Writers are storytellers, first.
We are brushless painters, chisleless sculptors.
Architects of new realities and crafters of perception.
We are the hero and the villain and the comic relief.
The inexorable sadists,
the indelible masochists.
We are the light at the end of the tunnel
and we are the train.
I’ve been told that writer’s are little more than professional liars, career procrastinators and champions of solitaire.
I’ve been hearing a lot of coming out stories lately, both awful and inspiring, and when I think of mine it reminds me of just how grateful I am to have them family I do.
I’ve never been the one people looked at and were like yeah, she likes girls. Aside from being a cat person, I’ve never really fit anywhere within the stereotype or had any of those obvious tells people so often reference so really there wasn’t a whole lot of warning.
You were a summer breeze
Unexpected and fleeting
Blowing through my life and leaving me shivering and disheveled
Like you had the right
(but I let you anyway)
I’m more than a little bit in love with Passenger. Not gonna lie, I’ve had them playing on repeat for longer than I’m willing to admit and I’m somehow still not sick of them. I think, of all of their frankly amazingly well written songs, this is the one that stands out as why.
To me, this is the anthem of almost-adulthood.
The verses make me smile and the chorus makes me ache and the melody stays in my head, reminding me that I identify. I think, to some extent or other, maybe we all identify. Maybe we all learned the hard way.