Spill
My hands are wrapped around my coffee cup because the cup is warm and my fingers are freezing. I rarely stop to buy coffee, but I'm making an exception today. The mild winter has lulled me into complacency but now January has arrived with a vengeance. My jacket is too thin and I don't have gloves and by the time I'm a few blocks from home I know I've made a mistake. Now, however, I'm inside the coffee shop, thankful that I have time to spare before I need to be at work.
That's when I notice the woman at the next table. She's dressed warmly, with a nice scarf and a knit hat. She's drinking coffee and reading. The book catches my eye. It's called Places Left Unfinished at the Time of Creation. I don't know anything about the book, but I love the title.
The book is a paperback and it's old. The cover is worn and tattered, and there are brightly-colored post-it notes sticking out from the pages. Lots of notes. There are several different colors, as if she had selected different colors for different types of notes. The edges of the notes are not crisp. They're bent and folded and ripped, because they have been sticking out from the book for a very long time.
I immediately understand. She's tagging passages that she likes. She's marking lines and quotes that are important to her. These are the things she wants to remember. The things she loves. The fragments that will stay with her for the rest of her life. There are too many to keep track of. She loves this book deeply, so deeply that her affection is spilling out of the book, overflowing in a rainbow of tiny paper tabs.
In this moment, I fall in love with this woman. I will never see her again, but that doesn't matter. I will love her until my dying day. She has traveled with this book for a very long time, reading and re-reading it, loving it intensely, and that is all the reason I need to love her.
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Lukewarm
I am not capable of lukewarm, I never have been and I don’t think I ever will be.
If I care for you, I cannot care for you only a little. If I love you, I will do so completely. The depth of my emotion rivals oceans, laughs in the face of the expanses of the universe.
I will let it consume me, swallow me up whole, digest all of my pieces, destroy myself completely. Over and over and over again, for you. When it is over, when the intensity of what I feel for you, what I have given to you, becomes too much to bear I will let it ravage me.
I will burn, I will break, I will die, I will be reborn.
My love, it will all be worth it in the end. For even in my destruction, with blackened skin and bloodshot eyes I find peace in knowing that my love was never tepid, it was molten. You will never feel the way I have felt each and every time I offered my battered heart to someone who did not want it.
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Women do not owe you anything. We do not owe you access to our bodies. We do not owe you access to our emotional labour. We do not owe you attraction. We do not owe you acceptance to our spaces or opportunities.
Women do not owe you anything.
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dunking on older women in fandom will always be insane because they’re like 99% of why we have anything readable on here
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I would staunchly agree with the theory that if you want to keep a memory pristine, you must not call upon it too often, for each time it is revisited, you tend to alter it irrevocably, remembering not the original impression it left by experience but the last time you recalled it. With tiny differences creeping in at each cycle, the exercise of our memory doesn’t draw us closer to the past but draw us further away.
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