What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Feeling particularly empty today. I can’t focus.
This is a headphones+vape+warm bedsheets+chickflick kind of day.
Nothing more, nothing less.
Song of the hour: Snow Patrol - Chasing Cars (Soundwell Extended Remix)
“Anything less than mad, passionate, extraordinary love is a waste of time. There are too many mediocre things in life to deal with and love shouldn’t be one of them.”
― Tiffanie DeBartolo
Sometimes I want the mad, passionate, extraordinary love. I’m a hopeless romantic, after all. I want to be wanted, to be told I’m beautiful and cherished. I want to feel important. But some days, I long for the quiet moments with nothing but our heartbeats breaking the silence. Other days, I want nothing more than to laugh until my tummy hurts. But above all, I want to be, to feel, loved.
I was never one to believe in superstition. But I was always fascinated with the two simian lines I have on my hands. One is rare, two even more so. A simian line is said to represent the merging of the head and the heart line. Whereas most people are able to be guided by their head or their heart, I am bound by both. This notion has shadowed me all my life. I have always been torn between following my head or my heart. They are one and the same, and yet couldn’t be more different. For no matter what I chose, I shall always be haunted by the one I didn’t choose.
I couldn’t be less sure. Or more sure.
High school has long since come and gone, but some days I still feel like I’m not good enough for the cool kids.
I’ve been holding on to old ghosts for the past decade. How naive I was. How naive I still am.
Always wondered what went wrong, why I couldn’t fix things, why I couldn’t let go, even after all these years. I’ve grown up, I’ve moved on. But there was always the nagging feeling of inadequacy, of failure. I simply refused to see things as they were, and instead chose to romance the fantasy of what never was and never will be. What a silly, foolish girl I was.
“Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were.”
— Marcel Proust
You’ll never know. You’ve never missed me. You’ve never looked back. Good for you. It’s finally time for me to do the same.