Go running every night, smile at every person you meet, pick up that James Joyce novel you’ve been putting off, start writing again, join a support group to work out your issues, go back to get another degree, help old ladies cross the street, work on forgiving your parents, take Tai Chi to learn to let go, get involved at the local community center and/or take a cooking class. Push yourself to get out and be better; you can’t control who you meet, but you can control the person you are when you meet them.
When you scroll through your contacts and stop at their name and almost call but don’t, feeling suddenly, inexplicably, abandoned and confused.
That’s pain that never went completely away. Because I still think sometimes, “You should be here with me. I should be able to call you with this news or send you this funny YouTube video. You weren’t supposed to go away. You were supposed to survive it all.”
Dort bleiben sie eine Weile, dann tauchen sie wieder auf – oder auch nicht. Morgens steht der Kölner etwa in der Linie 1 oder 7 und sieht zu, wie ihn die Fahrradfahrer überholen.
It beats the crap out of that toxic blend of Barbie dolls and Disney princesses that mainstream society has determined are what she is supposed to like. My girl is no princess. She is the hero of the story. And no one better forget it.
She put all Ian's records away some years ago, and doesn't often listen to Joy Division these days. "Because Ian taught me that if you put a piece of music on you sit down and listen to it," she explains. "You don't get up and do the washing-up or anything. You listen to it. So that's what I tend to do. And I can't put Joy Division on and not listen to it the whole way through. And," she adds, gently, "you end up putting yourself in the past when you should be getting on with now."
I don’t care for Timberlake’s music, but I’m not quite sure how to make him go away. Is the new Myspace just a giant ad for Timberlake? I wonder, while starting to look for other content. Or maybe Justin is just the new Tom. Everyone’s first friend. Tom seemed so much happier, though. More carefree.
Es ist schon merkwürdig, dass Leute Kunst als etwas Lineares sehen: »Oh, das ist alte Kunst, das ist neue Kunst«. Warum wird unsere Musik als »retro« betrachtet, während andere Musik, die von vergangenen Zeiten inspiriert ist, als neu angesehen wird?
I want to forget everything you told me. I want to wash away how uncertain you made me. How scared I was of losing you. How I lost you anyway. I don’t want to know how your hands feel or what makes you smile. I don’t want to see you in photos, familiar like a dream I had once or a book I never finished. I don’t want to speak about you in snippets or think about how I behaved. Or know that I still think about it. Or know that you’re not just a lamp or a blade of grass, indistinguishable from the rest.
Are we allowed to miss someone whose presence we sensed in our very bones, someone every fiber of our body told us we should have reached out to but did not? Is there an acceptable way to phrase “a nostalgia for something that never quite happened,” or is that a sentiment which is relegated to the pathetic spectators of life?
The same thing exists with "be a man". No one wants to hear how hard you have it, your problems or your emotions. "Man up" echos everywhere, silently, implicitly. At first an innocent term of motivation, now an ironically desperate attempt to demonstrate masculinity. The term is so confused it is now used to claim opposing behaviors as manly. A real man doesn't cry - A real man cries. Can you imagine hearing someone say "A real woman drinks margaritas"?
Just because it didn’t come from your camera doesn’t make it less great. Plus, bands hate this. They haven’t spent all day in a tour bus to play for dozens of smartphones. They want to play for you! Find something better to do with your hands, like clap, wave, or wipe the tears from your eyes because of how amazing everything sounds.
Even in the dark, you are the constellations in the black sky, the campfire in the woods, the firefly against the glass of the mason jar.
We get it. People should stop taking pictures of their food. People should also stop talking about people who take pictures of their food. And for the record, if someone has made the dish they’re taking a photo of? Well frick yeah, I wanna see it. How are you supposed to know which of your friends can feed you in your time of need when you’re getting off on banning food porn, you goddamn photo Nazi? Seriously, though. If I ever need help in the kitchen, I know who to call and that’s all thanks to food photography. I’m in your corner, foodies. Now invite me over for lunch.