We watched spoken word videos until far later than we should’ve, padded quietly around your kitchen, finished a documentary about cave diving and you kissed my knee. Missed my bus and fell asleep next to you instead. Shuffled to bed, arranged limbs right, laughed in the dark, and eventually fell asleep again. Woke to the postman at the door, messy haired and soft, caught the train together and then split in two directions, hands in pockets. I have nothing more to say than this. Collected evidence of how theoretically flawless this is, but something quiet keeping me ripe with ellipses. 

2:00 am  •  28 January 2012  •  1 note

wearemostaliveindreams:

Let’s talk about a girl.

It doesn’t matter who she belongs to. In essence, at the core of everything, she belongs to no one and yet, you see her as yours, floating alongside your hopes and dreams and aspirations for a normal life with someone who thinks and talks and acts just like you.

Let’s…

9:53 am  •  17 January 2012  •  264 notes

I need to tell you that I’m not okay, but I haven’t said anything to you in five months. I need to tell you that my brother is sick, that I’m working two jobs, that I’m not sure where my life is heading, and that I constantly feel like I’m drowning.

I could argue that you don’t know me anymore. You don’t know that it took me ten days to drive across the country or that I drank seven cups of coffee during my one day in Seattle. You don’t know that I walk to work in Los Angeles and that I haven’t talked to my parents in a month; you don’t know that every Sunday I go to what used to be our favorite cafe for hangover breakfast sandwiches and that my heart stops every time the door opens while I’m there because I think it might be you. You don’t know that I have a tattoo on my wrist; you don’t know that I ran a half-marathon; you don’t know that my hair is past my shoulders and that I’ve lost 10 pounds; and you don’t know that I feel broken. Again. You don’t know that I wake up at 5:30 every morning for work; you don’t know that I don’t eat meat anymore or that I still go to yoga booty ballet every Monday. You don’t know that most nights I cry myself to sleep and you don’t know that most mornings I wake up feeling numb. You don’t know that I work on a PC at the office, on a Mac at home, and feel like a gerbil constantly running on one of those cage wheels. You don’t know these things because five months ago I walked away and you didn’t chase after me. You didn’t chase after me because I told you not to. You didn’t call. You didn’t write. And, apparently, we made a mutual decision to stop talking at all.

Because we decided this, and because you now don’t know any of those things about me, it’s transpired that I probably don’t know things about you, either. I don’t know if you’re still killing yourself working crazy hours; I don’t know how your month-long trip to India went; and I don’t know how many haircuts you’ve had, and if any of them have made you look as stupid as that one last December did. I don’t know how you celebrated your birthday last week; I don’t know where you’ll be on New Year’s Eve; and I don’t know your reaction to this season of Modern Family. I don’t know if you’ve kept up running or if you just did it to compete with me; I don’t know if your room has any more furniture in it or if you’ve embarked on your dream of surviving by freelancing; and I don’t know how often you go to our favorite cafe for hangover breakfast sandwiches, or if your heart stops every time the door opens. I don’t know how your sister is, and if she’s pregnant; I don’t know how your mother is and if your father is still recovering from surgery; I don’t know if anyone else has slept in your bed with you and wondered why you have to have the shades closed but the windows open at night. I don’t know if you think about me; I don’t know if your coffee order has changed or if you still stay up composing songs and pretending it’s not a big deal; I don’t know if you’re dating or celibate or engaged; and I don’t know if you’ve kept track of how many days it’s been since we last talked.

I want to talk to you. I want you to hear all about everything. I want to tell you that it’s been 164 days since we last talked and I want to hear you say that you know, that you’ve been counting, too. You’re the first person I feel like calling when something silly happens and the only person I know that would understand why I’m pushing myself to not talk to you. I could argue that you don’t know me anymore. But I know that you do, and that is why I still can’t talk to you.

11:32 pm  •  26 December 2011  •  2 notes

These are the things that burn up in a moment and we never touch them again because they don’t make any sense. All those things you used to tell me wildly and carelessly, waiting for the world to gobble us up, spit your love out like sunflower seeds in summer when the days go on and on forever. These are the things that break days, guilt and moments, the stuff that makes poets and fills notebooks. We believe in things so drunkenly in the glow of hope. We love things stupidly. Our jaws full of dragonflies, which like humans don’t learn how to fly until right before they die. But this is what I’m good at. Picking apart that level of uncertainty in everything and putting it back together again the way I always wanted it. Curving light and wondering about how lonely it is chasing things you can only get so close to. How is it that I was always the bravest when I was also the most naive? How can I keep smacking into things even when they shotgun through me leaving holes in places no one else can reach? and I can’t stop, I won’t stop, I want more. Like that feeling I get in the pit of my stomach staring at the string of buildings in the city emanating fearlessly from the top of the ferris wheel. Because like redwoods I burn from the inside. It’s like being on a carnival ride at midnight, going so fast you can’t catch anything and all you can do is laugh, how young and stupid and beautiful that feels. Always panting, forever distracted. Like those stars that get so hot blooded they burn themselves out, pow, right in the middle of your red giant you’re just a speck, a moonlet of your could-have-been, your ursa-almost-major. Humans are so sad and strange. The things I do make no sense. It’s like how a building is called a building when it’s already built. How I had more bones the day I was born than right now at this very moment— and sometimes I can feel them grinding up beneath me like all the things I never did. I am waxed and waning, always ready right when it’s a little too late. I am the side of the moon that the earth never sees because sometimes it’s hard giving all of yourself to something that might not get it, that might just pull its self away. Tell me, could the chaos ever accept you and me?

7:01 pm  •  15 December 2011  •  3 notes

Do you ever feel as though you could burst at any given second? “I rarely drink anymore,” I told them, “because there is just so much going on inside of me that if I were to lose control of it for just a second, I feel as though I could plummet into consequential anxiety and so long as I were inebriated, I wouldn’t be able to get myself out.” What is a person capable of in one hour? Two? They say, “Oh, you’re so smart, Emilee. You’ll do the right thing,” but if I really am so smart, how did I wind up with rusty gears for insides, clicking against the cold of November’s rapid conclusion. Another month sliding down the gutters that keep our street from flooding because it is constantly raining here. So we, the town’s natives, talk about how much we love it – the idea of a room so warm it’s toasty and all wrapped up in quilts, the way the beads of water hit our windowpanes and the sound the wind makes through the bare tree limbs in our backyard, yet we’re so sleepy and it’s becoming apparent that we’re unable to move without rigidity. There’s love then, a function of it – at least. I was so full of it once, I felt as though you could slice into me like butter and I would have no regrets, no refusal or hesitation. I would move in organic patterns, a simple rise and fall over a sloping line. My body like a single brush stroke on a blank canvas. Now, sometimes, my limbs feel hollow and old, rather – like time has weathered itself into my skin. I throw my blankets off of myself in my sleep in frustrated dream sequence; I am having nightmares of frequent disappearances. I am plain white: I read my books and smear paint across slabs of wood, and I write these purposeless words and laugh at all of your jokes – watch those films, take those drives, walk through the neighborhoods in the middle of the night. And then, I get up in the mornings and drink my usual two cups of coffee; I lie down at night and sip my usual cup of tea. And when we’re alone: “change begins with you, Emilee,” she said finally, taking one last drag off of her cigarette. There is just so much inside of me, it’s brimming over.

8:51 am  •  10 December 2011  •  2 notes

A red front door and someone’s hand to hold.

7:57 pm  •  9 December 2011  •  3 notes

Homesick for things that make me feel lonely. Like how different you are from me. It makes me so sad sometimes because it forces me to recognize how I just don’t fit with other people. people like you, all hot blooded all wonder struck and careless. I’m homesick for things that make me tired. How I cried in the backseat in Oregon underneath the blanket so neither of the boys would know. Didn’t make a goddamn sound. And in Colorado I remember listening thoughtfully to the strangers who had their moments held out right besides ours. And I momentarily ached for them as I momentarily ache for many things that are sometimes sloppy and hopeless, like penny wishes, like begging loose stars to grant you dreams. You’ve asked me once if I ever did dangerous things. I instantly thought about the way the sky’s mouth gaped at us that thursday after a wednesday when we didn’t sleep and you said something to me like “Look at the way it’s opening up for us like we could jump into it” I thought about the things I said that got lost in the cross fire, bits and pieces splayed chaotically through out the years of our noise. How you always knew when to look at me like you could love me and never look back. How did you always know when to do that? How I shot the song that rose between us like plumes of smoke. How I knotted our parts together for worse and for better because we were sadder songs before with harder words that hit like side ways rain and slammed into themselves like mistakes. I chased after people with such a sincerity it could split stars, splinter sunlight, I could fracture darkness with it. But you wouldn’t believe me. You never really knew about dangerous things.

1:10 pm  •  28 November 2011  •  3 notes

Monday’s always a drag, to hell with it. I’ve got this Social Distortion shirt on for the second day in a row and I’m listening to the Jackson 5 motown christmas because I want to and nobody can stop me. And THAT is what it looks like when you’re living the american dream.

9:56 am  •  28 November 2011  •  3 notes

Isn’t it sort of uncomfortable, and harsh, when someone sees you so differently than you see yourself? You would think that you know yourself best, but you’re fucking wrong, aren’t you? Your looks, your intentions, your sadness; do you really know anything about any of this? I bet I could look into your eyes and tell you ten things that you didn’t know, can’t understand, won’t accept. I hope you can’t do the same for me.

6:17 pm  •  14 November 2011  •  2 notes

Anonymous asked: Your posts are beautiful.

That’s really sweet, thank you!

7:50 am  •  14 November 2011  •  3 notes