today i got an email on what is apparently my 4th year tumblr anniversary which is sad and strange simultaneously (honestly, I thought it’d been like six years because it’s felt that long, so it’s also kind of a relief in some ways). four years ago i was sixteen and grounded for the entire summer and i thought my life was over or at least, at least close to being over. today i’m twenty and packing for my 1st music festival of the summer and i don’t know, cue fun.’s least i’m not as sad as i used to be, i guess.
“Some time later there was a song on all the jukeboxes on the Upper East Side that went “but where is the schoolgirl who used to be me,” and if it was late enough at night I used to wonder that. I know now that almost everyone wonders something like that, sooner or later and no matter what he or she is doing, but one of the mixed blessings of being twenty and twenty-one and even twenty-three is the conviction that nothing like this, all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding, has ever happened to anyone before.”
— Goodbye to All That, Joan Didion
do i read do i watch elementary do i write do i go to college do i give up on life
Anonymous asked: I want you to know that I really appreciate your writing, because it doesn't make me feel as alone. I hope you're happy wherever you are.
this is so nice and i appreciate it so much, especially since i haven’t been posting often. thank you so much ♥
“It was a wonderful meal at Michaud’s after we got in; but when we had finished and there was no question of hunger any more the feeling that had been like hunger when we were on the bridge was still there when we caught the bus home. It was there when we came in the room and after we had gone to bed and made love in the dark, it was there. When I woke with the windows open and the moonlight on the roofs of the tall houses, it was there.”
— A Moveable Feast, Ernest Hemingway
A IS FOR APRIL AND ANXIETY
The morning after your friend texts to tell you, “I was a little off,” and I swallow it head back and unflinchingly like the fool’s gold, honeysuckle whiskey he served us. At the moment I’m chewing fossil fragile nails because I googled “How to deal with anxiety,” and came up empty. I trust so much in the weight of words that I believe I could wreck my life by saying the wrong ones, or not saying any at all, and I’ve been doing so much of both lately. Yesterday I needed to be anyone but me, so I wrote about being eighteen again and that night on the parking deck, how the moon was supposed to be a super one, but it wasn’t even a hue brighter, was smaller and without a cape, and how we didn’t even mind, how I didn’t need saving anyway, was bright enough as I was. That feeling feels so far away from me now, like how I imagine the moon could never in a million years even dream of being a twenty year old that trips over words and doesn’t know what she feels or what she wants half of the time. That’s what this yearlong storm has done to me, the job that April’s managed to finish – power lines connecting my brain to my heart to my fingertips all shredded mercilessly without a last message going through. Tell your friend that on good days I feel like a flickering Eiffel Tower, and on bad ones a Times Square blackout. Tell him I’ve burned through more candles than I can count, and that “a little off,” is a compliment, and an understatement.
