There's A Certain Ache I Feel Whenever I Hear People Calling Me Nicknames I Don't Use Anymore, It's Like

when kafka said "all the love in the world is useless when there is total lack of understanding" and when richard siken said “if you love me, you don’t love me in a way I understand.”

the fact that i'm no longer the same age as the protagonists of novels and films i once connected to is so heartbreaking. there was a time when I looked forward to turning their age. i did. and i also outgrew them. i continue to age, but they don't; never will. the immortality of fiction is beautiful, but cruel.

i’d say the best thing i have learned this year is to just let people be who they naturally are. no psychoanalyzing them, no overthinking my actions, no asking what i could possibly do to keep their presence in my life. i just bring my best self to the table and always move from a place of love and respect. how that person responds is ultimately up to them. if that causes them to exit my life, i just let it happen. i will never be in the business of changing people. people are only ever ready to change when they’ve made the conscious decision to. all i can do is check myself and be kind always.

Evelyn Waugh, from Brideshead Revisited (1945)

every day i discover more things about myself, like maybe i don't like being in a corporate job after working on thousand of pages of accomplishment report, or maybe it's because this is unpaid labor and i'm just money obsessed idk myself honestly

a work in progress (tathev simonyan)

fatima aamer bilal, excerpt from moony moonless sky’s ‘i am an observer, but not by choice.’

[text id: my fist has always been clenched around the handle of an invisible suitcase. / i am always ready to leave. / there is not a single room in this world where i belong.]

That C.S. Lewis quote about being "old enough for fairy tales again" is really popular in this section of tumblr, but I think I've hit an opposite stage where I'm old enough for realism again. As a teenager in English class, realism seemed like the boring, baseline option that limited your imagination to only the dullest parts of daily life. If I wanted real life, I'd just live it! Stories should give us something bigger and brighter and more exciting!

But as I get older, I'm starting to understand that realism isn't about limiting yourself to the real world, it's about appreciating it. It's about noticing and caring about those tiny details in life. It's about looking at the seemingly ordinary and unexciting people and saying that their stories are worth telling, too. There's a beauty in gazing upon this world in delicate detail and drawing out those fine shades of nuance that you don't notice in the bustle of actually living life. Realism lets you slow down and recognize that our world has wonders, too, and they don't all have to be big and flashy to be worth our attention.

Younger me also got the impression that realism was depressing--we don't get happy endings because they're not realistic. And it's true that realism has a greater share of sad endings, but that can be a comfort. As you grow up, you have more and more experiences tell you that the happiness of life is buried in a lot of murkier emotions--a lot of turmoil and uncertainty and bad decisions--and realism says that's okay. The story's worth telling even if it doesn't end well, even if people don't rise above their baser natures, even if things are a bit dull. Realism can be happier, in some ways, than those bigger, brighter genre stories, because it acknowledges those murkier imperfections of life and says that they don't erase happiness or make someone's story not worth telling.

Lewis' quote is great, but it's not the whole story. Like Chesterton says, children are fascinated by fairy tales, but the youngest children are fascinated by reality--"A child of seven is excited to hear that Tommy opened a door and found a dragon, while a child of three is excited to hear that Tommy opened a door." Fantasy is a fantastic escape, but like all travel, the point of it is to make us see our own world more clearly when we return home. And that's where realism comes in. Those types of stories aren't about casting off childish fancy and focusing on the grim details of adulthood--they can be about regaining an even more innocent and child-like wonder.

Jack Gilbert, from Collected Poems; "Waking at Night"