Brianna Wiest

Books. Actual hard copy books that you can scribble notes in and mark off sections of and smell ink through and hear the sound of turning pages and bending spines while you read.

But what actually ends up happening is that things get pulled so far out of context they become repurposed just for the sake of an argument.

We lose the mystery, the intangible but palpable reality of our existence, one that’s both elusively foreign and so comfortably, warmly home.

Being happy that someone else has failed.

What your parents didn’t give you.

Intelligence is not measured by exams, creativity not by output, desire not by action and honesty not by circumstance.

You don’t have to tell people you date that you come as a package deal. They know. And if they don’t, they will when they’re laying next to you the next morning while you’re on the phone with said best friend telling them everything that happened last night.

I don’t think love is always a huge, cataclysmal emotional event. I think sometimes it sits in front of you for a very long time until you glance over and say, oh, there you are. I don’t think it’s your saving grace. I think it’s the hand that you hold while you save yourself.