Marceline.

pink in the night

Haruki Murakami Kafka On The Shore

i want to thank him for leaving, because without his absence, i would have stayed stuck. would have never thought about how he never did anything for me either. had me still imagining a future when he won’t even reach out. i want to reach out. i’m sorry i haven’t reached out. but there’s only so many times i can do that without an answer without eventually feeling like even if he answered, he’d only be answering as a pitty response.

(Pride themes starting with p is a thing for me, 2020 was polaroids, 2019 was potted plants! I'm open for suggestions for next year🌸)

Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back. That’s part of what it means to be alive. But inside our heads - at least that’s where I imagine it - there’s a little room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks in this library. And to understand the workings of our own heart we have to keep on making new reference cards. We have to dust things off every once in awhile, let in fresh air, change the water in the flower vases. In other words, you’ll live forever in your own private library.

Long nights.Coffee stained books. Dark circles. Half full cups scattered around a dimly lit room. Heavy rain hitting off a window. Water filling the gutters. Tchaikovsky playing quietly on a record player. A neighboring houses window open wide enough to hear the soft violin chords. Shy smiles at books. Half closed eyes. Soft hums

alien