Anonymous asked: How do you pronounce Abhaya?
Typewriter Series #755 by Tyler Knott GregsonText for Tired Eyes:I want this. I want that. I want photos of us. I want to be proud of us out loud. I want to kiss you. I want to smile and laugh. I want to make you giggle and I want to make you sigh and I want to take your breath away and I want to dance with you at people’s weddings and I want to pick you up and carry you when your feet are tired and I want to wait until you are Almost asleep and then kiss your nose and make you laugh so hard with some secret joke that your belly hurts and you smack me for waking you all the way up so we have to get out of bed and sit and watch the city lights while eating a bowl of cereal at 1:38 am. I want to smell you fresh from a shower and paint your toenails and take you to baseball games and teach you hidden things that are going on that most people don’t know. I want us. I want the smell of pancakes when it’s me that cooks them and the sun hasn’t yet woken. I want the smell of dinner when it’s us that burned it because we fell to the floor and made love instead. I want the handprints on car windows, steamed up from the inside. I want long baths followed by short showers and the scent of your shampoo staining my hands for the entire day to follow. I want ears that hear the words I spill instead of eyes that read them. I want notebooks black with ink from all the details I noticed from all the times I sat and marveled at the way you spin through an hour.
The last poem you ever wrote about me,
Is about you.
The last poem the boy before you wrote about me,
Was about who I should be without him.
And I’ve spent all my time,
Watching the two of you grow from afar.
You have found love in playing guitar on your small radio show,
Large foreign countries
And teaching on the west coast.
He has found love in being lost,
Lost in love with a broken girl,
Lost in 19th century English literature.
While I’m thinking about the two of you,
I wonder what it is that has become of me.
And, the truth is,
I am in love with these three girls,
One from the south,
Who dreams of a lost love,
Is wise beyond her years,
Has cheeks that turn bright red when she laughs
And wears lily Pulitzer silk shirts with lipsticks on them.
One from the suburbs of Boston,
Who speaks fast and loud,
Let’s down her wild child hair only when she’s feeling fearless
And claims she feels less than she does.
One from Boston,
Who dances just as beautifully as she loves,
Takes shot in two gulps
And listens like what she’s hearing is the only noise on earth.
Over miles of telephone connection,
When you both ask me,
Who I’ve become,
You really mean what have I fallen in love with,
Because you both expect it to be another boy,
Just like you,
Or something just a little off the edge since you left.
And although I tell you what you expect to hear,
If you really knew,
The thing I’ve found is
friends who have taught me
And the beauty of the journey.
And they are better than you can even imagine,
They are my love, my passion,
They are the real answer to your question.
“Every path is the right path. Everything could’ve been anything else. And it would have just as much meaning.”
Mr. Nobody (2009) dir. Jaco Van Dormael