You will stay up on your rooftop until sunlight peels away the husk of the moon, chainsmoking cigarettes and reading Baudelaire, and you will learn that you only ever want to fall in love with someone who will stay up to watch the sun rise with you.
You will fall in love with train rides, and sooner or later you will realize that nowhere seems like home anymore.
A woman will kiss you and you’ll think her lips are two petals rubbing against your mouth.
You will not tell anyone that you liked it. It’s okay. It is beautiful to love humans in a world where love is a metaphor for lust.
You can leave if you want, with only your skin as a carry-on.
All you need is a twenty in your pocket and a bus ticket. All you need is someone on the other end of the map, thinking about the supple curves of your body, to guide you to a home that stretches out for miles and miles on end.
You will lie to everyone you love. They will love you anyways.
One day you’ll wake up and realize that you are too big for your own skin.
Molt. Don’t be afraid.
Your body is a house where the shutters blow in and out against the windowpane.
You are a hurricane-prone area. The glass will break through often.
But it’s okay. I promise.
Remember, a stranger once told you that the breeze here is something worth writing poems about."
— “Here’s What Our Parents Never Taught Us,” Shinji Moon (via allthefeels-i-feel)
Tina Chang: Do you think that absence has a presence, too?
Li-Young Lee: I love that question. I’ve been thinking about something for a long time, and I keep noticing that most human speech—if not all human speech—is made with the outgoing breath. This is the strange thing about presence and absence. When we breath in, our bodies are filled with nutrients and nourishment. Our blood is filled with oxygen, our skin gets flush; our bones get harder—they get compacted. Our muscles get toned and we feel very present when we’re breathing in. The problem is, that when we’re breathing in, we can’t speak. So presence and silence have something to do with each other.
The minute we start breathing out, we can talk; speech is made with the outgoing, exhaled breath. The problem that is poses, though, is that as we exhale, nutrients are leaving our bodies; our bones get softer, our muscles get flaccid, our skin starts to loosen. You could think of that as the dying breath. So as we breath out, we have less and less presence.
When we make verbal meaning, we use the dying breath. In fact, the more I say, the more my meaning is disclosed. Meaning grows in opposite ratio to presence or vitality. That’s a weird thing. I don’t know why God made us that way.
It’s a kind of paradigm for life, right? As we die, the meaning of our life gets disclosed. Maybe the paradigm for living is encoded or embedded in speech itself, and every time we speak we’re enacting on a small-scale, microcosmic level the bigger scale of our lives. So that the less vitality we have, the more the meaning of our lives get disclosed.