(via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
(via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
Some things you can’t go back to, some things need to be left alone- don’t mess with a memories of a life passed on. Oh, the tumbling reservations at the heart of my mistakes. Oh, some things you can’t go back to, because you let them slip away.
Rosi Golan, “Can’t Go Back”
A Tuesday kind of love is this: commuting to work knowing that someone cares about what you’re going to have for lunch; understanding that you do not have to be your dynamic, charming, weekend self this time; this time you can butcher sentences and make bad jokes and trip over thin air and it won’t change anything. Tuesday is directionless conversation about things that happened five hours or five years ago; it’s knowing where he keeps his receipts and when he has a doctor appointment; it’s ordering Chinese food or taking his parents out for dinner because they’re in town or forgetting to eat because you’re full of each other’s words and there’s just no room for anything else. The fantasy is that I want to exist in reality; the fantasy is to be there for someone on a Sunday morning but also on a Tuesday night, when the haze and laze of the weekend has worn thin and seems far away as ever. I want a Tuesday kind of love.
TC mark
[The morning weighs on my shoulders with the dreadful weight of hope and I take the blue envelope which Jacques has sent me and tear it slowly into many pieces, watching them dance in the wind, watching the wind carry them away.] Yet, as I turn and begin walking toward the waiting people, the wind blows some of them back to me.
James Baldwin, from “Giovanni’s Room”