numerous knifings

heartache

“ Do you know the most surprising thing about heartache?
It doesn’t actually kill you. Like a bullet to the heart, or a head-on car wreck, it should.
When someone you’ve promised to cherish forever says, “I never loved you,” it should kill you instantly.You shouldn’t have to wake up day after day after that, trying to understand how in the world you didn’t know."

i love this picture.

i think i kinda need this

Is there a more pleasing sound than the tearing of tag after tag? The popping of plastic threads, followed by a fistful of little paper tickets displaying worth. I am powerless to the highs and lows of frivolous spending, being swept from store to store by violent currents of greed. The sight of my own gawking face in the reflection of new patent leather. As I walk out the door with crisp fabric encasing my skin I feel like this is who I want to be. This is who I was supposed to be all along but haven’t had the chance. Not until I found this perfect item that compliments who I think I may be perfectly. I went to a poverty stricken country to try and gain perspective on my financial situations, seeing those people live with so little. I just found myself at the markets trying to buy my way into their culture. Wanting to own their simplicity one trinket at a time. I’ve always had a fascination with newness. I contribute my return to school every fall to this factor. For the sole purpose of purchasing school supplies. Hearing that satisfying crack as I pull open the cover of a brand new book. Pages and pages of crisp clean notebook paper before me. The smoothness of young ink on papers white flesh. This wanting is like a spoiled lover. Never makes me happy but the need to own, leaves me frustrated and always wanting more. The need to choose things, to choose things that will coordinate with my life, or the life I envision. This wanting consumes me, the yearning to be wrapped in newly woven fabrics. When I get was I want I feel empowered, I feel just like everyone else. But at the end of the day when my new finds are balled up on the floor, reeking of yesterdays hopefulness I am defeated once again. Defeated by the idea that nothing remains new.