minvidvx

[minvidvx]

CHURCH / BOYLIFE

[minvidvx]

[minvidvx]

via weheartit

[minvidvx]

Paula Hawkins, The Girl on the Train

[minvidvx]

text from @especialty

[minvidvx]

in this house we love love and heart shaped things AND the moon

[minvidvx]

picture this I’m your wife and you just got home from work and I greet you at the door with a fork full of pasta telling you to try this

[minvidvx]

hurts

[minvidvx]

Sue Zhao

Instagram

[minvidvx]

[minvidvx]

all i need

2020

[minvidvx]

Eileen Myles, "Holes." I Must Be Living Twice: New and Selected Poems 1975 - 2014

[minvidvx]

[minvidvx]

art is gross and sos kissing but i also love both

[minvidvx]

this is a love story 

[minvidvx]

[minvidvx]

I went through people like I went through books. Compulsively. Consistently. One after the other. Falling in love. Shedding tears. Obsessing. Hating. Cursing. I was amused. Curious. Excited. Interested. Happy. Heartbroken. In pain. Some people like books were triology, a series, in terms of the phases of my life and our interactions. Some just stand alone books. Some got stained with my coffee. The others got away like the books you lend to friends and never get back. Most are sitting right here, on my bookshelf, most dusty yet precious. I don't read them again, but often think fondly of them. Like 442 pages, some stay in my life for 442 days. But the point is. I go through people the way I go through books. But people aren't books. I can't devour them. I can't annotate them. I can't derive my own meaning out of them. They are living, breathing souls. Deriving their own meaning out of my existence and our interactions. But that's not even the troubling part. The troubling part comes here: like books, I can't finish reading people. I can't be done with them. But I still need the next one, the new one. The one from another genre. The one I chance upon in a foreign country's independent bookstore cafe. I guess I've realized this. I've admitted it. This is my dark side. I go through people like I go through books. I used to think it's people who always leave. And I guess I was right. People do always leave. But I'm the people. I'm the one who leaves. Not literally. Not explicitly. Not painfully. But gradually, silently, in care and love. And that's more horrible, isn't it? Isn't it.