So Sad Today

s hard to compare the person you see once every three months with the person you see every day. It’s hard to compare the person you don’t really know with the person you’ve been with for eleven years. The rarer person starts to look better. You don’t see his flaws. He only shows you his best self.

Is there a part of me that knows how to feed herself enough, only what she loves and what nourishes her, and never feel shame or fear if she overindulges a little, because it tastes so good? Did that part of me never exist and must be manifested? Or did it always exist, as it does for the animals, but along the way got buried? How would I even begin to uncover it?

there a part of me that knows how to feed herself enough, only what she loves and what nourishes her, and never feel shame or fear if she overindulges a little, because it tastes so good? Did that part of me never exist and must be manifested? Or did it always exist, as it does for the animals, but along the way got buried? How would I even begin to uncover it?

I am a superficial woman of depth.

Does anyone really know who they are marrying? People change. We do not know if the person we commit to will be the same person in ten years. We do not know who he or she will become. Will you be the same person in ten years: in health, body, money, interests, mental health?

getting over the fantasy of a person (especially the fantasy of a fantasy person) is hard.

it is very easy to tell me you love me when it is over and you are thousands of miles away in a foreign country
I said: could you love me at your front door?
I said: i don’t think you could.
I didn’t think he could. And even if he said he could it wouldn’t mean he could. It wouldn’t mean I could. But of course I wanted him to say he could, whether or not either of us could.

With this drug-person, there was genuine love. I would say we were both in love but also got fucked up on each other. So I suffered a lot, in spite of the love, because you can’t make a drug-person not be a drug-person no matter how wonderful they are. What fed the drugginess was that distance, and other factors, assured we would never be able to really be together. Neither of us were really available. So we were in a constant state of longing—of almost touching—like Keats’s “Ode on a Grecian Urn” but with iPhones.

When I dreamt of him, the dreams were no longer full of lust and ache. Even in my dreams I knew that we weren’t right for each other.

It’s probably never really about the person you think you’re obsessed with. It’s about old pain.