I’ve tried to become someone else for a while,
I think I must learn to scrunch down to the size of the smallest thing.
Stephen Dunn, Discrepancies
La Luna, a short film by Pixar.
feuillemort (n.) the color of a dying leaf
When we gathered, even after a long absents of centuries, there were no problem except where to be happiest. The only thing that could spoil the day when engaged in a deep conservation with my girlfriends was about how I should stop wasting my time searching and just get settle with a bloody job, any job will do, because apparently the instability of my life is, lets admit it, scaring the hell outta of everyone else but me. In my world you did not really need anything, not even the golden apple tree, but it was good to feel it in your pockets. Part of me died each time when such talk stirred up and it felt like winter rain. And when the cold rain goes on for days and killed the warmth of sun, it was as though a young plants had died for no reason.
And so I came home from the crude of society and took a nap, woke up and felt so terrible I thought, “This is it, I’m a goner.” My mind was torn in different directions. I proceeded checking emails that had always resulted in Inbox (0), and clicked on a tumblr updated news feed instead. And then, right there, on the second column box, was cookies soaked in milk:
Artists are some of the most driven, courageous people on the face of the earth. They deal with more day-to-day rejection in one year than most people do in a lifetime. Every day, artists face the financial challenge of living a freelance lifestyle, the disrespect of people who think they should get real jobs, and their own fear that they’ll never work again. Every day, they have to ignore the possibility that the vision they have dedicated their lives to is a pipe dream. With every role, they stretch themselves, emotionally and physically, risking criticism and judgement. With every passing year, many of them watch as the other people their age achieve the predictable milestones of normal life - the car, the family, the house, the nest egg. Why? Because artists are willing to give their entire lives to a moment - to that line, that laugh, that gesture, or that interpretation that will stir the audience’s soul. Artists are beings who have tasted life’s nectar in that crystal moment when they poured out their creative spirit and touched another’s heart. In that instant, they were as close to magic, God, and perfection as anyone could ever be. And in their own hearts, they know that to dedicate oneself to that moment is worth a thousand lifetimes. David Ackert
A strange enough ending.
I like where we are (here) / Hello, I’ve missed you quite (terribly)
To dream that there is chaos at the circus signifies that your life is very much out of control.
Third stage of my life (still)
In an effort to get people to look into each other’s eyes more, the government has decided to allot each person exactly one hundred and sixty-seven words, per day. When the phone rings, I put it to my ear without saying hello. In the restaurant I point at chicken noodle soup. I am adjusting well to the new way. Late at night, I call my long distance lover and proudly say I only used fifty-nine today. I saved the rest for you.
When she doesn’t respond, I know she’s used up all her words so I slowly whisper I love you, thirty-two and a third times. After that, we just sit on the line and listen to each other breathe.
you see things
you keep quiet about them
and you understand
the perks of being a wallflower