⇑

ineffable-gaudiness:

I am sitting on the heart of this city
Letting it teach me how to say goodbye

Tucking myself into the folds of its hills,
And it feels like crawling into bed with someone who is grumpy in the morning but still loves the shape of your thighs.

When I try to stuff my pockets with keepsakes,
It is only because I am trying to remember the exact street corners where I met every version
Of the self I am trying to become.

(via awkwardinatlanta)

19.5.2013 edit I’ve come to the conclusion that there is nothing romantic about longing - kisses underneath streetlights hazy from a light rain - yes. but longing is not romantic. it’s just a sad, empty shell of what might’ve been but never was. 

post-grad and an unbearable lightness.

I woke up today and made a list.

- Do the laundry

- Clean out the fridge

- Organize the closet

- Clean the kitchen

A very simple list with four very simple tasks. 

I graduated college yesterday.  The people that I’ve loved and laughed and cried with are long gone, driving and flying further away from this wonderful little life that we created for ourselves, weighed down by possessions and memories accumulated over the past four years. But I, I feel light as a feather – with nothing to do and no one to call in a city that no longer feels like home. 

“So this is freedom” - my first thought when I woke up.

“It is unbearable” - my second.

That’s how I would describe post-grad life - an unbearable lightness. There is nothing and no one to tie me down to this place anymore. 

So I made a list. A list with bullet points in the hope that those four bullet points would tether me to reality, stop me from floating away to a place of lightness and nothingness and emptiness and that terrible, nagging question – what was it all for?

If you know, please tell me. 

packing.

i am swimming in a sea of black hefty, trash bags dotted with islands of spiral-bound graph notebooks, index cards, old papers and exams.

3 years. 8 months. 16 days. and all i am left with are garbage bags filled with old papers and a tissue box that we stole from the medical school for “inspiration”, the rose that you gave me that night when we danced in the festival of lights, a chunk of the white marble wall from the village entrance that we dropped off the roof of our freshman dorm. 

how do you fit 3 years, 8 months, and 16 days into thirty hefty garbage bags? 

and do you ever wonder what it’s all for if it all comes to an end anyway? 

There was a boy who wrote about a vase and how that vase was trust and if it was broken you could glue it back together but you would still see the cracks and wouldn’t it be better to leave it as you remembered it rather than stare at that sad, broken thing?  “A man”, I thought at the time, ” a man who is sensitive and mature. A man who knows things and feelings things deeply.” And I was charmed. Intrigued, as I usually am by beautiful words and sadness.  I was a girl then. What did I know? Much less than him — this mysterious man with those sad, beautiful words.  But I’ve done a lot of growing up in these past four years, I’ve had to. He had taken all I could give and gave nothing in return besides a letter and a broken vase.  You can’t fill a hole in someone else without creating one inside yourself.  I cut my finger on the letter he sent. It bled and then it healed — as all wounds do given time. I have a little scar there. A reminder. To stay away from broken vases and broken people.  I know better now. He was just a boy after all. 
Copyright © 2013 MT Franco. All rights reserved.