Words, words, words

#10: I am filled with broken promises.

And after a while, they don’t hurt as much.

Sometimes, I wonder what kind of life I’m setting up for myself–a world where the minutia feels like vapor; where ‘this and that’ don’t sting, but they should.

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We need glitter bombs and shaking hips

#5: I swear on this, no matter how extensive my current musical elitism:

I saw ‘NSYNC in concert when I was 15, and when the lighting went crazy, when the girlish pubescence swelled into a frenzy, when JC Chasez (the specter of my wet dreams) threw a janky sweat-laden towel in my direction, I swear this on my tiny African mother: I peaked. My heart felt it. My body buzzed with approval.

For a few seconds, I had a lived a full life.

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And later, if a person is wrong about that pure feeling, especially after witnessing the scope of a messy, unpredictable human existence, I wouldn’t sweat too much. We should first instinct. We shouldn’t diminish the past in the presence of knowledge or foresight.

One should feel so sure about a moment at least once.

Un peu grande vérité

#2: I miss you, too.

You close your eyes when you laugh.

In those brief sweet moments, you lean and hunch your shoulders; your arms cross. Your body is so beautifully overwhelmed with life, that it becomes concave. As if its natural response is to contain the expulsion. But why?

A laugh from you is joyful disintegration.

“And now for something completely different.”

My year of radical (selective?) honesty.

365 days.

365 posts.

365 anythings.

Somethings.

Why?

Because I believe in my making myself uncomfortable for the greater good. I don’t stand for much, at least not in the traditional sense that always seems to taste like integrity or some kind of fuck. But I do think finding catharsis in withholding has left me with pieces instead of fortification. And I’d like to think of myself as whole. Or at least weightless.

And sometimes, you do shit… just to do shit. But wouldn’t it be great if you turned out to be all right in the end? Better, even? That the shit led to a sum of all your pieces?

(I think I’m funny.)

Maybe we should think in dreams instead of resolutions. They’re both constructs, but I like how the former has bit of panache. Empire waists and sequins. I close my eyes and they’re still dancing. It is how I know that they are important.

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