Trent; the only song I want to hear

Andy Warhol, Sir Richard Francis Burton, Oscar Wilde

"As soon as you stop wanting something, you get it."
- Andy Warhol

"The more I study religions the more I am convinced that man never worshiped anything but himself."
- Sir Richard Francis Burton

"To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all."
- Oscar Wilde

"If one cannot enjoy reading a book over and over again, there is no use in reading it at all."
- Oscar Wilde


knowing vs. unknowing.

He does the kinds of things that other people don’t do—because of fear, or indecisiveness, or lack of desire. Whatever the reasons, the excuses—none of that matters to him. He’ll make a long drive for the hell of it, take the dive off the biggest cliff at the swimming hole just to say he braved it, spend an entire week alone because of some Thoreau-esque dream of becoming one with nature.

All of those things that made me love him so quickly and so intensely are the things that also made me afraid to love him: the fear that he might change his mind on a whim, the fact that he was hard to tie down, the boldness and recklessness of his every action, and all the love inside of him that he gave to others without hesitation.

Maybe he didn’t love me in particular, maybe he just loved everyone he met with the same enthusiasm. And maybe everyone else got the same charm, and maybe that hid something harder to understand, to know. I wasn’t sure about him because I wasn’t sure about myself.

Heart Sunglasses

“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.”
-Ralph Waldo Emerson

warmth & words

We sat cross-legged in the grass, watching everyone run around like little children, collapsing into laughter after throwing the small, water-filled balloons. When Cullen asked a seemingly simple question about what I wanted to do (tomorrow, next month, in a year—what is it that people really mean when they ask?), I could feel myself becoming increasingly drunk as the words poured out, and I was both unable and unwilling to stop them once they came out. It doesn’t matter if it sounds dumb, I told myself. You can blame almost anything on too much alcohol.

“It’s like you spend your whole life between lost and found. Like…I don’t know…like, there are places and people that make you feel at home, understood, really. And there are places and people that…well, they don’t, I guess. And my whole life, I’ve felt pretty, like, found, I suppose. Until graduation. It was like everyone I knew had someplace to go or something to do, and I just drew a big blank. And so, I got a call about this internship and it was just like, ‘Hey, you wanna come live in the mountains and help some troubled kids?’ and how could you not be like, ‘Sure! Sign me up!’ Right? So, yeah…I guess I was just feeling a little lost, but not necessarily in a bad way, because I need to go someplace and do something. I’m not really in a hurry to be found, if that makes sense,” I rambled, but my words were loud and clear as the alcohol created a beautiful haze around everything.

He sat, staring, and the intensity was crushing. I, once again become self-conscious and mumbled, “Does that answer your question?” I feigned sarcasm as he dropped his gaze.

He opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t. After a moment, he tried again, that lazy smile nearly turning into a smirk: “No, it’s…perfect. I have a hard time staying in one place. It’s like, I guess, sometimes…I chase that lost feeling, to borrow your phrase.”

Another pause, and then, “You are incredible,” and I could feel his heat as leaned in, his exhalation across my cheek and a hand coming up to brush a stray hair from my forehead. It was oddly comforting, the last thing I expected to feel from an almost-stranger the night before skipping town, and I wanted him to kiss me, badly.

just something i'm working on @
hostage situation

Carolyn Parkhurst, The Dogs of Babel

Suicide is just a moment. This is how she described it to me. For just a moment, it doesn’t matter that you’ve got people who love you and the sun is shining and there’s a movie coming out this weekend that you’ve been dying to see. It hits you all of a sudden that nothing is ever going to be okay, ever, and you kind of dare yourself. You pick up a knife and press it gently to your skin, you look out a nineteenth-story window and you think, I could just do it. I could just do it. And most of the time, you look at the height and you get scared, or you think about the poor people on the sidewalk below - what if there are kids coming home from school and they have to spend the rest of their lives trying to forget this terrible thing you’re going to make them see? And the moment’s over. You think about how sad it would’ve been if you never got to see that movie, and you look at your dog and wonder who would’ve taken care of her if you had gone. And you go back to normal. But you keep it there in your mind. Even if you never take yourself up on it, it gives you a kind of comfort to know that the day is yours to choose. You tuck it away in your brain like sour candy tucked in your cheek, and the puckering memory it leaves behind, the rough pleasure of running your tongue over its strange terrain, is exactly the same. The day was hers to choose, and perhaps in that treetop moment when she looked down and saw the yard, the world, her life, spread out below her, perhaps she chose to plunge toward it headlong. Perhaps she saw before her a lifetime of walking on the ruined earth and chose instead a single moment in the air.

- Carolyn Parkhurst, The Dogs of Babel