“How can I be reasonable? To me our love was everything and you were my whole life. It is not very pleasant to realize that to you it was only an episode.”—W. Somerset Maugham, The Painted Veil (via helplesslyamazed)
I check your Facebook profile constantly, waiting to leave über-witty comments that only you’d get. I think of what you would say whenever I watch a new movie, or hear a new song, or buy something. It’s kinda gay, but its way beyond sexual stereotypes at this point.
That super subtle and elusive bit of Peruvian pan-flute in that obscure remix track? You are the only other person in the world that heard it besides me.
Drinking a cold beer is always much more enjoyable with you. And I enjoy drinking beers too much as it is. So that’s saying something.
That one line in that GQ interview which I quoted and you immediately understood? Things are getting unnatural.
Knowing how to respond exactly to my emotional torment, unknowingly. That’s why I keep you around, bitch
“Like many people, I tend to get frantic when I think I might be abandoned again. I do destructive things: I hold on too tightly to whoever is in my at the moment; or I offer them a means of escape over and over again until they think I’m pushing them away. I’m so terrified of being left, and my core belief in that eventuality is so strong. When I realize how precious someone is to me, I give them every out I can think of. They’re going to leave anyway, I reason, so I might as well feel the pain now instead of holding my breath waiting for it to strike in the future.
And all the time, I’m longing for them to stay with me, understand and forgive me, love me in the midst of my fear and despair. Only someone who has experienced abandonment can make sense of such senseless behavior. And I’m afraid of myself. I live on the lip of insanity, and there are times when I feel myself sliding into that dark maw. I’m terrified of what I might become and of how I might appear to the people I love. Would they recoil from me at the moment I need them the most?”—Elizabeth Kim, Ten Thousand Sorrows (pp. 214)