Oh my God, what if you wake up some day, and you’re 65, or 75, and you never got your memoir or novel written; or you didn’t go swimming in warm pools and oceans all those years because your thighs were jiggly and you had a nice big comfortable tummy; or you were just so strung out on perfectionism and people-pleasing that you forgot to have a big juicy creative life, of imagination and radical silliness and staring off into space like when you were a kid? It’s going to break your heart. Don’t let this happen.
but the “okay, i understand” because you didn’t understand you were just done trying. and that’s when i knew i should be done too.
i saw those pictures and i knew i would dream of you even though i didn’t want to. i dreamt that things were as they are now, with us pretending we never were what we were. an awkward hug while everyone’s watching instead of a kiss when we were alone and when we liked each other with a like that could’ve been love.