She Said, He Said

She said, she cannot love. Not again. Not after the last time she did became the worst disaster she ever had in her life, so far.

He said, it does not matter. He had all the love in the world to share, more than enough for both of them.

She said, it was tiring. It was highly improbable to succeed. It was an unnecessary wait.

He said, what if the wait will be the best thing ever happen to both of them?

What if, the result is their happily ever after?

Tiny Beautiful Things – Cheryl Strayed

This is taken from Cheryl Strayed's Tiny Beautiful Things last chapter (or letter?) with the same title. I really really like the answer she gave to the question, and considering I'm a twentysomething, this is super relevant. I also think that it's still relevant for other age group; age is just a number after all.

What would you tell your twentysomething self if you could talk to her now?

Stop worrying about whether you’re fat. You’re not fat. Or rather, you’re sometimes a little bit fat, but who gives a shit? There is nothing more boring and fruitless than a woman lamenting the fact that her stomach is round. Feed yourself. Literally. The sort of people worthy of your love will love you more for this, sweet pea.

In the middle of the night in the middle of your twenties when your best woman friend crawls naked into your bed, straddles you, and says, You should run away from me before I devour you, believe her.

You are not a terrible person for wanting to break up with someone you love. You don’t need a reason to leave. Wanting to leave is enough. Leaving doesn’t mean you’re incapable of real love or that you’ll never love anyone else again. It doesn’t mean you’re morally bankrupt or psychologically demented or a nymphomaniac. It means you wish to change the terms of one particular relationship. That’s all. Be brave enough to break your own heart.

When that really sweet but fucked-up gay couple invites you over to their cool apartment to do Ecstasy with them, say no.

There are some things you can’t understand yet. Your life will be a great and continuous unfolding. It’s good you’ve worked hard to resolve childhood issues while in your twenties, but understand that what you resolve will need to be resolved again. And again. You will come to know things that can only be known with the wisdom of age and the grace of years. Most of those things will have to do with forgiveness.

One evening you will be rolling around on the wooden floor of your apartment with a man who will tell you he doesn’t have a condom. You will smile in this spunky way that you think is hot and tell him to fuck you anyway. This will be a mistake for which you alone will pay.

Don’t lament so much about how your career is going to turn out. You don’t have a career. You have a life. Do the work. Keep the faith. Be true blue. You are a writer because you write. Keep writing and quit your bitching. Your book has a birthday. You don’t know what it is yet.

You cannot convince people to love you. This is an absolute rule. No one will ever give you love because you want him or her to give it. Real love moves freely in both directions. Don’t waste your time on anything else.

Most things will be okay eventually, but not everything will be. Sometimes you’ll put up a good fight and lose. Sometimes you’ll hold on really hard and realize that there is no choice but to let go. Acceptance is a small, quiet room.

One hot afternoon during the era in which you’ve gotten yourself ridiculously tangled up with heroin, you will be riding the bus and thinking what a worthless piece of crap you are when a little girl will get on the bus holding the strings of two purple balloons. She’ll offer you one of the balloons, but you won’t take it because you believe you no longer have a right to such tiny beautiful things. You’re wrong. You do.

Your assumptions about the lives of others are in direct relation to your naïve pomposity. Many people you believe to be rich are not rich. Many people you think have it easy worked hard for what they got. Many people who seem to be gliding right along have suffered and are suffering. Many people who appear to you to be old and stupidly saddled down with kids and cars and houses were once every bit as hip and pompous as you.

When you meet a man in the doorway of a Mexican restaurant who later kisses you while explaining that this kiss doesn’t “mean anything” because, much as he likes you, he is not interested in having a relationship with you or anyone right now, just laugh and kiss him back. Your daughter will have his sense of humor. Your son will have his eyes.

The useless days will add up to something. The shitty waitressing jobs. The hours writing in your journal. The long meandering walks. The hours reading poetry and story collections and novels and dead people’s diaries and wondering about sex and God and whether you should shave under your arms or not. These things are your becoming.

One Christmas at the very beginning of your twenties when your mother gives you a warm coat that she saved for months to buy, don’t look at her sceptically after she tells you she thought the coat was perfect for you. Don’t hold it up and say it’s longer than you like your coats to be and too puffy and possible even too warm. Your mother will be dead by spring. That coat will be the last gift she gave you. You will regret the small thing you didn’t say for the rest of your life.

Say thank you.

Home

What is worse

Not knowing where home is

Or knowing where it is but cannot go back?

Secret

She is the kind of girl who like to work behind the screen.

She is the kind of girl who does everything discreetly.

Well.

Should I say, most everything?

----

"I can't do this anymore, you know," she says after my explanation.

"But you shy away from much compliment, from acknowledgement. You like to keep secret. You like to be secret," I replies rightaway.

She smiles to me before replying. The way her hazel eyes twinkles, it makes me feel special just by being looked at.

"You know what? When you have something so special, so precious that you are endlessly grateful for, you should really want everyone in the whole wide world to see. That's what I feel about you."

Wicked

"Because, I was trying to save you... from me."

"I know it's such an arrogant word to say, to save someone. I can barely save myself. But really, I just want you to be happy. And I know you won't get it from me."

"I'm wicked. I know the right things to say, or do. And I tend to exploit it. I know how to make people feel special. I know how to make things happen like fate. I know how to manipulate things to make it so. Sometimes I even manipulate people."


"Really. I'm not a saviour, not a guardian angel. I'm wicked. You're much better off without me."

Dark side of the Moon

She's your dark side of the moon, isn't she?
Invisible during your time of glory
Hidden by the glorious showering light

She's your dark side of the moon, isn't she?
When the dark time comes, you'd realize that she's there
Outlined by the tiny ray of light that's left

She's your dark side of the moon, isn't she?
She's there
She's always there
But you don't always see her

In the End

She smiled in a way that no one else can do.

"To be honest, really, I know I'm such a pain in the ass. I know I annoyed you so much that you keep wondering whether this," she smirked and waved her hand airily to the space between us, "is a good idea. Hell, I also wonder about that too. Do you really think I am hopelessly in love with you? Don't you ever think that you also annoy me? A lot, if I may add."

I stared at her. Her bluntness never fails to shock me.

"But the thing is," her smirk faded a bit, "I know that I will always stay for you. No matter how much you annoy me, no matter how much you hurt me."

I still stared at her, words were lost for me.

"The thing is, I will always wait for you, no matter how bad the circumstances. No matter how bad we've fallen apart. No matter how many other choices you have."

I tried to answer, but she grabbed my hand and smiled earnestly.

"And really, if in the end you don't want to choose me, it's okay. It really is alright not to choose me," she let go of my hand and pecked my cheek before stood up, "but don't leave me hanging. It hurts."

With that, she went.