I’ve stopped being sorry for all my soft. I won’t apologize because I miss you, or because I said it, or because I text you first, or again. I think everyone spends too much time trying to close themselves off. I don’t want to be cool or indifferent, I want to be honest. If I love you at 5AM, I’d damn well rather that you know I felt it. If I love you two hours later, I’ll tell you then too. Listen, I won’t wait double the time it takes for you to text me back because I don’t want to. I don’t care enough to be patient with you. I’m happy, you made me feel that way, don’t you want to know? So that’s how it’s going to be. I’m going to leave myself as open as a church door. And I’m going to wake you up before the crack of dawn to tell you that I’m fucking joyful, no pretending, not from me, not ever. Would you like some coffee, would you please kiss me? Here, these are my hands, this is my mouth, it is all yours.
wes anderson movies taught me that fucked up horrifying tragic living circumstances are no excuse not to carefully maintain a cute pastoral aesthetic at all times
there is a particular sweetness in being alone
because you do not have to be anything or
say anything or try to feel anything you normally wouldn’t.
but sometimes, perhaps when it is raining at 1:52 am,
you will feel this wild ache—this longing,
to want to try and be something or feel something
for someone—for anyone
— (i.t.) - this is what it is to be alone (via isisthornes)