Thought Catalog

Violet Young

Violet Young is the pseudonym of a writer based in Los Angeles.

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You appreciate something more when it occurs as infrequently as an eclipse.

I was sure he could read my mind. That the only thing standing in his way, the only thing that made my face incomprehensible to him, was his lack of confidence in himself.

But there was space between us, so much space between us. The space that friendship opens up, the space that friendship keeps forever pushed apart with its two strong arms, like someone breaking up a fist fight.

In our triumvirate there was no hierarchy. No one ever stayed at the top for very long. A rotating presidency, I guess you could call it, usually dictated by whoever was the least moody on any given day.

Build up enough memories, a pastiche of how things really went, and they calcify into something like a sculpture in the mind. The real person, however, wavers and darts like a dusky shadow on the grass.

Death causes all the events that come after it to be heightened, to be either worse or better than they would otherwise appear.

We choose a story and narrate all memories to the specifications of that story. Or worse: a single memory, however blurry, can start a story, can be the one random moment that sets a lifelong story in motion.

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