like O, like H

Пожелавам си просто да спра да правя нещата вместо другите хора.

Но и да приема сценария, в който те така и не правят тези неща.

La puerta

T: Point is, my mom invented a trick. She drew a door on my bedroom wall. It was a magic door. If I was scared, I could open it, and she’d be right there.

R: Did you open it after she left?

T: She said I could only open it once. Only one time in my life. If I needed her. Only once. So when I was afraid, I always thought, I need to hold out just a little more. A little more. I would think that the next day I might be even more scared or more lonely. And I’d need that door.

R: I would’ve opened it on the first day.

T: I never opened it.

T: Rio, do you remember the door my mother used to draw when I was afraid?

R: Yes, of course.

T: I’m going to enter it.


Tom Smith

Нали знаете как имам няколко любими групи и през някакви интервали изпадам в делириум и слушам една от тях много активно? Editors са една от тях, а освен в музиката им, съм задочно влюбена и във вокалиста им поне от Х клас насам.


Tuesday is so unfavorable

I woke up and felt pretty good, so naturally, I was ready to cry by 11 AM, and I did. You may have forbidden worrying, yet have always encouraged crying, so that’s how I got away with it.

I don’t know how to say what I need to say anymore. I feel time’s passing. I’m getting older, which I no longer find irregular or sad. I do have a few questions about aging, though, and coming to terms with the fact that some things don’t resolve themselves with age.

I have a ridiculous stash of drafts, here and in my messages to myself on Facebook, and I have no idea when I’ll actually pluck up the courage and do something about them. Well, maybe not all of them could become poems or coherent texts even, but there are letters I’ve written I know I’ll probably never send, and I wonder if I’m going to regret it one day when I’m old.

I feel unproductive and uncomfortable. I bit my lip until it bled today, then spent an unhealthy amount of time looking at a photo of an intimate scene that felt very familiar because it is. Well, it used to be. Which brings me to another question about aging. One I’d rather not ask.

I wrote this, then I called my mom to revise all the things that I felt were wrong. It didn’t comfort me. Sometimes even moms can’t do the trick. Then I took what felt like a very long shower. I just stood there, water pouring, and watched the sunset through the window. Looking at it felt better than looking inwardly.

In the end, I’d only been in the shower for fifteen minutes. Guess things never last as long as you’d think.