itsnotfairhowmuchiloveyou - Tumblr blog

[itsnotfairhowmuchiloveyou]

Thinking of how the guy in Little Miss Why So kept trying to fix her, to solve her, to talk or logic or coax her out of her sadness.... No one can say that he didn't love her. I’ll yell it from the rooftops for you. Thank you, missy, for being in my life. No one can say that he didn't try just about everything he could—Want some pancakes? Just relax and come to bed with me. I've even learned to cook.—even if nothing worked. You look like I've failed you. I don’t know how to reach you when you get like this; I've been waiting for you to come home. The one thing that she needed from him, to just be there—Stop asking why I’m sad, just know it's enough to know I’m sad.—that was the one thing he couldn't do.

versus

The Rockrose and the Thistle, and that helpless panic you feel when someone you love is in pain and you're terrified of making the wrong move and making it worse. I could try to calm you down but I know you won't. Should you give them space? I know the kindest thing is to leave you alone. But they called for you and they're willing to let you help and by god, that's something, isn't it? I wake and hear you calling and up those cliffs I climb, and I find you with a thimble weeping. May I, I ask, may I? And you gently gift it to me cos you've no clue how to sew. So you're just going to stay there and be there and hope it's the right thing to do. I know the kindest thing—I pray to god it's the kindest thing—I know the kindest thing is to never leave you alone.

The first song is about trying to love someone out of depression, and the second one is about loving them through it—and only one of those is actually a lifeline, even if it isn't a cure. (It's the one that's not trying to be a cure.)

[itsnotfairhowmuchiloveyou]

finding hope in humanity and other people

[itsnotfairhowmuchiloveyou]

babe. be real with me. if i were a plain little rock on a beach would you pick me up and turn me over in your hand and marvel over how wonderfully ordinary i am. like really take the time to ponder how there isn't necessarily anything special about me but that the very deed of choosing me out of countless other rocks raises me to a precious, almost sacred level of irreplaceability that is only accessible through the act of being seen and loved?

[itsnotfairhowmuchiloveyou]

richard siken lines that make me lose my fucking mind -

look at the light through the windowpane. that means it’s noon, that means we’re inconsolable.

can we love nature for what it really is: predatory? we do not walk through a passive landscape.

someone has to leave first. this is a very old story. there is no other version of this story.

tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.

i hope it’s love. i’m trying really hard to make it love.

there are many names in history but none of them are ours.

so it’s summer, so it’s suicide, so we’re helpless in sleep and struggling at the bottom of the pool.

what holds it together? glue. some kind of glue. the image remains as a body would. i turned the image over like a rock, but then the worms.

i clawed my way into the light but the light is just as scary. i’d rather quit. i’d rather be sad. it’s too much work.

the prayer of going nowhere going nowhere

words too small for any hope or promise, not really soothing, but soothing nonetheless.

and the eyes that remained eyes and not the doorways we had hoped for.

paint ghosts over everything, the sadness of everything.

we collide with place, which is another name for god, and limp away with a permanent injury.

but tell me you love this, tell me you’re not miserable.

to make something beautiful should be enough. it isn’t. it should be.

i prefer to blame others, it’s easier.

we’ve made a graveyard out of a bone white afternoon.

i made this place for you. a place for you to love me.

i wanted to explain myself to myself in an understandable way.

i want to tell you this story without having to confess anything.

i want to tell you this story without having to be in it.

sorry about the bony elbows, sorry we lived here, sorry about the scene at the bottom of the stairwell and how i ruined everything by saying it out loud.

we deduce backward into first causes - stone in the pond of things.

are you there, sweetheart? do you know me? is this microphone live?

you see, i take the parts that i remember and stitch them back together to make a creature that will do what i say or love me back.

every morning the same big and little words all spelling out desire, all spelling out you will be alone always and then you will die.

we clutch our bellies and roll on the floor… when i say this, it should mean laughter, not poison.

the dawn was breaking the bones of your heart like twigs.

a man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river but then he’s still left with the river. a man takes his sadness and throws it away but then he’s still left with his hands.

i will turn myself into a gun, because i’m hungry and hollow and just want something to call my own. i’ll be your slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue.

as everything is a metaphor for itself.

something’s not right about what i’m doing but i’m still doing it - living in the worst parts, ruining myself.

if the window is over your heart, and it is painted shut, then we are breathing river water.

you know that a boy who likes boys is a dead boy, unless he keeps his mouth shut, which is what you didn’t do, because you are weak and hollow and it doesn’t matter anymore.

what is a ghost? something dead that seems to be alive. something dead that doesn’t know it’s dead.

you try to warn him, you tell him you will want to get inside him, and ruin him, but he doesn’t listen. you do this, you do. you take things you love and tear them apart.

do you love yourself? i don’t have to answer that. it should matter.

things happen all the time, things happen every minute that have nothing to do with us.

the boy on the bridge. the boy who always keeps me from jumping off the bridge. oh, the things we invent when we are scared and want to be rescued.

i am singing now while rome burns. we are all just trying to be holy.

the best part of spirituality is reverence. there are other parts. some people like to hear the sound of their own voice.

you are a fever i am learning to live with, and everything is happening at the wrong end of a very long tunnel.

you need it for the moment you need it, then you bless it.

there’s a black dog and there’s a white dog, depends on which you feed. depends on which damn dog you live with.

desire, like a monster, crawls up out of the lake.

there’s a niche in his chest where a heart would fit perfectly.

evidence of evil but not proof.

a hammer is a hammer when it hits the nail. a hammer is not a hammer when it’s sleeping. i woke up tired of being the hammer.

the maiden flees or prays, depending.

this is the testimony of the deer: solitude, the long corridors, love from a distance.

if it hurts, we’re doing it to ourselves.

cut me open and the light streams out. stitch me up and the light keeps streaming out between the stitches.

take the light inside you like a blessing, like a knee in the chest.

he knows that when you snap a mast it’s time to get a set of oars or learn to breathe underwater.

if you don’t believe in god or fate you still must believe in narrative.

two brothers: one of them wants to take you apart. two brothers: one of them wants to put you back together. it’s time to choose sides now. the stitches or the devouring mouth?

he took the gods and made them human.

is that too much to expect? that i would name the stars for you?

in the wrong light anyone can look like a darkness.

god is the space between two men and the devil is the space between two men.

i make up things that i would never say. i say them very quietly.

the body of life is a nightmare.

she existed enough to be painted. she could have been an idea, but that’s another kind of existing.

we have not touched the stars nor are we forgiven.

a gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it.

[itsnotfairhowmuchiloveyou]

Friendship

E.B. White, Charlotte’s Web // Frank Coburn, Friends // Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Young Girls at the Piano // A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh // E.H. Shepherd, Winnie-the-Pooh // Dream Theater, I Walk Beside You // Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince // David George, Old Man and His Dog // F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby // J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King

[itsnotfairhowmuchiloveyou]

Book dedications that make me go feral

For those who are trying to find their way home

For the kid scanning fairy tales for a hero with a face like theirs.

And for the girls whose stories we compressed into pities and wonders, triumphs and cautions, without asking, even once, for their names.

To anyone fighting an invisible battle. I see you.

For all the girls who found themselves in books.

To those who hold anger too deep to extricate, to those who feel too knife-edged to hold something soft, to those who are tired of holding up worlds.

I dedicate this book to myself

This book is dedicated to all the kids whose arms are filled with too much for them to hold, but who are trying their best not to drop a single thing.

I see you and I am proud of you for trying.

To the readers who look up at the stars and wish

For the ones who dream of strangers worlds

For the ones who've found their way home

Heartsong, TJ Klun / raybearer, Jordan Ifueko / terms an conditons, Lauren Asher / sorcery of thorns, Margaret Rogerson / for the wolf, Hannah Whitten / twice shy, Sarah Hogle / a court of frost and starlight, Sarah J. Maas / A darker shade of magic , V.E. Schwab / a conjuring of light, V.E. Schwab

[itsnotfairhowmuchiloveyou]

When they stood like this, close enough that their heartbeats were in conversation, Juliette did not know what coldness was.

but he would always remember lying in a park with Juliette—fifteen and carefree, his head in her lap and her lips pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, the grass under his fingers and the birds fluttering in song on the branches above him. He would always remember that little nook where nothing could disturb them, a world of their own, and thinking this—this is the only complete happiness I have ever felt.

In the end, this was all that they were. Two hearts pressed as close as they dared, shadows melding into one by the flickering candlelight.

“I will fight this war to love you, Juliette Cai. I will fight this feud to have you, because it was this feud that gave you to me, twisted as it is, and now I will take you away from it.”

“I need you to know. I love you so much it feels like it could consume me.”

Our Violent Ends, Chloe Gong

[itsnotfairhowmuchiloveyou]

I remember waiting at the bus stop one day last November. It suddenly started pouring and these two foreigners on a motorbike stopped for shelter. They were pretty much soaked, but they were deep in conversation and they were laughing.

I didn't mean to watch them, but they were standing right in front of the bench i was sitting on and my eyes kept drifting to them, not because they were foreigners, or because they were white, but because of the way the man was looking at the woman.

She was talking about something to him, animatedly, with her hands, and face, and eyes. And he stared at her. He stared at her like he heard everything she was saying, including the things that she was not saying. He stared at her like he understood every word, every nuance, every undertone. He had a small smile on his face, like she was putting things into a perspective he had never even considered before, but was realising now that he didn't quite hate. And he never looked away from her. Not even once.

I dont know if they were a couple, or if they were related, or if they were strangers who had only met the day before, but what i do know, is he loved her. He had so much love in his eyes for her. And maybe she loved him back, i dont know, but i hope she did, does, because he looked at her like he had no choice. Like he couldn't look away if he tried.

[itsnotfairhowmuchiloveyou]

The moon is a loyal companion.

It never leaves. It’s always there, watching, steadfast, knowing us in our light and dark moments, changing forever just as we do. Every day it’s a different version of itself. Sometimes weak and wan, sometimes strong and full of light. The moon understands what it means to be human. Uncertain.

Alone. Cratered by imperfections.

Shatter Me, Tahareh Mafi

[itsnotfairhowmuchiloveyou]

Im doing some work on my laptop and didn't notice that the charge was running low. This thing really shut down while i was typing and everything I've done for the past four hours simply erased. Gone. Poof. Never to be seen again. When i said i wanted haters this is not what i meant.

[itsnotfairhowmuchiloveyou]

Actually this genre of photos is what life is actually about

[itsnotfairhowmuchiloveyou]

Change is essential for survival. I am not the same person i was at 16. Its only been 2 years but i can never go back. Not to those people, not to those places. It was a good time, but its over, and i am not her anymore, and i don't want to be and i know change is essential for survival and i swear to God i am content where i am, and there's so many things i have now that i would not give up, not for anything, not for a time machine.

What is impossible is to know whether the change was for the better or for the worse. I don't know. I can never know. I am moving forward. I am trying my best. I miss her, the 16 year old me who didn't know anything, but she knew everything and i love her and i never want to think about her again and i want to be her again but she has no idea how happy she is going to be, so much happier than at 16, but things will never be the same again and things-

[itsnotfairhowmuchiloveyou]

When that one person said that Richard Siken's poetry feels like regret, they were right.

It should be enough. To make something beautiful should be enough. It isn’t. It should be.

What is a ghost? Something dead that seems to be alive. Something dead that doesn’t know it’s dead.

I wanted to explain myself to myself in an understandable way.

Something’s not right about what I’m doing but I’m still doing it— living in the worst parts, ruining myself.

The enormity of my desire disgusts me.

How much can you change and get away with it, before you turn into someone else, before it’s some kind of murder?

The world doesn’t know what to do with my love. Because it isn’t used to being loved. I hope it’s love. I’m trying really hard to make it love.

Someone has to leave first. This is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.

Excerpts from War of the Foxes, Richard Siken

[itsnotfairhowmuchiloveyou]

Go flood the whole goddamned world, Beyah

This edit took something in me and crushed it to pieces :")

[itsnotfairhowmuchiloveyou]

Wish i was her, truly

source

[itsnotfairhowmuchiloveyou]

I want to look back at this in ten years and think, "oh, so it did get better."