I wanted that confession to soothe the child in me and bring me back to his heels again but instead he said, “I don’t think we should want to die for each other. We should want to live in the best way with each other in mind.”
but in actuality I was an emotionally unavailable 23 year old who had just gotten attractive and was unconsciously craving constant ego-boosts.
Yes, he took my number and messaged me on WhatsApp here and there, but he realized sooner than I did the shallowness of our international iPhone love affair. “You have to live the love to know the love,” he would say, musingly.
All of my concepts, patterns, webs, grids, plans, and fantasies that I wrote daily to-do lists to fulfill, to get closer to, to be consumed by, were just dragging me away from my pulse. All that my reality had consisted of was not in fact REAL LIFE at all, and there I was, wrapped up in it like a toxic gift to humanity.
The problem with living your life through ideas is that everything in your life becomes another idea.
Mid-20s, second puberty. Whatever grew on my back was not fairy wings. Not supple, not pink, not velvet. I was a compulsive, self-alienating girlish-thing except now I could order gin & tonics and buy cigarettes in Europe, turning delusional on the pickle juice of Snapchat and Instagram — other virtual realities which enticed me because they moved so fast
When I moved in with my boyfriend seven months ago, I was no longer the woman he only FaceTimed for one to five hours every night after work. I now had to account for my time, my absences were no longer mysterious and interest-piquing.
How could I explain to him how drawn to sleep and dreams I become when life feels too difficult (almost always)? Like social media, dreams are dopamine-producing (at least in theory, I don’t know the science
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