And yet…
MOST of the time, well at least 66 percent of the time, you make me feel insecure. Shitty.
The rest of the time is like a massive high that keeps me going.
I really should try to hate you.
(Source: lovequotesrus, via ladybugginthuggin)
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, ‘Yes.’
It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children.
It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.
It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.
NOW WHAT?!
(image) Tracey Emin’s ”You made ME LOVE You,”
Today I went to the American Bookstore on Via Camperio. The reality of this act scared me, the fact that I may need to go to a special bookstore scares me.
I now have an Amazon.com credit card.
One of the five books I purchased is called Super Sad True Love Story. I have seen this book on tables at various Waterstones for months, I have read reviews of this book, even read a pretty tempting excerpt in the New Yorker, I have always known this book was probably very good and so I avoided it… Seriously, for that reason only.
Like Virgina Woolfs Orlando, which I always have on backup, like Everything is Illuminated, which I now gift and regift obsessively, I have harboured a good future feeling in regards to this book (and no, not just because I am positive the title is the kind of nonsense I come up with), and so I did not want to ruin it by reading it.
I suppose you could say its finally time.
Let’s hope it’s not that awful.
AWFUL is the trailer, awful is any book that has a video trailer, almost as bad as books that become movies that eventually bomb pretty bad, but created enough interest that the movie trailers are still used to sell the book… I know what I mean. Shut Up.
Awful is the fact that James Franco (take a moment to appreciate) is the only reason I am sharing this trailer. Awful is the fact that whilst James Franco isn’t a bad writer, because he’s so talented, and well, attractive, you expect him to be a much better one.
Susan Anderson’s Thin Lines series shows that with a simple strike through you can completely change a story. A bit on the depressing side, you can just imagine a heartbroken boy writing these to his long lost love…letters never to be sent and only created for closure. The messages move from sweet to sometimes scary and spooky; they read like mini thriller mystery novels read on a rainy and cold winter’s night.
