creativity Intimacy Loneliness Poetry Random Ponderings relationships

life is a slow way to die.

I have a list of body parts that don’t work anymore; I’ll keep adding to it until none of them do.

Claudia_25

I have a list of body parts that don’t work anymore and I’ll keep adding to it until none of them do.

I’ve begun to die.

Somewhere around your mid-20’s, more cells begin dying than being made in your body and I’ve felt this pain for several months now. Maybe I felt it years before but denied it;

the best is yet to come! I’m only getting stronger!

You keep telling yourself this until you can’t.

Like the demagogue in the highest seat of the world, we tell ourselves what we want to hear, regardless of whether it’s true or not. In my head I’m young and spry but in my body I’m aging and tired.

We don’t see things as they are; we see them as we are.

I won’t be able to love again until I get over my Central American novia and God knows when that’ll happen. Sometimes it seems easier to force yourself outside of existence than to force yourself out of love. Either way, I better hop on that train before all my cars leave the station for good and I’m old, dead, or worse: bald.

I’m tired of telling my story anew to every girl I meet, painting the events of my life in the most attractive way possible: Impressive enough to be impressive; not douchey enough to be a douche. I mean, how many more people need to know “I was born here in CO — yes, I’m a native but never skied or snowboarded — grew up on Cape Cod, went to this college, then this one; I lived everywhere else and now I’m back…”

Being known would be nice. I’d like to have someone else know my story, pick it up and run with it; participating in it as if it’s their own.

The apostle Paul said that the body of the husband belongs to his wife, and vice-versa, but it’s not only physical things you exchange: your story now belongs to her. Her past is now in your care. Your stories, like your old baggy bodies, eventually become intertwined until both rest together beneath a stone with a date on it. All that’s left of you is a name and a date, so the story you told with those two tools had better be pretty freaking good.

The other night Tim told me that true romance is continuously becoming more unselfish and for that reason, I want nothing to do with romance, except that I want everything to do with it.

So there’s that.

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