You know my favorite memory from being a young, naive little shit?
I was 16 and dating the first girl I ever had…seriously.
Now, I don’t think this is the place for details leading up to her. Or details describing who she was.
I just want to write down a day we spent together.
I had come over, the first of many summer days for us. My mom had dropped me off at the apartment where she lived. One of those Boca suburban communities where all the houses were stenciled in with the same pattern. The only difference being whether your house’s door was on the left or the right.
Her parents were out.
This was the first time I had seen her room. Pictures hung, Polaroids of the era. Mostly of her annoying friend with the ugly nose. I had made out with her only a couple of weeks ago.
Her closet’s entrails, the angle the tv sat in front of her bed. The colors that made her happy.
That summarizing, “well, that’s it, this is my house. What should we do now?”
There was small talk, of concerts coming up and friends inviting us to places. The Miami zoo always an intention that would never actually more into a decision.
We stopped talking because there were no more words strong enough to hold me back from her.
I have never kissed so intensely. I only hope I never will make such a fool of myself again. It became really overdone. Too young to think that I wanted to have sex, or that I could even ask such a thing from her. So we kissed until our mouths cramped and the sheets were too warm.
And then this thing sorta just happened. We had nothing left, other than just hold each other. We were on her bed wrapped like twizzlers. Hours passed. There were colored bottles on her window sill and that nice shade of faint yellow was pouring in. We stayed like that until we both dozed into a little slumber.
I wondered if she was bothered, yet every time we repositioned out dying limbs, she curled up back into me.
To shy to fuck and too horny to let go. We held on.
We would later break up as all young innocents tend to do. With no demands, we look to the world, impatiently trying to pick the next flower that’s in season.
I occasionally find myself missing a girl and a view. Not this specific one, or any other fake idealism of what the times called love.
Just any girl’s hair poking at my eyes, as a try to stare out her warm summer window.
He pulled red embers from the singed skin. There was a little black circle where the butt end of his cigarette had once been. It was a humorous sight, the area wear his missile had struck. The skin of his arm had been whipped into existence. You know how everyone has that stupid remark, “you don’t miss it until it’s gone?” Well this was something similar to that. It was one of those moments philosophers can’t stop grunting about. How we hurt, therefore we are. What a bunch of shit.
I mean, from the point of view of the audience here, you’re just a sad fuck burning him self with a cigarette.
Only, I think this was the first time I had really taken a look at myself. Sure, I was only on, eh, most of a bottle of vodka. Fine, we can admit that it played a role in my present self-awakening.
Here I was, coming out of my very own little black cloud of problems. You know, the one that we ignore for the part of the day we’re lucky enough to have tasks for. When you’re waiting for class, sitting outside on a bench. Or while you wait for your water to boil. These are the little black clouds. Not the dumb little symbolic clouds you know from cartoons. No, this little fucker is like when you get lint stick in your toenail and you can’t get it out. He’s a piece of corn cramming itself into your teeth. When this cloud is around you get an itchy feeling, all cross your brain. Like sliding you fork across trembling jello, careful not to actually break the skin of the desert.
Well I had just left that place. I was now staring at the second of my self induced boils. It hurt! After having the camera crew fade me back in, I realized that this was now going to last me quit a while. They’re both definitely going to be scars. Maybe I’ll get lucky and it’ll resemble some quirky pop icon. Who needs the regret of making decisions they’re consciously responsible for? I have my own inner self to make horrible additions to my skin for me.
This was a different type of attention. As ones brought on by pain always are.
I now questioned sanity with even more fervor. I think in a way I lost another piece of the myself. I feel it diminishing at a quicker pace. That is the real scary part here. That there are choices you will make through life, and will have you feel like a failure to yourself. You will be your own cause of pain. Stuck in an infinite loop. The closest thing you’ll get to hell
“I don’t think love is always a huge, cataclysmal emotional event. I think sometimes it sits in front of you for a very long time until you glance over and say, oh, there you are. I don’t think it’s your saving grace. I think it’s the hand that you hold while you save yourself. I don’t think it’s someone who sweeps you off your feet. I think it’s someone who stays right beside you and lets you walk on your own. I don’t think it’s always a blazing but temporary insanity of racing hearts and hormones. I think that’s the love that changes us. The love that should stay with us is the calm, deep, thorough knowing that you want to be with someone despite logical objections. And what may be even more important than anything is that I think you find your own love at the very edges of where other people’s love pushes you.”—(via theperksofbeingtiffany)
“We think of ourselves as disobedient when we are not. How did it come to this? How do we think ourselves special, when in truth we are just isolated; especially when we are avoiding the discomfort zones of speaking out against hypocrisy, never quite ready for challenging authorities in our professional lives. Ironically it happens that we feel authentic and rebellious through our failures to fully enjoy or to make the most of our possibilities. “We feel guilty not for our sins but for our failures to enjoy,” says Todd McGowan. Thinking ourselves as unique ensures that “we don’t know how obedient we are”.”—Andre Vantino (via alterities)