I'm avoiding journaling these days cause i'm lowkey scared of the self awareness it might lead me to
🕊5
“living is so uncomfortable. Everything pinches: the body demands, the spirit doesn't stop, living is like being tired and not being able to sleep—living is bothersome. You can't walk naked either in body or in spirit.”
🕊2
Home sick?
-i wear 'i feel like i shouldnt have come here' like a patched-up,old, worn blanket
-i wear 'i feel like i shouldnt have come here' like a patched-up,old, worn blanket
Forwarded from Unresolved Issues
“I fear that you wouldn’t like me too if I’m not perfect like an album,” he said. Soft. As if he almost didn't want me to hear him.
We were sitting across from each other. It was late, the kind of late that dredged up confessions from deep in your soul.
I frowned. "It's not about perfection. It's about what I love and enjoy."
He shrugged, trying to sand down the sharpness of what he’d just admitted. “I’m just saying… in that logic, if you don’t like everything about something, you won’t compromise.” “I don’t like the way that sounds.” I said, defensive.
I crossed my arms. “If I can help it, why would I spend my precious time on things I don’t absolutely love?”
Silence stretched between us. He nodded, but his eyes didn’t. He heard what I said and took what he believed.
The conversation ended there. But it didn’t. Later, alone, I replayed it. “I don’t require perfection… do I?” I asked myself. "I don't want to be a person who loves only shiny perfect things."
But no. I dont require perfection. I just don’t waste time. There’s a difference. I thought about how I listen to music. One off note. One boring bridge and I skip. There are millions of songs. Why force myself to sit through one that doesn’t move me?
I thought about shows I’ve abandoned halfway through. Places I’ve left. Hobbies I’ve dropped. If it doesn’t light me up, I move on. I'm efficient. Decisive. And fiercely protective of my time.
But people aren’t playlists. There aren’t “suggested alternatives” for someone’s laugh. There isn’t a better produced version of someone’s childhood. No remix of their nervous habits. No remastered cut of the way they say my name. Songs are replaceable. People aren’t. And that’s what I couldn’t articulate that night.
I don’t demand perfection from the irreplaceable but from the replaceable. If a song is mediocre, there are billions more. If a show disappoints me, there’s another season. Another series.
But him? There was only one him.
Not a better version. Not an upgraded model. Just him, with his awkward phrasing, his quiet fears, and that single question that revealed more about him than anything he's ever said.
I wouldn’t have left because he wasn’t perfect. I would have stayed because he was singular. And maybe what hurt wasn’t the accusation. It was the assumption. That he thought I loved the way I consume. Disposing. Interchanging. Skipping
I don’t. I just know exactly what I want to invest my time and love on. And I wanted, so badly, to invest in him.
#ummm?
#fiction (but is it really?) Welp
We were sitting across from each other. It was late, the kind of late that dredged up confessions from deep in your soul.
I frowned. "It's not about perfection. It's about what I love and enjoy."
He shrugged, trying to sand down the sharpness of what he’d just admitted. “I’m just saying… in that logic, if you don’t like everything about something, you won’t compromise.” “I don’t like the way that sounds.” I said, defensive.
I crossed my arms. “If I can help it, why would I spend my precious time on things I don’t absolutely love?”
Silence stretched between us. He nodded, but his eyes didn’t. He heard what I said and took what he believed.
The conversation ended there. But it didn’t. Later, alone, I replayed it. “I don’t require perfection… do I?” I asked myself. "I don't want to be a person who loves only shiny perfect things."
But no. I dont require perfection. I just don’t waste time. There’s a difference. I thought about how I listen to music. One off note. One boring bridge and I skip. There are millions of songs. Why force myself to sit through one that doesn’t move me?
I thought about shows I’ve abandoned halfway through. Places I’ve left. Hobbies I’ve dropped. If it doesn’t light me up, I move on. I'm efficient. Decisive. And fiercely protective of my time.
But people aren’t playlists. There aren’t “suggested alternatives” for someone’s laugh. There isn’t a better produced version of someone’s childhood. No remix of their nervous habits. No remastered cut of the way they say my name. Songs are replaceable. People aren’t. And that’s what I couldn’t articulate that night.
I don’t demand perfection from the irreplaceable but from the replaceable. If a song is mediocre, there are billions more. If a show disappoints me, there’s another season. Another series.
But him? There was only one him.
Not a better version. Not an upgraded model. Just him, with his awkward phrasing, his quiet fears, and that single question that revealed more about him than anything he's ever said.
I wouldn’t have left because he wasn’t perfect. I would have stayed because he was singular. And maybe what hurt wasn’t the accusation. It was the assumption. That he thought I loved the way I consume. Disposing. Interchanging. Skipping
I don’t. I just know exactly what I want to invest my time and love on. And I wanted, so badly, to invest in him.
#ummm?
#fiction (but is it really?) Welp