- Jonathan Safran Foer (via coldmatter)
- Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, by Jonathan Safran Foer (via thoughtofeverything)
"But i’m crazy about you." He said. "I dont want you to. I want you to be sane because being crazy meant destruction an i dont want to do that you. I want to help you grow and live and learn, not shelled up in white walls. I want you to not talk to yourself but to me, because I want to know what you’re thinking, if you ever think of me or which pizza topping you want to have. I dont want you crazy for me. I want you to stay sane for me." I said.
Love, I figured, does not have to be complicated. It doesn’t need to be the first or the only. Not even romantic rendezvous of a fairytale or a comedic make-believe. Nor a Shakespearean-like screenplay. It doesn’t have to be all sorts of other stuffs. It only has to be real.
we all just want one thing here, to be accepted. But each person does not accept anything. You just got to find that one person who will.
”Getting scared again?” he whispered under his breath. ”I’m not scared of you hurting me.” she hissed. ”I’m scared that when I bottle myself up too much, keeping every cent of emotion within, I would only hurt myself instead. And to be my own enemy, I do not think I could handle hating that one person who only truly loved me, all the deepest parts of me.”
I treasure the nights where I never have to think of tomorrow. Tomorrow is such a horrendous word. Expectations and commitments. All too blurry. I just want to live in the moment between sober and drunk, where things are surreal and fragile.
Nights were meant for moments to never come back to again.
I guess why I never write as much now is because when I do, it’s all about you. You’re the first one to come up to my mind when I stare at a blank sheet of paper. You’re the first word I choose every single time. You’re the root I go back to each day, hoping to cultivate something out of. You’re the spark I light a candle with. But I do not want that. The thought rages between my lungs that while I write about you, your inhabitants will be imprinted in my words and you can never die. I cant do that, not when in exchange of all that, I die with you and in secret.
Tell me lies, sweet lies, and I’ll believe them.
When the moon builds up on my front porch, I sit up and think of the nights when your hands were running between the calves of my shoulders then down my spine. You touched the deepest parts of my skin and inhaled sweet nectar within. I remember staying confused on how you do that. But every single time, it just gets me. You know me from limb to limb. You examined me from every molecule that’s part of me. But I have never returned the favor. I never knew you. Because you won’t let me. You were too scared. Too covered up, thinking that maybe if I got close enough, I’d have the power to break you from within. But I’ll never do that. I can’t do that. Not to one person who has chosen to understand the parts where even I couldn’t.
I wanna love you. Please let me.
Love. It’s not because I’m terrified. It’s because maybe I forgot what it’s like and I’m too tired to figure it all out. I know the little parts of it. The black and whites. But I’m not eager to paint the greys and hues. It’s all too hassle for me. I don’t want it. I just like the idea of it.