C L U B M I N T

I wrote you letters but never sent them.I stayed up at night drowning in thoughts of you.Do you still care?Did you ever?Are you thinking of me too?How could you do this to me?Why did you do this to me?Why? Why? Why?I think and think and think, around and around in circles, until exhaustion sweeps over me like a blanket and finally I am at peace for a few hours.Except I’m not because there you are in my dreams. You are every where, like a disease that has spread to every part of me and there is no cure.I am trapped by you but you aren’t even here. There is no escape. What used to be wild and free is now caged, destined to rot in this hell you put me through.Do you even care? I don’t need an answer. I already know

Love stories are the core of so much of classic literature and so much of myth, and that’s because when done correctly, it’s not cute-person-meets-cute-person. Romance is fundamentally, as a storytelling device, it’s fundamentally about the unity of opposites. Two irreconcilable things are reconciled and that’s a really powerful metaphor. It’s something that we respond to and I feel like trying to push it over to the side—you know in the latest years, sort of, because in pop culture we so often see it done poorly—we’re the poorer for that. I like having romance in books and I feel like it has meaningful things to tell us. It’s a meaningful storytelling device that gets a bad rap these days and shouldn’t.

You are worth finding. Worth knowing. Worth loving. You and all your one million layers.