contributor: that kind of woman

Don’t get lost, I tell myself. Just pick up your knees and push. Push a little bit farther, a little bit harder. Don’t push other’s it’s not nice. Don’t push your heart, it won’t heal as fast. Push deeper, though. You could love again.

Remember how lovely it is to be looked at like you’re brand new to someone? Remember looking at someone and feeling the wanting familiarity that comes with holding someone’s face lightly between your palms and kissing them. Above the right eyebrow, scattering kisses across the bridge of their nose. On to their lips. Taste. Remember feeling the hair on the back of their neck against your fingertips for the first time, your how their shoulders square off towards yours and you feel content?

Remember car rides? Well, imagine new ones, and they squeeze your knee, or take your hand and kiss the back near your knuckles. Think about reaching out and brushing the fingers of your left hand against their ear. Sit back, and trust them to drive you where you need to be. 

Remember, not always where you must be, but where you need to be, a lookout, or the beach, or maybe just windows down with a good song on going around the block a couple times, or maybe just to the grocery store to pick up two ripe plums. Let the plum juice run down your fingers. Sit on the roof or hood or trunk of the car. Make sure your thigh brushes theirs. Kiss them. 

Think about a kitchen table where you share your mornings, and maybe nights. Think about your legs and feet brushing theirs. Think about lazy morning kisses, hand holding. Hugs. Think about the new ones you’ll share. Push yourself to think new, not compare to old. Think about what will make their day better. Your day better. Your day collectively better. 

Remember yoga at first, how you felt weak, detached, immovable, always trying to catch your breath? Well, that’s not you anymore, you are constantly focusing yourself for the next move, the next pose trusting that the sequence will play out, that eventually after deepening, lifting, trusting, a bit of a challenge you feel exhausted. Eventually you will lay still, quite, motionless, content. 

Eventually love will come again, you’re deepening though, the way you think, feel, the way you exist. Always learn more, challenge more, live more. Don’t get lost. Push, baby. Push. Your effort, that your result only need to effect you. Make yourself proud. Hold yourself to your standard. Don’t brag, explain. Let your passion show your liveliness. 

And don’t forget to savor the stretch, don’t forget to savor the kiss, don’t forget through the struggle, it’s a beautiful thing called existing. Revel at the moon, dance or run till your legs tire. Do deep, go fully. Trust yourself. Share that passion for the outer world with someone else. Don’t forget to fill every crack, crevice, hole in your heart… with affection, respect and love for yourself and the people who have made and continue to make you.

And don’t forget to savor the stretch, don’t forget to savor the kiss, don’t forget through the struggle, it’s a beautiful thing called existing. Revel at the moon, dance or run till your legs tire. Do deep, go fully. Trust yourself. Share that passion for the outer world with someone else. Don’t forget to fill every crack, crevice, hole in your heart… with affection, respect and love for yourself and the people who have made and continue to make you.
—  That Kind of Woman
I want. That's the problem.

I want.

That’s the problem. Right there. The infinity need and desire. Two words that can and usually are followed by another word or series of words that makes things more complicated.

What about the endless, innumerable times which you have fought tooth and nail to get to that sentence then you just don’t know what to say behind it. Mouth agape for mere second after the “I want…” then the click of teeth on teeth as you close your mouth.

You don’t know what you want.

I sure as hell don’t.

So, what do we do? Continue to fight, struggle and bleed for an unnamable future or destiny?

No. We don’t. Unless you know exactly what you want.

You figure out what you need. Yes, the need.

You could go into the psychology aspect and Maslow’s 5 hierarchy of needs.

  1. physiological,
  2. safety,
  3. social,
  4. esteem, and
  5. self-actualization

I mean sure, we can dissect them and figure out those needs in that order, and adhere to the idea that once we have 1, 2 can be accomplised and so on. But what about personally specific needs? What about people who already have skipped levels? Who need not move according to a textbook.

Some people need more, some less.

What about me? What do I need?

Well, I have security, I have familial love, I have friendship, I have money, I have education. I have a lot, more than many other people in the world. I have opportunity ample.

What do I need?

Nothing.

To a certain extent.

But what about the wanting need. The need to share your life with your soul mate. The need to pass along the experiences of the world to your children. What about the need to accomplish something that fulfills how you want to impact the world.The need to provide the health and happiness your parents instill in you, to them as they grow old. The need to learn and experience the world.

Pish, who knows. Who knows. If you know, you are going after it. If you don’t you find things to try and see if it’s something that fulfills the need.

One day at a time. One action at a time. One smile, one laugh. Eventually each day you made worthwhile will them patchwork into a life of great experiences. Or so we can hope.

(Source: thatkindofwoman)

I want a woman who can sit me down, shut me up, tell me ten things I don’t already know, and make me laugh. I don’t care what you look like, just turn me on. And if you can do that, I will follow you on bloody stumps through the snow. I will nibble your mukluks with my own teeth. I will do your windows. I will care about your feelings. Just have something in there.
— 

Henry Rollins

( via thatkindofwoman )

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so goddamned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life of which I spoke at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being told. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. Or, perhaps, stay and save my life.
—  Charles Warnke