as the people who adore you stop adoring you; as they die; as they move on; as you shed them; as you shed your beauty; your youth; as the world forgets you; as you recognize your transience; as you begin to lose your characteristics one by one; as you learn there is no-one watching you, and there never was, you think only about driving – not coming from any place; not arriving any place. just driving, counting off time. now you are here, at 7:43. now you are here, at 7:44. now you are…
gone." Synechdoche, New York, 2008 (via fuckyeahexistentialism)
if you leave your heart on your already worn one more time, this will be it, you will stop believing in this dramatic enterprise of hopeless expectations and wasting your overpriced time, they say.
one more chance given away to the next decent person who can quote your favorite author and knows that obscure album by that artist who faded away eight years ago - one more night spent idolizing your literary heroes and film icons in a fortress of soft music and warm lighting, and you will be like the rest of us, they say.
"my parents first met as they were catching a taxi at the same time," i tell them back.
they tell me to avoid the taxis then, to stop searching for familiarity among clusters of strangers who have their heads turned at different angles - and never get on a train again. but i would not be here to tell them otherwise if the taxis and trains made us all into strangers.
The most intimate activity of any type of relationship is sharing music. Discovering a person’s list of favorite albums is a journey, one that unfolds sporadically over some span of time in the most random corners. Letting someone hear the type of music that you listen to when it’s four in the morning on an early Friday morning or the song that you’ve listened to so many times that you’ve finally find solace with your ex is like standing in front of them completely bare.
Here is the songwriter who makes me feel nostalgic for a person i have never met, here is the artist who makes me feel confident enough to lie down next to you even if it’s only until the end of the month. It’s a process that begins in a special way and never finds a definite ending.
The direct translation of my name means “to play an instrument.”
You asked if I thought that was ironic, and I told you no quickly and avoided you to the best of my ability.
It wasn’t only that one time when you were driving on a busy street, but it was twice, and we were next to each other in a crowded restaurant eating the same meal at separate tables. It doesn’t really matter though since you’ll be leaving this city of coincidences come spring.
We will no longer glance at each other like strangers on the street or sit close enough to look at the notes scribbled on spread out sheets of music.
Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself.