Dreaming Life...

LOL maybe I’d want to learn to drive quicker if this WAS the test! hahaha

karenfelloutofbedagain:

Lots of things might happen. That’s the thing about writers. They’re unpredictable. They might bring you eggs in bed for breakfast, or they might all but ignore you for days. They might bring you eggs in bed at three in the morning. Or they might wake you up for sex at three in the morning. Or make love at four in the afternoon. They might not sleep at all. Or they might sleep right through the alarm and forget to get you up for work. Or call you home from work to kill a spider. Or refuse to speak to you after finding out you’ve never seen To Kill A Mockingbird. Or spend the last of the rent money on five kinds of soap. Or sell your textbooks for cash halfway through the semester. Or leave you love notes in your pockets. Or wash you pants with Post-It notes in the pockets so your laundry comes out covered in bits of wet paper. They might cry if the Post-It notes are unread all over your pants. It’s an unpredictable life.

But what happens if a writer falls in love with you?

This is a little more predictable. You will find your hemp necklace with the glass mushroom pendant around the neck of someone at a bus stop in a short story. Your favorite shoes will mysteriously disappear, and show up in a poem. The watch you always wear, the watch you own but never wear, the fact that you’ve never worn a watch: they suddenly belong to characters you’ve never known. And yet they’re you. They’re not you; they’re someone else entirely, but they toss their hair like you. They use the same colloquialisms as you. They scratch their nose when they lie like you. Sometimes they will be narrators; sometimes protagonists, sometimes villains. Sometimes they will be nobodies, an unimportant, static prop. This might amuse you at first. Or confuse you. You might be bewildered when books turn into mirrors. You might try to see yourself how your beloved writer sees you when you read a poem about someone who has your middle name or prose about someone who has never seen To Kill A Mockingbird. These poems and novels and short stories, they will scatter into the wind. You will wonder if you’re wandering through the pages of some story you’ve never even read. There’s no way to know. And no way to erase it. Even if you leave, a part of you will always be left behind. 

If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die. 

pinksubmergence:

I like a woman’s man. The man’s man. A real man. Not a boy who sweetens a day. I need someone who scrapes the bitter away. Someone who is bruised up and bleeding. Not someone who complains too much and clings. I need a man with a temper. Someone who isn’t afraid to spoil my day. I need a man who can raise his voice; not squeal in delight or spite. I don’t want a boy who shouts; I need a man with profanities thrown at the wind. I need a man who will speak just as much, but will listen even more.

Boys play with toys. Men play the game. I need a man who loves hard; not a boy who settles for tantrums. Boys dream. Men act. I need a man with ambition, not a nomad looking for plenty. In the harshest drought, a real man knows what it takes to survive the extreme elements. He’ll starve not to see you hungry. He’ll thirst just to see you quench yours. He will never be the proper gentleman but he won’t lay a hand on you. He will never make another man hurt you. He will certainly die for you.

Boys, well, they will hide from you, when you’re not at your best. They’ll give you flowers and never think about what’s next. At the end of the day, a real man waits for you to sleep, so he could gaze at the good mess of this wonderfully short life. He will look at you intently, as you scurry to a dreamworld, silently fighting the brevity of our breathing. He will whisper things he’s too afraid to say when you’re awake; things you know which need little validation.

A real man will treat you right, and will always know his place. A boy will fight, that is for sure, but a man will kill himself in a brawl so you could stay awake.