Rec | RUMINATING

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Something like: I’ll die if I never learn how many girls your mother knew about after the first date, and am I still the only gringa in her mind, and did it feel like something out of another life for you too, or was that just me, and do you ever think about the last bench we sat on, do you think anything about anything at all, and are you even still in this country, and how could Raisinets possibly be someone's favorite candy, and how do I make the good dreams stop, and are you happy, or were you ever, or would I have made you if you just let me, and how do I fill in the blanks for myself, how can I give up caring so deeply, and why should i, for that matter, when these are the only things I care so deeply about, and if I write well enough, would it make you regret it, and if yes, how could I get you to read the words, and how many were there, and what was the moment, and do all the questions cling to you too, or did even one, even just for a minute, and is it wasted time waiting, would I have had you if I had the means, or smarter parents, or one less percentage of body fat, or if I had waited, if I had just waited, and has anyone since made you finish faster, and did they do what you wanted because it’s what they wanted too, or only because you asked, and will I ever listen to Ravel without wanting to cry, or read the word purpose without wondering if you ever managed to figure it out, or look at a mollusk again without thinking of you as a child, small enough to hold, in miniature trousers and wire-rimmed glasses — the only version of you I can ever imagine — lying sunlit on a lily pad inside a castle made of glass, and one day, one day will I learn to stop asking questions that no one, no one who will ever read them, could possibly understand? And how would it feel to have all the answers? I swear I’ll die if I never know ... Anyways y'all should try it.

@caseyy

Mar 24, 2024

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on numbness

you know what i find really interesting? that i’ve never not started a big little post like this without the words “you know what i find really interesting”? anyone who has ever met me has been a victim of this same quote, with no fault of their own, i am but a broken record “the entirety of your life is either waiting for the really good things or the really bad things” (my father) you know what i find really interesting? numbness. not it’s presence , not its absence, rather the fact it exists at all. i am moved by the fact i can be moved i often wonder if i have felt the entirety of emotions possible my disposal have i ever really been in love? can i look upon you with tears in your eyes and say, definitively, i know how you feel? is your happiness mine? do you understand my desires as i understand yours? i am but words on a screen and pixels that stand before you in their own right, words that are not contingent on your comprehension yet secretly hope and pray they do not fall on deaf ears. i do not need your validation, but i want it. tell me i am beautiful, or smart, or that the funny words i use are any different than another teenage girls, tell me you know too what it is like to be numb, and sad, and happy, and hungry. why do we write? why do we express? to remind you that i too am human, grappling with my own mortality every day? am i writing for you?

@22

Feb 11, 2025

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Loneliness is better!

Loneliness prevails! I would much rather live purely in solitude for ever and ever than waste another precious second in the presence of someone who has little skin in the game of knowing me or seeing me. Hearing me! I wonder why you keep me around if all your hearts desire is to hear the sound of your own voice. It makes no difference if it’s me or anyone for that matter. For all you know or even care I am merely an ottoman for you to rest your feet on, or a coffee table meant simply to pedestal your various notebook scrawlings and half-read books. I am a file cabinet. I have it here, dated, what you Thought and what you felt about work, or about your friends. ask me, I have it all. And I loved it. I loved knowing you. I wanted to. I investigated and interrogated. I poured over it all with great curiosity, praying for all my red threads to weave a tapestry of you. but I can’t remember the last time you asked me something about myself. When the opportunity arises, and god forbid, I Take it, you can barely hold your breath. Its like a shark sensing blood. You just can’t wait to talk talk talk talk talk. But hey, it’s your life, and baby, I’m just living in it.

@mommyslilstinker

Dec 10, 2024

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~on waiting~

--from my latest substack post-- ordering coffee, again. i’ll grab this one. of course; it’s no problem. oat? soy? neither? okay, no milk, right. it’s a thursday, you don’t put milk in your coffee on thursdays, i remember. you told me that last autumn for the first time. at the shop on the corner of streets running north and south and east and west the location as ambiguous as you were to me. i held onto your words like candlelight, which is to mean, i felt myself grasping at the wick of your thoughts as they released. hold onto it slowly, i did, each tendril of smoke had meaning, for you have never said things that did not matter. i’ve always held the space to gather up all your meaning, to keep attempting to collect the strands of everything that encapsulates you. the long strings of yarn strung together in loose cadence; but i can keep the rhythm, and i can keep the pace, and i can hold the room for all of it, i’ll hold the threads in my palm and i’ll grasp it with certainty. because it is without effort, there is no weight, or burden, or distraught, to be the one to hold that which you carry; it is not beyond my strength to hold all of you. for to love was to bear it all, or at least that’s what i read, but isn’t that how it feels? to be seen, to be understood, is to recognize that any quirk fear inability lack thereof is not a withholding nor weakness nor failing it is the space between us the location in the strings where we meet in the middle the threaded spiderweb of life has bound us this way no, not doomed; no, not ill-fated. for you are the red string connected to my wrist the one that has lead me to you the universal pull to unravel the thread so that i may reach you even though you exist outside of my grasp as i see it now all i ever needed was your hand pressed against mine i want to feel myself expanding and compressing underneath the weight of your eyes soft winding and slow crackling do we fall deeper the string twisting and tying and threading and then loosening unraveling the yarn crocheted and knitted do we find ourself loose ends and damaged strands have we come together to make whole the both of us i’ll order the same coffee every thursday i’ll walk you home from the station i’ll make the pasta that way you like it and i’ll keep writing these letters so that one day you’ll read them i’ll press them with the flowers of your tomorrow scented with the bloom of longing sealed with the certainty of promise the promise that i’ll keep collecting and saving the things you’d like the letters the movies the albums the trinkets the odds the ends the things yet to be discovered and the things you’ll have to show me i’m just a scrapbook of all the things i’ve loved before a capsule of intricacy i’ll keep the light on outside i’ll wait on the porch i’ll keep the fire warm i’ll know when you’re here and you’ll know it’s me for the strings will connect, the yarn unraveled, the lines no longer crossing but joining. and if it’s a thursday, a plain coffee, no milk just so there isn’t any lack of a sign. #poetry #letters #substack