WAKING up begins with saying am and now. That which has awoken then lies for a while staring up at the ceiling and down into itself until it has recognized I, and therefrom deduced I am, I am now. Here comes next, and is at least negatively reassuring; because here, this morning, is where it has expected to find itself: what’s called at home.
But now isn’t simply now. Now is also a cold reminder: one whole day later than yesterday, one year later than last year. Every now is labeled with its date, rendering all past nows obsolete, until—later or sooner —perhaps—no, not perhaps—quite certainly: it will come.
“Just remember, the same as a spectacular Vogue magazine, remember that no matter how close you follow the jumps: Continued on page whatever. No matter how careful you are, there’s going to be the sense you missed something, the collapsed feeling under your skin that you didn’t experience it all. There’s that fallen heart feeling that you rushed right through the moments where you should’ve been paying attention.”—Chuck Palahniuk, Invisible Monsters (via sugarypeach)
and i know you have a heavy heart i can feel it when we kiss; many men stronger than me have thrown their backs out trying to lift… it. but me, I’m not a gamble you can count on me to split; the love I sell you in the evening by the morning won’t exist
Growing up I always felt like an outsider. I was a quiet, fat, awkward kid, and having been raised as the only child of a single parent, was always very happy in my own company. I found it scary communicating with others my age, somehow I just never seemed to quite know the ‘rules’. It was like I was always waiting for a permission, or a sign of some sort, which would mean I was OK before I would speak up. […] And when you grow up with enough of these moments, you eventually start accepting feeling like an outsider as a fact.