there is a door that grows smaller every time i step closer to it. i first saw this door three years ago. it was as big as the atlantic ocean. i walked down the same hallway for three years. the door was an ocean, then a continent, then a country, then a state, then a city, then a house with three windows and another door, a smaller one with stained glass. now it is the size of my pinky toe. when i reach the end of this hallway i think it will be nothing but an atom. i will lose this door. i keep walking. you are a door that grows smaller every time i step closer to it. the space between us is a hallway i walked down for three years. you were an ocean and now you are the nail of my smallest toe. i think it’s safe to say i will never know you.
“You were becoming more and more jaguar. Your side toes hung like dew-claws. When you were hungry, you slid down the tree in which we perched, and left the woods on all four legs for the first time. You returned with blood matted in the short brittle hairs along your jawbone. I wanted to tell you how lately I’ve been feeling compressed, as if into a miniature cube, unable to move my limbs, unable to see clearly, but you were too animal at that point, too blood on your jawbone. This was one million years ago. Now most everything is jaguar. There’s one on the tundra bursting with hundreds of beautiful pink blossoms. There’s one slowly eating a hole into your lower intestine.”—"More and More Jaguar", Zachary Schomburg
the firetrucks and ambulances are humming and whistling outside, like kids do in their spare time. i can hear them from my window, those red and white animals singing and going their own ways. they came for us when i was five, when lightning struck the back porch, when smoke filled up all the rooms, when mama ran in and screamed. i spent the rest of the day sitting on ryan’s trampoline, waiting, watching the smoke curl up in the distance. now ambulances and firetrucks only pass me, they sing to me, their blue and red and white lights wave to me. they don’t come for me anymore. will they come again? and if so, when? will i be grey, will my grandchildren find me sleeping without beat, will i be young, will i be a splatter on the street, or will i be my own calamity. i don’t know. i don’t know when they’ll come for me, but they’ll come. for now they just sing.
“I mean, Jesus, who gives a fuck about sex?! People act like it’s the most important thing humans do, but come on. How can our sentient fucking lives revolve around something slugs can do. I mean, who you want to screw and whether you screw them? Those are important questions, I guess. But they’re not that important. You know what’s important? Who would you die for? Who would you wake up at five forty-five in the morning for even though you don’t even know why he needs you? Whose drunken nose would you pick?!”—Will Grayson, Will Grayson by John Green and David Levithan (via greyturning-goldturning)
I always get these great ideas for stories, this whole novel that unfolds in my head, I can see the characters and I can hear their voices, I can see them cruising down the highway while singing obnoxiously to Death Cab for Cutie or Radiohead, but I put it off. I’m sitting in the airport, I’m walking to class, I’m drinking coffee while it’s raining, and these beautiful and infinite characters come to me, and I don’t write them down. I say to myself, well, maybe I’ll write these stories when I’m older, when I’m a better writer, when I’ve got more life experience, you know, maybe I’m too young to give my opinion on life, and that’s complete bullshit. I need to stop procrastinating. Even if the story will end up as some forgotten file on my computer, I need to just write, write, write because I’m not going to become a better writer by sitting on my ass and dreaming of the future, dreaming of becoming a better writer. Even if the writing is terrible. Even if the story is underdeveloped, lacks complexity, lacks a message. Even if writing is painful. I need to do it. I need to write because I’m a writer, and denying that to myself is like denying a human love or food or oxygen. I know I don’t really believe in making resolutions for the new year, but I’m resolving to write more and to write often, not just for 2012, but for the rest of my life.