As you get older you begin to realise things about your parents.
You might notice how intelligent they actually are — often a far stretch from what you had imagined as a child; their character flaws — things that upset you as a child but you did not have the capacity to ponder — might become more excruciatingly apparent.
But in understanding that you begin to understand their humanity.
You no longer view them as caregivers, but in leaving that behind you can love them on a much deeper level. Even if you grow apart, even if at worst you come to hate them, you can love them as people, now, for everything they are or are not. Not as your parents, not as comforting figureheads of the family, but as human beings, just like you.
I’m just so tired.
I can’t think straight anymore.
You are, darling, in every way that I can gather, the absolute love of my life. I don’t want for anybody else and I never will — I need for only you.
Everything you do amazes me, and every moment spent with you is a moment of pleasure. I love and thoroughly enjoy your inquisitive and curious nature, and your knack for observation. I adore that more often than not we both pick up on the same subtle cues, and can make conversation without so much as an introduction to the subject. I love how perceptive you are, and it’s complemented infinitely by your intelligence.
The way you cuddle yourself into my bones when we’re holding each other on a cold night, or gradually increase the force and pressure of your hugs as you let yourself fall deeper and deeper into them — these are the things that keep my spark for you alight forever. The way you kiss me on the cheek, the way you giggle when I kiss you. That you let me hold you all night even though it keeps both of us awake, just because we fit so perfectly into each other. The way we can wake up straight into a kiss and then blissfully fade back into slumber without an utterance.
I associate so many of my favourite songs with you now, and am fairly consistently creating mix-tapes for you in my mind. One day I’ll actually give you one, I’m sure, but I’m too much of a perfectionist and I could not possibly have it be anything but. It exists in some form, I’ll let you know that much. There are so many things written by so many excellent poets that scream out to me as if I wrote them myself, and I’m lost in the idea that maybe, somehow, somebody else felt about somebody the same way I feel about you. It’s remarkable to imagine, because I am so hopelessly, endlessly in love with you. It’s often hard not to shout quoted lyrics at you per situations. I love love-songs, and I love you. The association between the two is one of my favourite things.
You’re kind, and caring, and you have a passion for helping others. I want you to believe that about yourself, as well, because it’s the truth. We can be cruel to each other, at times, but I know that you care, and I know it’s that side of you that you are most desperately longing to show me. Still, I want you to know that I love — that I adore — every single side of you. Every angsty murmur and every sarcastic remark, parallel to my most beloved sentimental love poems from you, and every tiny peck on my cheek and my lips and my neck and my body. You are an excellent person, and you’ve a heart so stunningly vibrant and so admirably shining that I am jealous of its beauty and dumbfounded by the fact that it is mine to keep. You are, as I’ve said numerous times before, so colourful and exciting and you’ve an enthusiastic spirit that drives me crazy. All I want to do is keep up with you, because that excitement in you lights the very same in me and you unfreeze my aching bones and spur me into action with an utterly electrified kiss and I remain ever-longing for you every single moment after.
And you know I don’t think I’ll ever be as smitten with somebody as I was with you when you exclaimed from the other side of the car, ‘Joltewhat?’ I love that you take an interest in me, and my things, and appreciate the fondness I have for something even if it isn’t objectively important to anything at all. I’ve never had somebody care enough to pick gifts for me quite so suited, and I hope I’m able to adequately return the favour, because I feel in these few short months that we’ve come to know each other remarkably well. We are legitimately the couple who finish each other’s sentences, we both know what the other is thinking before it is said, and our ideas are somehow shared in some sort of united space between our minds. I’ve never felt something quite so deep as the bond I have with you, and it was how I became so sure that I wanted to keep you forever.
The way you smile and chuckle, the way your eyes brighten and expand with every glance toward me — and the privilege I have in being able to stare into them at my leisure for as long as I should like. Your eyes, again, are the most beautiful I’ve seen in my life, and there is no exaggeration in saying that. They spark like lightning from tans to brilliant emeralds in a flurry of colour and I cannot help but watch for what seems like eons, but they are happy eons — a pleasant abyss in which I could contentedly keep myself for the rest of time and space. You’re gorgeous, utterly, from the way in which your hair falls across your shoulders to your adorable fringe, and from the way my clothes fit you better than they do me, to the way you so aptly appropriate them into your own wardrobe. Then there’s the old-fashioned dresses alongside the contemporary, and every inch of femininity about you. I admire the strength of your personality and your beautiful independence, and yet take solace in the fact that despite all of this, you allow yourself to find your way into my arms and let me guide your way, just as you so often guide mine.
I know it makes me grumpy in the morning, but I want to stay up and read to you forever. I want you sat rested against my chest while I mutter the words in a voice I can only imagine is muffled and emotionless — and yet you still love it; you still love me. I want to rest under the blankets with you in a haphazardly constructed fort and study and play video games before abruptly tearing your clothes from you and making love until I physically can no longer, despite, darling, being endlessly willing for you in mind.
There is, and I mean this, never anything on my mind without you. At most my important reminders and daily routines are forced to share the space with your allicient image because honestly, my dear, you do not even for a moment leave my thoughts. And, as much as you are in my mind, I want to be with you. I would share every moment with you because the world is more beautiful with you beside me. Every tinge of excitement is magnified tenfold by your presence, and your own wonderful existence brightens mine, the feeling of which I never want to be absent from for long. I want to be with you all of the time. I want you in my arms, I want you beside me, I want you beneath me and above me.
I can’t really explain how excited I am that you think the same way of me, that when you write something romantic and sentimental that it is my own image in your mind as you type. I can’t believe for a moment I’ve found somebody who is so deeply enamoured with me as I am with you. Let me spend every waking moment with you, let me spend the rest of my life with you.
Darling, I love you, so very much. I don’t mean to be short at times, I don’t mean to doubt your love; it is not with any truthfulness that I do these things. I appreciate your love now as much as I appreciate life itself, and I could never bear to separate the two from each other. Simply being about you makes me so incredibly happy, and in return I promise to you with everything in my heart, mind, and soul that I will do the same for you for as long as I live. You are mine, and I am yours, and I know that we’ll be happy in each other’s worlds for the rest of time. Don’t ever leave me, because trust me if it were up to me entirely I should never part your company. You are the perfect girlfriend. You’d equally be the perfect wife.
I just don’t know. I try so incredibly hard and it’s emotionally exhausting.
What am I supposed to do?
And when the water gets high above your head,
darlin’ don’t you see?
While this has been hard enough on you,
it’s been hard enough on me.
— Brandon Flowers
I won’t talk when I feel like it. You should know that. I bury myself away and spend hours trapped inside my own head contemplating various increasingly inaccurate reflections. It’s lucky I’m even writing this, but I’m trying to take a page from your book.
I was particularly upset by the post you made. I felt insignificant, and as if I came second to somebody else. If the post is true then you’ve lied to me, and you told me that I should always accept your word. I was doing that, for you, even though it goes against my basic tenets — to believe people at all, really. I don’t trust people, but I want to trust you. You’ve told me on numerous occasions that I know you better than anybody, and that you care for me more. So the contradiction in referring to me as just somebody who doesn’t know you near half as well was absolutely heartbreaking.
I didn’t want to tell you about it, but it was hard to mask that I was upset. You pried and prompted and despite assuring you that it wasn’t worth it and that I didn’t want to make you upset, you insisted. So, I told you. You apologised, I suppose — but then you felt terrible. I said you would, and it was why I didn’t want to tell you; despite pretty much always wanting to come to you with my problems. You felt terrible and the conversation very quickly became about how apparently awful you are. You’re not awful, you’re not at all. So I put my problems aside — significant problems, mind you; problems that affected me an awful lot — and I spent the next few hours trying to make you feel better. I did my absolute best to make you feel valued, and worth something, and lovely and loved.
And after a while you started ignoring me, in favour of making horrid tumblr posts. You returned, after having seen my messages much earlier and clearly knowing the converse, with, ‘I thought we were done.’
After having put aside everything wrong in my mind to make you feel better, that fucking hurt. And we still never resolved my own problem.
So, frustrated, I decided to go for a walk. Rather than grow increasingly angry with you — and I don’t normally become angry with you at all, but I was hurt — I wanted to remove myself temporarily from the situation and in an odd way perhaps make you realise that’s what I was doing. But I still wanted to feel better, I still wanted to resolve my own problem, and I wanted your help. I always want your help.
You made an effort, in those messages after I left, you apologised multiple times and you said you wanted me to be happy and I greatly appreciated those things, I did. But then you told me to enjoy my walk. I was fucking miserable. And then you told me I’d talk when I’d like, and you left… But I won’t. You know I won’t. I’ll bury myself. I wanted you to care about me, I wanted you to make sure I was alright the same way I do for you every week. I wanted you to love me, and to not let go. It felt like you gave up. And now it’s the next day and there’s not so much as a message from you and I’m sat here still trying to deal with how upset I am over this — alone. I want you. I need you. I never want you to leave me alone. So where are you?
I love you, and I always will do. I don’t want to break up with you; I just want consideration, at least, and perhaps appreciation at most. You’re my entire world and it hurts when the one person I truly love and want to make me feel better hasn’t noticed.
No, the last thing I want is to be left alone. Why?
I always thought that it was a requirement of a writer to be absolutely miserable, as it seemed that most of my passion for the craft had stemmed from that; however, I’ve discovered that perhaps the opposite is true.
I can’t write when I’m upset anymore. I write when I’m happy, because I have reason to. Because suddenly the world seems so much more crisp, and colourful, and exciting — and I want to put on paper every little detail of that.
The idea that love fosters creativity is, I suppose, the idea that I am putting forward here.
I don’t want to be a miserable, old writer in a dusty room — not anymore. I want to be the writer who sips coffee on the porch and watches a sunset beside his beloved, and then turns every tiny aspect of his happiness into a finely crafted story filled with wonder, imagination, and importantly love.
a broken heart won’t get you far enough.
There’s a certain soul in writing of pining for a lost love, or longing for the touch of somebody you can’t have, but it needn’t be done in unhappiness. Because obtaining that person won’t hold the writing back, in fact they’ll create so drastic an influx that you’ll feel like a child again in the way your imagination flows freely and the constriction of adulthood gradually fades away.
Love breeds creativity, and wallowing will only ever hold that back.
I think I’m going to use this URL as a personal now, so be warned if you’ve somehow stumbled across this rather than my current tumblr that it will primarily consist of needless whining and melodramatic nonsense.