“That’s a popular notion—that it is exclusively suffering that produces good work or insightful work. I don’t think that’s the case. I think in a certain sense it’s a trigger or a leaver…but I think that good work is produced in spite of suffering and as a response—as a victory over suffering.”—Leonard Cohen (via nightmarebrunette)
To first kisses on couches, arms around shoulders and a neck craning to reach your mouth when we least expect it. To first kisses in doorways, bent over to reach me. To kissing against walls, made of brick or cement or whatever most walls are made of. To that looking past your shoulder feeling and shuffling your feet, needing to kiss.
To the not kissing, to hugs that say too much. To saying goodbye to an old boyfriend and telling him he smells good as he walks away when what you mean is, I remember.
To the first time you get naked; to saying, How did this happen? as he kneels over you, looking, undoing his belt.
In praise of laughing loudly with someone and realizing you could love them. To lying in bed with your phone rested on your cheek, sighing. To the complicated moments that come with unhooking a bra.
To doing it in the bathroom ill-advisedly and to coming too quickly and knowing when to open the door and say your goodbyes.
To that braver person who says it first. To saying yes and jumping into a cab without thinking. To that visceral “OW” when he bites your nipple and the laugh that comes after. To saying sorry so sweetly, for the first time. To melting from the power of words that are whispered in the dark. To, “I’ve missed you, where have you been?” from perfect strangers. To “can I keep you’s” that you don’t mean the next day but you mean in bed.
To high-fiving roommates on your way out in the morning. To running naked to the bathroom to pee and staring at your smudged eyeliner in the mirror and not recognizing yourself.
To peering over your right shoulder when your left cheek is slammed into the mattress. To hitting your head on the wall behind your bed and to the pillow he grabs and puts behind your head. To all of the things that are either selfish or sweet and to the not needing to know just yet.
To sweet songs sung sincerely. To that happy feeling in your stomach. To all caps and to checking your email in the middle of the night, waiting for a sign.
To necks and ears and to sucking on fingers and curling into each other and out of each other and back in again. To legs wrapped around bodies and slowly, gingerly, stretched up to your ears and over shoulders. To staring a stranger in the face and then closing your eyes. To thinking about it the next day and imagining his mouth all over you and wondering if you will ever get it that good again.
To getting it that good again. To the first person who taught you to yell out. The first person who put you on all fours. The first person who told you a story as you fell asleep. The first dick you ever touched and the first pussy. To rolling around and laughing and asking why you are laughing and wondering who will stick their hands down a pair of pants first.
To deliberate text messages and to indeliberate ones. To calculated losses and unforeseen experience. To sitting next to someone and smiling and realizing that you like them. To rooms shrinking and expanding and clothes strewn around the room. To putting a ponytail holder in her hair while she sucks her boyfriends cock. To the worried way he says, “I don’t know where to come,” and to not laughing but saying, Shut up.
To towels and to t-shirts and to the box of kleenex you finally learned how to buy. To tripping over condoms thrown onto the floor of your bedroom. To blushing and to squealing and to laughing and to words that both seduce you and abandon you in the very same night.
“Because if smart women who know how smart they are intimidate men (and they do), and beautiful women who know how beautiful they are intimidate men (and they do), there is, logically, nothing more intimidating than a woman who is fully aware that she is both smart and beautiful. I mean, maybe a room full of tigers with machine guns! That could be scarier! Or, a smart and beautiful lady who makes jokes.”—Tiger Beatdown: 13 Ways of Looking at Liz Lemon (required reading) (via syntheticpubes)
Today I wish I was in Paris. I want to walk out the door of the little apartment in the 20th arrondissement and hear the clicking of the tricky lock which seemed to sound the start of so many adventures. I want the feeling that I had when I was sliding my hand along the railing that spiraled downwards with the winding steps, moving so quickly that it almost made me dizzy when I looked over the edge to the floor below. No matter how composed I was, I always felt like I was exploding out onto the street from the dark little hallway because of the excitement I had at exploring the city, getting lost and then finding myself again.
Today I want to get off the Metro at Hôtel de Ville and cross to the Île de la Cité from the far side, make my way through the square in Front of Notre Dame and look up at the images of saints as I make my to the bridge and cross over to the left bank.
Today I want to go to Shakespeare and Company and browse through the books, have that thrill of knowing that I won’t have the time to make it through every one of them that I want to read and make myself choose just one, which I’ll probably finish at least half of while eating lunch.
“The individual has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe. If you try it, you will be lonely often, and sometimes frightened. But no price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself.”—Friedrich Nietzsche | Submitted by naunet (via quote-book) (via princesspolysemy)
“A book is the only place in which you can examine a fragile thought without breaking it, or explore an explosive idea without fear it will go off in your face. It is one of the few havens remaining where a man’s mind can get both provocation and privacy.”—Edward P. Morgan (via distantheartbeats) (via booklover)
“Without war, people grow torpid in riches and comfort, and lose the power of thinking and feeling nobly; they get brutal, and fall back into barbarism. I am not speaking of individuals, but of whole races. Without pain, one does not comprehend joy. Ideals are purified by suffering, as gold is by fire.”—Dostoevsky on a letter to his niece, 1870 (via dostoyevsky) (via booklover)