“It was a cold fall day with fire in the room and her cheeks flushed. Now and then she moved and he changed his arm a little and once he kissed her dark shining hair. The afternoon had made them tranquil for a while as if to give them a deep memory for the long parting the next day promised. They had never been closer in their month of love nor communicated more profoundly one with another than when she brushed silent lips against his coat’s shoulder or when he touched the end of her fingers, gently, as though she were asleep.”—The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald
“Carnal apple, Woman filled, burning moon,
dark smell of seaweed, crush of mud and light,
what secret knowledge is clasped between your pillars?
What primal night does Man touch with his senses?
Ay, Love is a journey through waters and stars,
through suffocating air, sharp tempests of grain:
Love is a war of lightning,
and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness.
Kiss by kiss I cover your tiny infinity,
your margins, your rivers, your diminutive villages,
and a genital fire, transformed by delight,
slips through the narrow channels of blood
to precipitate a nocturnal carnation,
to be, and be nothing but light in the dark.”—Pablo Neruda
“You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book… or you take a trip… and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernating are easily detectable: first, restlessness. The second symptom (when hibernating becomes dangerous and might degenerate into death): absence of pleasure. That is all. It appears like an innocuous illness. Monotony, boredom, death. Millions live like this (or die like this) without knowing it. They work in offices. They drive a car. They picnic with their families. They raise children. And then some shock treatment takes place, a person, a book, a song, and it awakens them and saves them from death. Some never awaken.”—
Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 1: 1931-1934
Our breakup wasn’t just any breakup. It was especially painful and horrible because we wholeheartedly believed we were IT for each other and the realization that we weren’t snapped us in half like a film cut, but it’s okay now. We had our run, it was good (for the most part) and now we’re going our own separate ways. You found someone else and I’m happy for you. But I’m still not ready to see you, because I know it’s going to be hard.
It’s going to be hard because I don’t remember you not with me. I don’t know who you are outside of me. You’ve only ever been mine, kissing my fingers and putting your lips next to my ear. Watching you do these things to someone else will feel like a weird replay of my own past, only with someone else cast as me and I’ll just be watching it, confused and displaced and feeling too big for my chair.
It’s going to be hard because even though I don’t miss you, I still kind of do. But I don’t know why, I’ve checked with myself and I don’t want you back. I don’t miss your weird neuroses, your stubbornness or your chain smoking. I hated the fact that you refused to quit smoking on purpose, but it doesn’t matter now because I’m not the one who’s going to be single when you die. I bet you still don’t think you’ll get cancer. I miss your weird convictions, how you used to think you were invincible.
It’s going to be hard because it’s been so long — we’ll be like semblances of our former selves trying to embody them unsuccessfully. We’ll try to put each other at ease but it will be like drawing a thicker Sharpie line over the thin line you messed up which will result in a nebulous black blob. We’ll get drunk like we used to but not because we want to, it’s just what we remember. You’ll tell me some vague outline of your life and I’ll nod like I understand what you do at your job, but I won’t. I won’t understand a lot of things.
It’s going to be hard because no matter how great she is, I won’t be able to fake liking her. No, I’ll probably drink too much and say something mean, or drink too much and get lost inside my head. I’ll wonder what makes her so great, why you suddenly decided to call her “baby” and make me sleep on the couch. I’ll think she doesn’t know you like I do but the fact is I don’t even know you and I haven’t for awhile, though obviously I’ll ignore this fact.
I’m going to sit across the table and watch you weave your fingers into hers, chew the same crust of bread for five minutes and sip my cocktail and try to smile. I’m going to think you can’t tell her “I love you” and mean it because you’ve said it to me so many times and meant it and now you don’t so you’ve already used up that phrase, get a new phrase or keep your mouth shut. This will make me feel unhinged and I’ll find an excuse to send myself home early.
You love me differently just like I love you differently and people change and move on and blah blah, but why is this sort of distant love the hardest thing to handle? How do people handle this? Do they?
“The blind man and the blind woman were now resting, apart, the one lying beside the other, but they were still holding hands, they were young, perhaps even lovers who had gone to the cinema and turned blind there, or perhaps some miraculous coincidence brought them together in this place, and, this being the case, how did they recognise each other, good heavens, by their voices, of course, it is not only the voice of blood that needs no eyes, love, which people say is blind, also has a voice of its own.”—José Saramago | Blindness (via blogut)
“I disregard the proportions, the measures, the tempo of the ordinary world. I refuse to live in the ordinary world as ordinary women. To enter ordinary relationships. I want ecstasy. I am a neurotic — in the sense that I live in my world. I will not adjust myself to the world. I am adjusted to myself.”
— Anais Nin