We all say we want our kids to be happy, only happy, and healthy, but we don't want that. We want them to be like we are, or better than we are. We as humans are very unimaginative in that sense. We aren't equipped for the possibility that they might be worse. But I guess that would be asking too much. It must be an evolutionary stopgap - if we were all so specifically, vividly aware of what might go horribly wrong, none of us would have children at all.
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ON URBAN LONELINESS
aron wiesenfeld, study for night reading || gueorgui pinkhassov || haruki murakami || anne bentley || mitski, nobody || charles bukowski ||virginia woolf, the waves || a little life, hanya yanagihara|| holly warburton, you're my person ||
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some things we should start romanticising
bike rides, especially when listening to music. the wind in your hair, the songs in your ears, every sound being quiet and living in your own bubble of lyrics. (edit: in some countries this is illegal and it can be dangerous - i had not thought of that and i apologise)
sitting in a bus. you’re going back home, maybe you’re reading a book or just looking outside of the foggy glass.
making tea. warming up the water, bringing it to a simmer and closing the gas, pouring it into a ceramic mug, the perfume of tea leaves: it’s a ritual.
buying a new book. walking in a book store, reading the first page of a book that sounds interesting, choosing a book because of its cover, never having heard of that book.
reading the last page of a book. that one doctor who episode where the doctor says he rips the last page of each book he reads, reading the last line and feeling like all the air in your lungs is gone.
that one specific moment when you are coming back from a party and you’re walking the few last steps before getting home.
writing your name on a new notebook. scribbling messy letters or trying hard to make it look pretty.
tying shoe laces. where are you even going?
picking a flower. getting off the road and into a patch of grass just to pick a yellow wild flower, pressing it in a book, or putting it in a glass of water.
finally getting to bed. the cold bedsheets, closing your burning eyes, the small sounds of the city.
-c. 23.07.20 6.15pm
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