foragain
for again.
"that love is all there is; is all we know of love. it is enough; the freight should be proportioned to the groove." - e.d (ame, 26. this is a sideblog.)
26 posts
Don't wanna be here? Send us removal request.
Last Seen Blogs
roy-dcm2
It isn't what it's about, it's HOW it's about.
schwarzenadler13
Blue Star in Black Sky
ccncf
CCNCF
spiritualandmanifestation
Spiritual_555
annwolf
Ann Wolf
Text
“you’re a better person than me.” i don’t know about that. it’s not about being “better”, right — your pain is like a bear, claws and all. it’s strong, fierce, protective. it knows winter like a lover. when to hibernate. when to rest. when to fight.
my pain is like a mourning dove. it knows winter the same but has no claws, so instead, it flies south.
i wish there was an easy answer for why, seven years later, i continue to think about the boy who broke my heart. the summer we broke up, my now-husband and i flew to spain because we could. because “why not”. it was a two hour flight and the turbulence, oh, the turbulence; you’d think the plane was going to fall from the sky. i thought we were going to die.
i thought i was going to die when you left. “i want you to forget me,” you said, “and live the life you were going to live before we met.”
but here’s the thing: “before we met” is gone. that life — the one you say i was going to live — ceased to exist the moment you first said hello. it doesn’t matter that you are gone, because you still exist in my bones.
so i thought it was a callous thing to say. and then i thought it was selfless and romantic. eventually, i thought nothing; like a mourning dove, i would fly away from you until it was time for spring.
i don’t know if my pain will ever be the bear.
1 note
·
View note
Text
people humor the idea of meeting their younger self. what they’d do, or say — most often, it’s a warning. advice. a hug, if they’re kind. others may suggest a slap, to “knock some sense” into them. i think that’s harsh, but i understand. some may walk away. i understand that, too. but me?
i’d brush and braid her hair.
nothing fancy, nothing french. just a simple braid. it’d fall down her back like a second spine, or a sturdy oak; brown and full of history. she might flinch a few times — she’s head sore — and i’d sweetly apologize.
we wouldn’t speak to one another. there isn’t much else to say. but she would feel safe. and i would feel loved.
#i've always viewed doing another person's hair as one of the best gestures of love#my father used to braid my hair every night before my bed. my husband does it for me sometimes now. i would do it a lot for my sister#its nice to feel loved isnt it?
1 note
·
View note
Text
“a community without romance risks being brutish and crass, superficial and brittle, cruel and even muderous. . . i don’t mean just romantic romance. i don’t just mean erotic romance. . . i mean the romance that allows us to soften our voices when we see each other.”
maya angelou, 1998
6K notes
·
View notes
Text
“nobody else cares.”
i do. i care.
why shouldn’t you? we’re third from the sun and in our short lives, we only get so many chances around it.
i know what compassion fatigue is. i know it’s hard when someone spits on your shoes, but polish them off and keep going, please, because caring matters. it has to matter.
the mask is not a symbol and you are not a martyr, i promise. you are someone who cares. the person next to me on the bus wearing a mask cares. the doctor who offered to wear a mask when i entered the room cares. the charity that sends masks to impoverished areas cares.
tomorrow when you are at the grocery store, the man who passes on your right to grab an onion from the produce isle will go home to his wife with multiple sclerosis. in another world, you weren’t wearing a mask and you were asymptomatic. she dies on a tuesday. her obituary is in the local paper.
the government gave up on us before lockdown even started. they turn a blind eye to our dead and charge us to get vaccinated. your enemy is not the mask or the looks of judgemental eyes, it is the men attending a garden party while someone says goodbye for the last time over the phone because they can’t safely enter the icu.
the pandemic never left. it’s still here, taking lives, changing them, ruining them. please don’t stop caring. it has to matter.
1 note
·
View note
Text
i fucking hate having adhd.
there’s a couple on tiktok who post videos tagged #adhdpositivty. the husband says, “come with me to take my adhd wife to the grocery store.” he walks with her like a zoo handler, swatting her hand away from dangerous things that shine. “we don’t need that,” he says.
the kids say “i’m so adhd” now when they forget something. others say you should seek out a diagnosis if you make a game out of avoiding sidewalk cracks.
i understand that women are misdiagnosed, the same way i believe that there are more of us than not. you have adhd, and so do i. then why —
— why do i feel like an alien? no, not adhd alien. i could never relate to her comics. 50k likes had me wondering if my childhood doctor was wrong.
my adhd causes me so much pain. it’s inconvienant like a kernel stuck in the teeth; i forget it’s there until my gums start to bleed. the word hyperfix is used liberally online these days; i see people who don’t even know what adhd is use it to describe their current favorite flavor of coffee creamer.
to me, a hyperfix is debilitating. it’s a lack of control. it’s days sprawling into weeks where i cannot focus on anything else. where i forget to shower. where i will have a meltdown if i can’t have what my brain has decided is the most “important thing”. they leave me exhausted and embarrassed. rsd is a prison and no one is paying my bail.
do you know what it’s like to grow up poor with no concept of money? i understand the importance of financial stability, sure, but i saw this game on twitch and decided i had to have it. call it impulse. i’ll play it for three days straight then never touch it again.
i yearn to be less frivolous. #whimsymaxxing has cost me thousands in bills and hours that i will never see again. i wish it didn’t fucking hurt this much. i wish i’d stop reaching for the dangerous things.
1 note
·
View note
Text
“oh, yeah. you were like… the biggest dyke in town,” my friend says, laughing, and i sigh in admittance. i went on to talk about my first girlfriend; all the maybes, all the makeouts, and everything else that went on behind my dad’s god favoring eyes. “that’s at least five different girls!” “yeah.”
you see, i never said i love you back to that first girlfriend. and none of the other girls were mine — i certainly wasn’t theirs. these were my teenage years, and every waking moment was spent trying to get out of my house. away from my mother. divorce is ugly when it’s codependent and none of your friends understand why you cry when the girl on tv swallows the pills.
all of this to say it was a lot of fooling around. most of those girls went on to have husbands, and maybe they could like women still but, at the time, i was an experiment. and that was okay by me. because the one girl i actually said i love you too was never a girlfriend. she was a best friend.
would you believe me if i told you i dated her cousin? that word is doing some heavy lifting — dating in the way kids do, where you’re pressed together like barbie dolls, because you’re the girl and he’s the boy. only, he was no ken, and barbie was standing behind him doing the pushing.
i went along with it best i could, but no one warns you how clingy teenage boys are. it’s funny, the movies and books had always told me it was the girl, and yet, here i was with a leech. he never left my side. never stopped touching my hair. i’d cringe and say “not now” and he would whine like a dog.
“he’s just so… weird.” i lamented. my best friend leaned over me on her bed and laughed, “just give it time!”
one summer at the lake, every day, he came looking for me. and every day, i hid with her. “why don’t you spend time with him?” she’d ask, and i’d shrug, and go on pulling her into the water. eventually, she stopped asking, and i stopped letting him touch my hair.
i didn’t understand that i loved her, then. so i didn’t understand why i didn’t like the boy. there was no thought behind it, because every thought went into her. we spent so much time together, it’s almost impossible to convey; every weekend. every birthday. every theme park, beach, or movie trip. we cuddled at night and held hands in public and laid under an open window talking about the stars and what they could mean.
she was the most amazing girl i’d ever met. and then i moved.
it’s not regret that i feel. we have our own lives, and we’re both happy. but my heart wonders, is it sad? is it sad that she’ll never know? and i gently remind it that it’s bittersweet. not sad.
every time i move somewhere new, i put her postcards up on the tac board. “to the bestest friend in the whole wide world,” it reads, “you’re the first person i want to see when i get home!”
1 note
·
View note
Text
so the world is ending — yeah, it has been for awhile. or maybe just us; ending aside, for better or worse, we are too intelligent and today i’m so thankful for the better.
i don’t have to say goodbye to you. i don’t have to wake up to a day you aren't there. i’ve been crying for the past half an hour and thinking about how badly i wish i could hug every single person who ever made this reality possible. that bell is gonna ring and it'll echo back in time so they can all hear the miracle they've made.
humanity is amazing and medical science is a mystery i will never understand but the better saved you and god, i love being alive. you’re alive.
0 notes
Text
who ever thought i’d end up here?
it’s three in the morning. i should be sleeping. i have to wake up at 9 because i’ve got an appointment at 11 and it’s late and i should be sleeping but really, who ever thought?
i left someone behind in massachusetts. you know, my friends still call my name and the clouds in the sky look no different. but i feel different. it’s like, instead of my passport, border control cut a piece of my heart out and put it in a plastic bin. maybe that’s why i cried when my dad left my periphery at the TSA, because i knew that —
that something would never be again.
i left that girl. i left her, in a bedroom that is no longer a bedroom, with her old comforter and all the stuffed animals she couldn’t bring. all the photo albums and six flags capes collected over the years. her favorite cup. clam chowder. red leaves in the autumn.
and who is this?
a lifetime being told i couldn’t live on my own and here i am. a country away, too, with the love of my life. i did it. but who.
the definition for depersonalization feels too stiff, but it might be the closest thing. the word feels wrong in my head and in my mouth, but there’s nothing else. no word others’ would understand, let alone myself.
i miss her, sometimes — as ladden with grief as she is. she is her mother's daughter and i am my father’s son and together we will never be a perfect child. they will never be proud.
but we are. maybe that is who this is. pride and survival and grit and love, so much love. keep going.
0 notes
Text
To The Substitute Art Teacher - Jordan Bolton
212K notes
·
View notes
Text
“don’t take it personally.”
i’m trying — i’m really trying, ok? i know that this world is big, and how miraculous it is that we’re all here together, experiencing all. everything. i know. assumptions never fit well in my mouth; there isn’t enough room for them.
i believe that your intention is no more thought out than the universe putting us here together. but then, why, do i feel so
other
part of the “all” is trying to understand why. that means what i feel isn’t unique. someone out there also feels this way, right now, as i’m typing it. i hope they know that.
but i guess, my bones are tired of feeling other. it’s a heavy weight; my back is bending and “it’s not personal”, so does this mean i put the weight there? and if so, how do i remove it?
can i?
when i cry, the weight eases, so i’ll keep crying and maybe at the end i’ll have an ocean. it’s my favorite part of all.
#writeblr#creative writing#queued words#just getting a feeling out. sorry this doesn't make much sense
1 note
·
View note
Text
“the body remembers.”
i hate you, body i cannot remember. i hate you, time i can’t recall. i hate you, place and space somewhere else. or maybe it’s not hate. i don’t hate many things.
but it feels like it, and that may be worse than remembering. i laid on that table today it didn’t matter that i was safe. the fluorescent lights make my brain feel like static noise. it didn’t matter, because my body remembers, and i feel hate, and pain, and fear, and — is that it?
do you regret it?
do you remember?
0 notes
Text
i find myself returning to this quote often: “if you look for it, i've got a sneaky feeling you'll find that love actually is all around.”
i first read it on tumblr in a post full of other quotes about love. it didn’t credit the source, nor did i go looking for it, but it nestled into the back of my brain. i remember laughing when, years later, i found out it was from love actually. despite being a romantic, i don’t watch many movies, and romcoms aren’t an exception. i’ve never seen love actually.
but there’s something about that — “if you look for it.”
earlier today, i saw a mother pass by with a stroller. from under the sun canopy, the smallest hand you can imagine poked out, reaching for the fence on their left. mom noticed, slowed down, and moved closer, so their fingertips could trace the iron bars.
at the park, i saw a group of girls making tiktoks together. when one of them stepped at the wrong time, it didn’t matter. they all laughed together.
my partner and i woke up early one morning and decided to visit this middle-of-nowhere town i found on google maps; the kind of town where everyone knows everyone. it was only six am, so all of the shops weren't open yet, but in one window i could see a woman dancing while baking. our eyes met through the glass and she laughed, and i laughed, and it was something.
there’s this website called windowsnap that hosts a collection of user submitted videos. the videos are, you guessed it, the view from their windows. they’re taken all over the world, and here, there is no bias or prejudice. someone out there wanted you to see this little part of the world, so they could say “i’m here” in everything but word. “here, look, i can see the sky here too.”
one window was from an apartment window in guadalajara. it was a perfect view of the city center, around midday, and every single person in frame was doing something unique. i saw a father and son play catch on the grass. a couple, huddled close on a bench, whispering secrets. one man was asleep against a tree and no one disturbed him.
and i think, yes: love actually is all around.
#writeblr#creative writing#love#maybe one day i'll watch love actually. it's from 2003 so i've got my doubts but i think it deserves a chance for this
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
i’ve never been someone who revels in the glory of space — not like you do. though we look up to the same sky, where you see magnificent balls of gas, i see only light. you understand why atoms crash together; how they contrast and expand to create something new, that we may catch it’s lustre on our brow. and i see stars.
i understand a star. i know how it shines on a winter night, far away from people and the cities we’ve built. so cold, you can see your breath, if the view doesn’t take it first. among the trees, near a babbling brook, remember that this earth is orbiting the sun.
one day in summer, you and i climbed onto the roof to look for stars. in a place like that, the only light in the sky was artificial. our shoulders touched. “it’s because of light pollution. you can see all the stars on the mohawk trail.” i said.
“really? can we go?”
we never went. i haven’t been home in four years, and you still haven’t seen a real night sky. but i promise, one day, we’ll go together, and you — you’ll look up at all those stars and think about nuclear fusion and the glory of space. and me? i’ll see only light, above and beside me.
1 note
·
View note
Text
Mary Oliver, from "Leaves and Blossoms Along the Way", Felicity
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
merry christmas.
there’s a trend on twitter that says it’s okay to not be okay. i’m not sure what that means — i ask myself, am i okay?
am i okay, or am i okay, like the way the trees are okay when time comes to pry their leaves for winter. change is inevitable and warmer days are promised, so that makes withering okay.
five holiday seasons without you. three years since we last shared a hug. you’re busy living the life i ran away from and i miss you, how tired branches must miss their leaves, but it’s okay.
i’m okay.
0 notes
Text
for the life of me, i can’t let go of you.
why do i hold on? why do i cling to fragmented past, like pieces of a childhood blanket, trying to sew the patches together again? the vision in my head will always be then and you exist now: tangibly, not abstract.
say, what’s it like by the ocean? i’ve been told sea salt is good for the skin. i wonder if you’re too afraid to touch the water — afraid of the tide that’ll kiss your ankles and pull you under.
i remember that kiss well. being young in my bed after a long day at the beach, feeling like i was still apart of the waves. my ankles were kissed, as were my legs, and my mind and body both were trying to recreate that place like i’d been willed.
these days we’re on this island together and you probably don’t even know it. i don’t know if you live near a beach anymore. but it’s ok. i’ll keep staring up at the stars, unable to let go, because you and i have known them long before the ocean ever kissed us.
1 note
·
View note