jack kerourac

When I turned twenty-one, I fell in love for the first time. I met a guy who had an old soul and a beautiful mind. I didn’t have to put up walls with him and he didn’t have to knock any of mine down—it was effortless. He didn’t ask ordinary questions such as what my favorite color was or what I did for fun. He wanted to know what I was afraid of, what my favorite Disney movie was, what my top five songs were, and what made me smile in the simplest way. I think that ’s when I knew that he was someone I could easily fall in love with.

I loved that he listened to alternative, classical, and indie music that I secretly liked such as The Killers, Beethoven, and Bright Eyes. I loved that he could recite poetry by Pablo Neruda, Jack Kerourac, and William Shakespeare without even trying to be impressive. I loved that he was always full of romantic surprises such as reservations to French restaurants, flying kites on the beach, or having picnics at the park. I loved that his fingers were dull from playing guitar nights after nights. I loved that he watched chick flicks with me and truly did enjoy the storylines out of them. I loved the way his mind worked, a little more observant than most people (he wanted to minor in philosophy). I loved that he couldn’t cook, but he was willing to experiment in my kitchen and never made fun of my terrible meals. I loved that we could sit in the back seat of his car until five in the morning simply listening to our favorite rock bands. I loved that we tried new coffee shops together even though he didn’t even know how to order coffee. I loved that we could spend hours in bookshops without saying a word to one another, yet we never felt alone. I loved that we got lost in cities we thought we knew and I loved that we worked towards making a home together in one we’d never been to. I loved how focused and determined we were about chasing our dreams.

Somewhere along the line we began chasing different dreams. I moved to Seattle because of a job opportunity and though he swore he would join me he ended up staying behind to pursue his dream. In the end, I learned that love sometimes is not enough.
—  Natalie Meza, Secret Series (Part VI)
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The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!”