Tracks
I ain’t saying it’s right. But you’re saying a foot massage don’t mean nothing, and I’m saying it does. Now, look, I’ve given a million ladies a million foot massages, and they all meant something. We act like they don’t, but they do, and that’s what’s so fucking cool about them. There’s a sensuous thing going on where you don’t talk about it, but you know it, she knows it, fucking Marsellus knew it, and Antoine should have fucking better known better.
-Vincent Vega
Am I delusional? Maybe. But I’d rather live in a world of delusions than a world where there is no magic and things are just what they appear.
Mistakes are like bad loves, the more you learn from them, the more you wish they’d never happened.
Fate gives all of us three teachers, three friends, three enemies, and three great loves in our lives. But these twelve are always disguised, and we can never know which one is which until we’ve loved them, left them, or fought them.
Shantaram, Gregory David Roberts
(via modernday-romantic)
Apocalypse
In 18 days the world will dissolve itself into an oblivion and we are all just going to be particles floating
In the milky way, colliding into each other and making fireworks in the sky.
Promises
Promises tell the kind of story I don’t want to hear. They feign a permanence that doesn’t exist. Tell me a story that makes sense. No promises, no assurances. No stupid fairy tale ending. Tell it to me raw. Make me cringe when you get to the parts I don’t like and make sure you keep going. Tell me what happens after the happily ever after. Tell me what happens when promises are betrayed and hopes shimmer on the horizon like a taunting mirage but never materialize into anything real. Tell me what happens when doing the wrong thing fills you with heat and excitement so deep it’s like an orgasmic fireworks show explodes in your mind and burns away all the “shoulds” and “woulds” and “have to’s”. Tell me how at some point something inside of you snaps and gets helplessly lost as it flails away in the wild rapids of adrenaline that storm your brain and drown out all reason and logic. Inhibitions are swept away in the frothing foam of tearful every day drudgery. Repressions, assumptions, regret and guilt all sink to the bottom, destroyed by the very weight they wielded as a weapon. And then, after the pain washes over you, you are finally left bare. Free to scream as loud as you want. Free to run, jump and cry. Free to laugh. Free to get high on the strength of your own emotions. On the unadulterated honesty of your own senses. Free to feel the most intense pleasure you’ve ever felt. In that moment every touch and every word, every reverberation of the universe that can be perceived by your senses, is etched into the fibers of your memory like a Thai tattoo. Each sharp, exquisite moment is saturated with the dripping ink of your own gasping desire. Just as each new burst of pain leaves a bloody trail of tears, every drop reminding you to fully savor each grain of pleasure as it makes its way down the hourglass of time. That’s the kind of story that I want. That’s the kind of storyteller I’m looking for.
Magic
Am I delusional? Maybe. But I’d rather live in a world of delusions than a world where there is no magic and things are just what they appear.
