. And we tell ourselves it’s fine, because it’s better to move on. But what of what we’ve lost? And if we could heal, then what was even the point of those days we spent in bed, and all those books that we have read? The dogears will be smoothed, I suppose, for the next one to continue. Until that one fades as well.
When I quit my cushy office job, I had no intention of being a queer sex worker/performer. I had no idea that with in a month I would have a mini empire, two upcoming film credits, thirty pairs of fishnets, and would love every second of it.
It was however my intention to live as…
I will try my best not to love you,
if you try your best not to be so lovely.
Do what you can to be ugly, mean,
bad at kissing. Tell the wrong kind of jokes
and belch loudly in public. I won’t miss you,
if you promise not to be worth missing.
We can play house, husband and wife,
with layers of bubble wrap in between us—
the gun shot snap warning
if we dare get too close.
A while ago, I penned a fairly angry response to something circulating on the internet – the 21 Habits of Happy People. It pissed me off beyond belief, that there was an inference that if you weren’t Happy, you simply weren’t doing the right things.
I’ve had depression for as long as I can…
Shel Silverstein, future forecaster, keeping the most important thing alive: possibility.