1970s movie poster for Disney’s Sleeping Beauty
I keep on reading it, and his words send shivers down my spine and adrenaline to my stomach. I don’t know if that makes me stupid for wanting something that messy and similar to myself, or completely sane for wanting something that will constantly drive that feeling through me. That feeling is enough to live off of, at least for a bit longer. It’s a gained life or extra beat of heart. A push that you yourself could never initiate or even see coming at all, but is so necessary for your success and survival as a human being amidst all of these other nauseating emotions, that it shows the blatant necessity of human connection. It’s the climax of an orgasm. Actually it’s better than an orgasm. That feeling, filled with anticipation and hope that absolutely anything could happen; screaming with the downhill roller coaster it sent you on, that it needs to be nurtured. That blush, that rush, that sweet hopeful sweat. With its beautiful winding chaos that convinces you that there is no possible way that this is unrequited. Nothing that strong could be unreturned, for its so pure and makes you feel so whole that it must not be tainted by the impracticalities of the universe. And so I read. I read until it’s memorized and I’ve determined that I am not a person. But he is the opposite of people.
When will people learn that the worst thing you can possibly hear after not getting cast in something is “Maybe they just didn’t like the way you looked.” Great. Now I’m talentless and unattractive. Thanks Mom.
So this is the most notes I’ve ever gotten on anything.