call them literary muses; emotional demons; ghosts of thoughts past. i keep writing the same versions of:
two people in a car, driving. unable to look at each other. the road stretched out in front of the dashboard window. the tension in the enclosed space of a moving vehicle.
two people reuniting over a shared kettle of tea or bottle of vintage. navigating their landmines; knowing this conversation is goodbye.
strangers on planes, trains, automobiles. as if you've known them your entire life.
the magnetic pull of a place on a person. runaways; homecomings.
nostalgia, filtered and colored by the years. the way we manipulate our own memories.
how you should have seen it coming. and why we never do.
when we love the things we don't know.
wanting something to be real for the first time. the confusion and despair when it's not.
i want too much, she said
aches. yearning. anticipation. how those words never feel enough.
timelines that say the same thing even if you picked a different one.
seasonality: oppressive summers, bitter winters. warm springs, cool autumns.
“who are you?"
"whoever you want me to be"
"do you ever feel like our whole lives have been planned out for us?"
ask me why i've spent my whole life trying to put it into words.
To reply you need to sign in.