I laugh nervously at your question. “Do I practice witchcraft? Well, I… dabble.”
Right on cue, several mice tumble out of my pocket with overpriced crystals strapped to their backs. My mug of tea starts frothing and shooting beams of light everywhere.
Maniacal voices are chattering right outside the window. “USE QUARTZ FOR EVERYTHING!” they say. “HERE, HAVE ANOTHER RECIPE FOR A SALT SCRUB!”
We both hear faint singing, and we instinctively know it’s coming from the moon. The words are hard to make out, but it sounds something like 🎶 You’re a fucking liar…🎶
The fae, emboldened by my weak-ass answer, bring their hunting party straight through my living room. We’re left sitting in the wreckage, and I’m clutching my mug of tea. It’s still giving off faint sparks.
i would delete your number but i have it memorized like the back of my hand so it wouldn’t do much good when i’m drunk.
i would burn all of my pictures of you but they remind me of the good memories more than the bad ones.
i would stop listening to that song but in my head we’re sitting in the car and your god awful singing drowns out everything else around us.
i would say yes to a date with that boy in my math class but i know i’d just be thinking about our first date the whole time.
i would stop wearing the necklace you gave me but you smiled with your eyes when you gave it to me and thats when i knew i loved you.
i would stop looking for your face in every crowd but you used to always be there when i wanted you to be and it’s still my first instinct.
i would stop writing about you but i need a a way to tell you things without actually telling you.
i would forget about you but it’s almost as if i don’t want to forget about you at all.
Here’s a hard truth: getting back into shape isn’t easy, or glamorous, or fun, or sexy. It isn’t quick, it isn’t painless, and it isn’t pretty.
This is what it is: it’s staying in on a Saturday night so you can hydrate and get enough sleep before a long run that is exactly a quarter of the distance you used to run on long run days. It’s convincing yourself that that run even matters, short as it is. It’s convincing yourself to take that run seriously, short as it is.
It’s wearing compression socks under your jeans to work, hoping your over-worked legs will miraculously feel better by the time your run rolls around. It’s using every mental trick you know - just get to that lamppost, just get to that fire hydrant, just get to your street - to keep yourself running when they don’t.
It’s rolling out a mat and doing core work at the foot of your bed after you run, even though you’d rather be in that bed, preferably watching Netflix with a glass of wine. It’s doing yoga videos alone in your basement. It’s bringing your foam roller with you wherever you go, and trying to laugh it off when your friends make fun of you, again, for taking it so seriously.
It’s schlepping it to the gas station during a snowstorm so you can buy two bags of ice. It’s shivering while you carry them inside your house. It’s shivering even harder when you lower yourself into a homemade ice bath and force yourself to sit there for 20 minutes. It’s hoping that it works.
It’s two plates at dinner, trying to make sure you’re eating enough. It’s forcing yourself to drive to the store on a weeknight when you run out of frozen vegetables. It’s praying that that thing you heard about bananas speeding up recovery is true because everything hurts and you have a run on the schedule and you can’t skip a day because you’ll lose momentum.
It’s learning that momentum is a precious thing - the most precious thing. It’s realizing that it doesn’t matter how bright the fire burns, as long as it’s still alive. It’s dedicating your entire existence to stoking it, in the big ways and the small ways, doing whatever you can to make sure that when you wake up in the morning, you’ve still got a spark to work with.
It’s not easy. It’s not glamorous. It’s not fun, or sexy, or quick, or painless. It really, truly is not pretty.
pjo history → an issue of the olympian daily during wwii
*pls click the images to enlarge the text
since my post on pjo history received such a response, which i can’t thank you all enough for, i wanted to create a lil snippet from “the olympian daily,” the go-to newspaper for all the best updates; they publish new issues faster than hermes can run!
“He was easy to love,” she said. “He was easy to talk to and be around and smile with. He was easy to do all of those things with because we fit each other. I think if we met 10 years later under different circumstances I would’ve married him.” She laughed gently, her eyes grown soft. “And I loved him. I know he doesn’t think so but God, I loved him. I loved his hair and his eyes and his smile and how easy he was to love, who wouldn’t love that?”
Then her smile turned over. “But love isn’t supposed to be that easy. When it’s so easy like that, it’s not right. It’s not right if he’s easy to talk to but not easy to sit in total silence with and not be awkward. It’s wrong, it’s wrong, it’s wrong, and it might feel easy at first but it won’t six months later.”
But her eyes were still soft. “And yet you love him still. You’ll move on and find the one who’s not always easy, but you don’t stop loving him. You can’t.” She smiled again, but this time it’s rain instead of the sun. “Because people always love what’s easy. It tends to hurt them less.”