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i need 2 nourish my body so when i die i can contribute maximum nutrients to the trees

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chaos and crossing paths.

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“I made the mistake of talking about him too soon, assuming the the wound had closed itself up. I should be smarter than this, stronger than this, but I need more time. Maybe a year or two more could do the trick and rid me of a memory that will not leave my side.”

— Noor Shirazie

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What we had was beautiful the way that mosaics are beautiful, yet the grout was bloodstained and our hand were shredded to pieces.

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“There is no such thing as early or late in life,” Aziz said. “Everything happens at the right time.”

لا يوجد شيء يحدث في وقت مبكر أو متأخر في الحياة. كل شيء يحدث في الوقت المناسب

— The Forty Rules of Love | Elif Shafak

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Maybe one day I’ll be able to write in a “fun new!” Writing style but for now it is all poetic repetition and dumb aesthetic mistakes baby cakes

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Love runs freely

I fall in love far too easily, but I suppose I have always been a romantic. I love the feeling of being in love—the warmth that seeps into my bones following the effervescent flush of my face and body. The butterflies in my stomach feel like a delicious champagne, and the rose-tinted glasses make the world seem, well, rosy. Words take on a warm, golden hue while love songs play in an infinite loop. This love is fleeting, never meant to be; it is not in our cards but, like a fine wine, it intoxicates my brain for the night—a costly thrill to get me through the day. I fall in love with my friends so easily, but the fear of losing those who are dear to me keep me at an arm’s length.

My friend has a beautiful laugh. You could hear it from across the room and you simply want to bask in their glow—you want to laugh so heartily with them, to feel so at ease with them would be a gracious gift no money could buy.

My friend has warm hands. These hands have held mine to navigate the city, to guide me through foreign hallways, to hold mine through the darkest of moments. They keep me safe, they keep me warm; they carry mountains yet they are still gentle. They ease me to sleep, they wipe away tears, they tickle my sides until the sadness is gone and I ache with giddiness all over.

My friend is beautiful, and I cannot stop looking at them. I look at them at school, at work, on my phone, and when we are hanging out. I’ve memorized their smile lines and how their eyes crinkle when I tell a joke. I could tell you how they shake their head with pity laughter at puns, yet a smile tugs on their lips; they always have to be moving around to listen to you, otherwise it just doesn’t sink in, and their hands illustrate stories with enthusiastic gestures that come a bit too close to your face.

I’ve thought about what it would feel like to kiss you, to feel your skin underneath mine in a romantic way, to understand the basis of a carnal desire. I think and overthink, but I cannot imagine you as a lover, my dear friend. You are beautiful, and I will tell you endlessly until you find someone who can love you at least as much as I do. But they will love you more, and I will be happier because of this.

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Crush(ed)

Do you think of me when night falls? When the daylight fades, does the sound of my voice come through static filled speakers on your car radio? Do you think of the songs we sang in the car, an imperfect harmony fueled by a perfect disinhibition? Do you find yourself skipping all the songs in your playlist to play the songs we sang, just to remember the city lights illuminating the ghost of a smile on your lips?

Do you think of me as the night grows longer? Do you think of the way my hand fits in yours, the way my breath tickles your ear when the music runs loud and I want to be closer to you? Is your brain flooded with images of limbs intertwined, breathy laughter, whispers of a burning touch that yearns for more?

Do you still think of me as the dawn breaks? Memories of what could have been find their way into a stark reality, yet the images shimmer like hanging dust over the couch, the kitchen, the bedroom. Do you think of sleepy looks, bed headed hair, the faint steam of the shower rising as the sun does?

Because I do, I do, I do—and it keeps me awake.

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“I am too young and I’ve loved you too much.”

— Fyodor Dostoyevsky / The Brothers Karamazov

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-The Myth of Sisyphus and other essays by Albert Camus.

Enamoured of this book.

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“Don’t tell me how to grieve. Don’t tell me ghosts fade away eventually, like they do in movies, waving goodbye with see-through hands. Lots of things fade away but ghosts like these don’t, heartbreak like this doesn’t.” - Anthony Doerr, Memory Wall

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A language called “Love”

My mom and dad have been married since ‘86—as of right now, that is 33 years in the making. Old age has mellowed whatever romance they once had, but they have spent years learning how to say “I love you” when parenthood triumphed marriage; my mom will still pick out my dad’s clothes, and my dad, in turn, will always rush to wear them. My dad will go out of his way, even on late night days, to fill up my mom’s gas tank so she doesn’t have to drive out of her way to the full service station. In turn, they learned new ways on how to say “I love you” to their children through hand cut fruit after dinner, strict curfews, and imposing high standards. Their children, believing this to be unfair and relentless, would learn that they honestly did not deserve the unconditional love given to and sacrifices made for them. But they are growing, and they too are learning how to say “I love you” back to their parents in success and independence.

Like any language, it takes dedication. We work their love language into our own vernacular so much that our friends and family begin to question our sanity. Inside jokes and shared experiences color how stories are recounted in ways that only our significant other could truly understand. You learn how they wake up, what their morning routine is—you decide whether you ought to help them, or whether to mold your schedule to fit around theirs. Perhaps you put their lunch in a bag so that they don’t have to do that while brushing their teeth; or perhaps they realize they don’t have to wait for you to brush your teeth because you cherish the minutes between snoozing the alarm and getting out of bed. There will be petty arguments about whether fruit can stay on the counter or if it goes in the fridge—if chilled drinks really need the extra ice. But then one day, the fruit goes into the fridge so you can eat it next week (despite the constant reminders to do so earlier), and the kitchen is a little less quiet as ice collects in its container.

Like any language, it takes practice. Sometimes you try to remember whether they love coconuts and hate mangoes—or was it hate coconuts and love mangoes? We make mistakes, more often than not, so the first words we learn to truly say is “sorry”. Apologies take the form of diligent observation, abundant attention, a hug, a kiss, and a promise to do better. Success eludes us, despite learning the language perfectly in theory; while you may know they love ranch on their pizza, they would rather have mustard on their chicken nuggets. Somewhere along the way, you recognize their pattern, their method to their madness, and it makes your love for them fonder. Practice makes perfect—and our love grows because of it.

A love language is knowing how to say “I love you” without words; it is showing another that you truly care for them and acknowledge them as a part of your life and have made strides to do so. We can learn how to speak some words between trysts and lovers, and we may be adequate speakers of our friends and family—yet to truly become fluent in another’s language—that, is your person. Love languages are no small feat. Try as hard as you might, you may not truly speak someone’s love language until you two have separated; you find yourself putting Fairlife milk and vanilla whey protein in your cart at the grocery store, but you are lactose intolerant and despise protein shakes. You begin to wonder how much of your time did you waste learning a language that would never be spoken again, but you have to remember that the act of learning is a gift in it of itself, and now you will learn a new love language just as fast, if not faster. You will love someone better, if not the best.

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Missed signals

His gaze feels as though you are being burned alive with dry ice—the chill never fades, and you feel frozen in time. He tells you he doesn’t want to get angry with you; “I don’t fight, I won’t yell at you”. Somehow, the icy silence is worse than the fury of arguments and yelling. You longed for some kind of abuse that would shake the rose-tinted glasses off your eyes but alas, he kept his word. And words are words are words, as life continued to look rosy since “all couples have their arguments”. You must have been better off because you did not argue—in fact, you did nothing at all. You don’t remember when this all started, but the end is no where in sight—this is your life now. This was him, breaking up with you.

He questions your moves, your friends, your motives as though you were guilty until proven innocent—no amount of reality could satisfy the paranoia in his mind. “You are too pretty for your own good”, are murmurs of a compliment which soften the harshness of his ever watchful eyes. Freedom doesn’t taste nearly as sweet as his approval, or so you are led to believe. He makes you feel beautiful in the way that only he can. Only he can make you feel this way, and the others are trying to ruin your dream; they try to chip away at the glass cage you are in, but you scream at them not to— “He loves me!”—but maybe your screams are for help. You ask where he is one night, and he doesn’t answer. You pry a little more, trying to make small talk, but his annoyance is prevalent. “You just need to trust me more,” but you do. Trust renders you blind to the late nights with friends, to going to other girls’ houses, to more than just “southern hospitality”. This was him, breaking up with you.

You learned how to read his silence and to better understand whether this time it was because he had nothing to say, or because he had nothing to say to you.This was not a love language you were learning, you were trying to appease a forgotten god—you learned how to avoid arguments, how to pick your words and make an offering so the silence would break. The gods are finicky, but one does not simply deny one their demands. A carnal sacrifice is worth the loss of your independence—your personhood— if it means seeing the sun shine again—if it means the chill leaves your bones, if only for a moment. Strange how the god you worship requests more tributes; those you are more than willing to proffer so long as he is happy. You understand how myths came to be, truly the gods were the folly of man—you would have done anything for him. You did anything for him. This was him, breaking up with you.

You have your first—and last—real argument with him. Years of anger have aged like sewage, yet even as it threatens to spill from your lips in a heated rage, bubbling with toxcity and unadulterated fury, you keep quiet. It is your turn to burn him with the very silence he used against you for nights on end; how delightful it feels to not be the anguished one. Suffocating chains begin to crumble and for once, you start to taste true freedom—in the form of lost teenage experiences and Taco Bell. What twisted pleasure you feel when your god starts to cry—to beg for another chance, a god is begging you, a mere mortal, to speak his name—to give him power. How tears turn to anger as quickly as they came; “this is your fault, I gave you so many chances but you refuse to give me even one”, as he conveniently forgets your leniency—one that only a mother could give. You sought the love and protection of a god, yet he sought your kindness. Humanity is the folly of the gods. His omniscience aims at your dreams of family, validation, and vanity, yet they can no longer pierce the thick skin he blessed you with; a god’s gift is his own undoing. Tears no longer fall from your face, and you stifle a laugh that bubbles up during his monologue. His words fall on deaf ears as your prayers, which have gone unanswered, are blessed upon this very day. This is your freedom.

This is you, breaking up with him.

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And as you grip my thighs, your name falls from my lips endlessly—a prayer to the old gods, begging that the new gods do not take my pleasure away too soon.

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“Please don’t use ‘I love you’ as a filler when you’ve got nothing to say. Don’t use it as an alternative for ‘sorry’. Don’t use it when you’re feeling bad or mad. Don’t use it to escape an argument. Don’t say it out of pity. Don’t use it against someone. Instead, please use it wisely. Calm yourself then think once, twice, or maybe even a hundred times before using it. Question yourself before uttering it. Make sure you know it’s what you feel before saying it. Say it only to the right person. Say it because you mean it. Say it because not saying it makes you anxious. Say it because there’s no other word nor phrase that compares to how you feel. Say it because that person earned your trust to hear it and last; Say this to yourself. You deserve it.”

—  3 am thoughts (via suspend)

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I wonder if you still think of me.

I wonder if you remember the soft nights, filled with tender musings of a glimmering future.

I wonder if you only remember the deafening silence surrounding arguments. Our only dance of give less or lesser.

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To the one who forced “enough” out of me:

I am afraid to make plans with my friends. I told myself that if I had the free time to see them, I ought to spend it driving to see you. A six hour drive to spend the night with you. No apologies. No acknowledgement. I suppose you didn't have to, considering it was just expected of me. I did wrong. This was penance.

Enough.

I am afraid to tell you that I think you are wrong; you tell me that I can talk to you about anything, yet you make me feel stupid and ignorant when I try to express what is on my mind. I would rather stay silent, than to hear the monotony of your voice again.

Enough.

I am afraid to sing and play the piano. I am afraid that you'll hear me, look at me like I'm wasting your time. I remember the first time I played for you, you looked at me how I looked at the stars for the very first time. But that faded. You grew bored, and I grew anxious. I wasn't doing enough. I'm not attractive enough.

Enough.

    I am seeing someone again. I know, it's early. and we promised each other that we would wait a while to date after we've broken up. But that was selfish on your part. I agreed because I was scared to upset you. I was scared to be contrary so I went along with what you said, even though I knew in my heart that your words were a vice around my freedom.

Enough.

I am afraid to let him get to know me. I am worried that he will not understand why I count his breath sounds and listen to his heartbeat while tracing his palms. He will not understand why I am scared to go out to dinner because of the anger. The silence. He does not know that I listen for the minimal shifts in tone, the tension in the air--how an apology for desiring attention awaits the tip of my tongue but--

I swallow it. Enough is enough.