Postage;

 When you have nothing left to say to me, say it anyway.

I'm not intentionally ignore your texts, I just can't seem to fit everything into 160 letters.

Absence makes;

Question(s): How does one know if they're in love? What actually is love? Is it the butterflies and the gush of blood to the head and the reddening of the cheeks? If so, I have never been in love. Statement: The moment you stop asking yourself, that's when you'll know. I have been asking and have yet to stop. Therefore, I am not in love. Saying: the moment you stop asking, that's when you have truly stopped. In other words, I am always in love. Belief: none. You say: love is a choice. Not a feeling. The story: I choose to because I feel it. The dilemma: I don't want to. Reason: the risk, the numbness and the (un)foreseeable problems.

Conclusion: I miss you.

Chemistry;

You know when you start debating the meaning of life and the mysteries of the universe in the middle of a paper, in the exam hall, that you're either really good or really screwed. Why am I always the latter.

He's mad. How cute.

Blue;

I will never leave you

How can I believe you when I have been told and let down a hundred times over?

Let me be the one to stick around and show you

♥

Except I heard that too

Banana Pancakes;

That would be the 5th accidental call from you and it would be the first time since you insulted my socks, approximately 2 years and 5 months ago, that I am actually disappointed to see your name on the caller I.D. This Sunday would mark the start of the 6th week you stopped hogging my thoughts like you once did for 90 over weeks. This post would be your 37th and also your last post here on this blog because I have exhausted 20k words on you. P.S. you ruined that song for me and I still very much hate bananas.

Foolhardy;

The best conversations happens at four a.m.

Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.

Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi, and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale, or the evenings get long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.

Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same.

Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail, frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return, or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.

Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, god damnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.

Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.

Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. I hate you. I really, really, really hate you.

 CHARLES WARNKE

Travel;

When I'm more than you can take, just give me back;



1.

I knew you were trouble from the very time I laid my eyes on you. A drug addict, they told me. The permanent rings under your eyes, the forever diet, and the scars that accessorises your wrist should be a warning to me. I was drawn to you either way. You were the faint light bulb that to me, a small bee, a sun that guides me home. Metaphorically ofcourse but that's the only way to explain this attraction. Cliche. But I was the hero and you needed to be saved.


2.

A time machine. That's what I need. I need to go back to that moment I decided to fly towards you, the fake sun because I know now how it's like to be burnt alive. Wait. It's the other way. I saved you. Let me rephrase, I need to leave the scars and take back all the cakes. Then I need to come back to the present. Just so I'll know if she would still love you as she does right now, with your bleeding wrist and emaciating self. Because I saved you when I was the one to be saved.

3.

You. Yes. You.
Don't read too deeply into my words.
You might drown.

Win;

You and the way my name roll of your tongue like honey.

vs

You and the way you make me feel like damaged goods.

head vs. heart

We could make something happen, something incredibly beautiful,
savagely intense, terrifyingly amazing.
Just give us a shot babe.

I will keep you out even if i have to rebuild the walls you're breaking down with my bare hands. Brick by brick, I will keep you out.