emo fantastic.

i really can’t handle when my feelings are hurt. it’s such a god awful feeling that requires constant reminding that time heals all. the person that created these feelings can no longer be considered someone special to you, and i think that’s the worst pain to endure.

i hate you. but only because i think you’re so fucking special.

i’ve cried for almost two consecutive days. it’s the type of crying that stems from so much pain in your heart, you just purge pain through tears.

you can’t expect people’s patience to exceed human limitations. there comes a point when you need to mask the regretful decisions you may have made, and challenge them in solitude. as i approach my venting threshold, i’ll refrain from the tireless reliance on friends, and seek comfort from a stranger.

most times it takes someone with your level of crazy, to make you feel less crazy. quotes from woody allen are always that perfect level….

“my one regret in life is that i am not someone else” / “confidence is what you have before you understand the problem” / i’m not anti-social, i’m just not social’ / “the heart wants what it wants” / “curiosity, thats what kills us. not muggers or all that bullshit about the ozone layer. it’s our own hearts and minds” / ” the only thing standing between me and greatness is me” / “living is messy” / “life is short. short, and not about anything except what you can touch and what touches you” / “i read in self-defense” /  ”the artist’s job is not to succumb to despair but to find the antidote for the emptiness of existence”

i stood on a train platform and read words written by a stranger. i read those words so many times, they started to feel like my own. my mouth delicately repeating each word, mimicking them as if the slower each word was said, the more they would mean. the train approached and i snapped out of my ethereal word play. i thought of you. i thought about words you had written, and how i would cling onto them as if holding onto you.

to drown the thought of you, i hit the play button and hoped for a melody to carry you away. i closed my eyes and watched as we turned the lights off and the volume down. you undressed me and we whispered lyrics of ever after. she sang her chorus, reminiscing of a lost love. i kept turning the volume up, as if the louder she sang, the closer i could feel you. i put both my hands through my hair, smiling as i would while your hands would slowly caress my neck. the train stopped, so did the song, and so did my few moments of recollection bliss.

i came home, played another song and picked up a pen. i wrote to you as i listened to another chorus of lost love. i closed my eyes hoping to see you read these words, repeating them as if the slower you said them, the closer it would bring you back. the song stopped, and so did my hope.

but if not you, someone else can read these words, close their eyes and think of love.

we all wish for things. some big. some small. some attainable. some not. we all have goals. some big. some small. some achievable. some not.

some of us are great at living in the present. others think far too ahead. i always felt that those who live somewhere in between, exist in the right place. 

yesterday while one foot was planted comfortably in the present, i received a call that pushed one foot in the opportunity filled future.

that call told me to pack up my things. both big and small. told me i’d be moving to a small city. with big innovation.

just do it? i just did.

he told me he was ready to be in a relationship, he was looking for a girlfriend. a few days later he reiterated his quest, but this time making mention of some ideal qualities - a girl who wears sneakers and has tattoos. i laughed, asking him to consider expanding that list. he wanted to hear mine, my bullet pointed, checklist of an ideal man.

i laughed again, but this time at myself. i thought about the many revisions my list had undergone, and how i was once him, pronouncing shallow beliefs of being swept off my feet by the man of my superficial dreams - a guy wearing sneakers and adorned with ink.

i didn’t run him through my list, it reads a lot differently now and i wasn’t sure he was capable of understanding my edited, narrowed down, simple, two check points of criteria - best friend. lover.

he carried on with his journey, and we continued to exchange our relationship woes, our stories of great and lackluster sex, our needs and wants in life and of the men and women we began dating. i quickly learned his list was a lot heavier than he cared to admit, i just assumed he was terrified of meeting the woman who actually possessed all of that weight. we got to know one another. we were - friends.

and then it happened, the night we took the title of list holders. we both kicked off our sneakers and with precision and ease, ran our hands all over our tattooed skin.

fuck.

we’ll continue to exchange relationship woes, our needs and wants in life and stories of the men and women we’ll date. i’ll still go on assuming he hasn’t met the woman who possesses all of that weight. we’ll be - friends.

that’s the funny thing about lists, if two people aren’t writing the same one, it doesn’t matter that you may meet, just every requirement on it.

if you can, avoid befriending members of the opposite sex that you happen to find attractive. a friendship can’t encourage lust, that’s a slippery slope.

we don’t need one more example of a friends with benefits arrangement gone sour. the friendship dissolves and the lust consumes. ignore the latter, maintain the former.