LOVE, K

“It’s Monday, and your hair is messy. You haphazardly put on your jeans and shirt as you moan about the day of the week - and I love you. It’s Tuesday, and you’re stumbling your way around the room, trying to sort out the things you have to do. You stop to briefly kiss the freckles on my nose, asking me about my day - and I love you. It’s Wednesday, and you’re quietly sprawled on the couch. You pat the spot next to you and pepper kisses on my hair because it’s my least favorite day of the week (and you know it) - and I love you. It’s Thursday, and you’re wondering what the weekend will bring, but you’re still moaning about how the week is going by too slow for your tastes - and I love you. It’s Friday, and I’m surrounded by DVDs and snacks you’ve prepared when I was gone. You welcome me with blankets and warmth from your arms - and I love you. It’s Saturday, and you’re feeling lazy. You won’t let me leave your arms (or is it the other way around?) So you tuck me under your chin as we both wonder how much time we have left before sleep makes us miss each other’s faces - and I love you. It’s Sunday, and there’s nothing much to say but I love you.”

“The sky is so tragically beautiful. A graveyard of stars.”

serendipity

“Perhaps we will meet again. Meet each other when we’ve become who we are supposed to be. Learned how to be less reckless with our hearts. Perhaps it will be a third or fourth chance. I’m young enough to believe in love, old enough to know it isn’t always perfect, but human enough to want it anyway still. So perhaps we will be wiser by then. Bolder and steadier. Still imperfect but more accepting.”

“We don’t give other people credit for the same interior complexity we take for granted in ourselves, the same capacity for holding contradictory feelings in balance, for complexly alloyed affections, for bottomless generosity of heart and petty, capricious malice. We can’t believe that anyone could be unkind to us and still be genuinely fond of us, although we do it all the time. Years ago a friend of mine had a dream about a strange invention; a staircase you could descend deep underground, in which you heard recordings of all the things anyone had ever said about you, both good and bad. The catch was, you had to pass through all the worst things people had said before you could get to the highest compliments at the very bottom. There is no way I would ever make it more than two and a half steps down such a staircase, but I understand its terrible logic: if we want the rewards of being loved we have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known.”

“Breathe. You’re going to be okay. Breathe and remember that you’ve been in this place before. You’ve been this uncomfortable and anxious and scared, and you’ve survived. Breathe and know that you can survive this too. These feelings can’t break you. They’re painful and debilitating, but you can sit with them and eventually, they will pass. Maybe not immediately, but sometime soon, they are going to fade and when they do, you’ll look back at this moment and laugh for having doubted your resilience. I know it feels unbearable right now, but keep breathing, again and again. This will pass. I promise it will pass.”

There is a certain tone in the things that matter, an architecture of delayed light or slow sounds from long ago. Fragments for the after-silence, the sorting of a garden. Things in their essence. Spiritual forms, an invisible geometry of objects that gives strength to us through music…Whispered petitions to show us the way or to destroy us completely. Every word a last word. Every sound a revenant.

1. your suffering can’t end until you stop identifying with it. if your sense of self is tied up in your suffering, anyone or anything that attempts to separate you from it will become the enemy because, whether consciously or subconsciously, you will on some level believe they are trying to take away a part of who you are.

This day of mine was lost like all the other days, half of it thinking of yesterday, half of it thinking of tomorrow.