Nina LaCour, The Disenchantments
If you didn’t use to want Lizzie McGuire’s hair, you are a fucking liar.
And they lived happily ever after in the land of denial that is my headcanon.
At any given moment, you do not exist. Your body exists, temporary though it may be. Still, you are not your body. You are merely an electrochemical process of your body. The continuity of your separate self is manufactured every few milliseconds by a hunk of warm grey meat between your ears. In the time it takes you to read this sentence, your brain has created you a thousand times, and it has left behind a thousand ghosts of you.
They’re hilarious. They understand so many random phenomena of daily life.
But every time I open that website, I feel my brain melting. I don’t know why. It kind of bothers me how there’s a buzzfeed article about literally EVERYTHING. And that so many people spend so much time just going from article to article, gaining nothing from it.
But then, isn’t tumblr just as bad? In some respects yes. In some ways, my brain is also melting when I just sit here scrolling through my dash, looking at funny gifs and text posts.
But then, it’s also different.
You won’t realize how much it bothers you
how much grieving you still have left to do
until you have gone four days without makeup,
gained back three carefully lost pounds,
and almost cried in very much a public place.
Closure means other open wounds
ones that have been hiding behind pain and anger
ones that have been forever monkey bar swinging
to any fixed point of confusion. It is gone now.
The rest, the others, the ones you can no longer ignore
are heaving and exposed, rotting away at the edges.
Are they dangerously close to the core?
They feel as if they are so.