We get in trouble for being too loud or too messy or too big. And so we begin to shrink into smaller, watered down versions of ourselves. We do this in an attempt to be loved and accepted.
Because of course the idea is good. Of course there’s something here. Of course the audiences will love what we create. Of course our breakthrough is legitimate. Except that isn’t always true.
like lavender scented candles and string lights fastened to every corner of the universe.
It was the words we thought and the words we said that brought us closer. Words like I and you and love.
Take a second.
You have a day’s worth of new stuff in your brain.
File away what you need, empty trash files.
Get comfy. Sleep.
We torture ourselves by remembering the minuscule details about you, just so we can put it down on paper and create something worth reading.
“I need you to be a monster / which is to say, I am trying not to love you / which is to say, I am still dreaming of kissing your claws.” — Fortesa Latifi
I remember when home was so easy to define.
When home was simply a house.
Four walls and a roof.
We were in a love-drunk silence; pleasantly, stupidly, and blissfully content in the other’s presence.
Thanks to years of consuming so many stories, a reader’s interior world is truly amazing—a sanctuary they can escape to whenever they please, which is a serious advantage when life gets tricky and the real world isn’t such a great place to be.