We are the ones who take this thing called music and line it up with this thing called time. We are the ticking, we are the pulsing, we are underneath every part of this moment. And by making the moment our own, we are rendering it timeless. There is no audience. There are no instruments. There are only bodies and thoughts and murmurs and looks. It’s the concert rush to end all concert rushes, because this is what matters. When the heart races, this is what it’s racing towards.
You think fairy tales are only for girls? Here’s a hint – ask yourself who wrote them. I assure you, it wasn’t just the women. It’s the great male fantasy – all it takes is one dance to know that she’s the one. All it takes is the sound of her song from the tower, or a look at her sleeping face. And right away you know – this is the girl in your head, sleeping or dancing or singing in front of you. Yes, girls want their princes, but boys want their princesses just as much. And they don’t want a very long courtship. They want to know immediately.
I always hoped that after the prince found Cinderella and they rode away in thier magnificent carriage, after a few miles she turned to him and said “could you drop me off down the road, please? Now that I’ve finally escaped my life of horrific abuse, I’d like to see something of the world, you know? Maybe backpack across Europe or Asia? I’ll catch back up with you later, Prince, once I’ve found my own way.
I know in my heart that I can live without him and I know in my heart that I don’t want to-that’s a good place to start, right?
I love the way you look when reading a book – content and dreamy, off in another world.
I mean, what if love isn’t a yes-or-no question? It’s not either you’re in love or you’re not. I mean, aren’t these different levels? And maybe these things, like words and expectations and whatever, don’t go on top of the love. Maybe it’s like a map, and they have all their own place, and when you see it from the sky – whoa.
And escape?” “Escape, sure. But it wasn’t so much about getting away, as going to. You can go anywhere in a book. Books.
This is the funny thing about New York – there are so many things to do at all times of the day, but there are still moments when you have no idea which of them to do, and feel extra silly because you know there has to be something out there for you to do; your mind just hasn’t found it yet.
There’s an alone that calls out for rescue – but this appeared to be an alone that wanted to be left alone.
All the librarians turned their heads to me in a collective shush. “I’m afraid you have to survive library school, put up with the general public on a daily basis, and endure several years of budget cuts in order to deserve these drinks,” Chris told me kindly. “But someday, Dash, all this will be yours! We know how to spot ’em, and you’re a young, temporarily one-eyed librarian in the rough!
People who want things to be perfect are always impossible to please. But that doesn’t mean we should stop trying. Even.
You never know where the night will take you.
So there we were. Once upon a time, during the storybook version of dating we’d gone through, I’d pretended that it was possible to love her when I only mildly liked her. Now I had no desire to pretend we’d ever be in love, and I liked her madly.
I’m mad at global warming for all the obvious reasons, but mostly I’m mad at it for ruining Christmas. This time of year is supposed to be about teeth-chattering, cold weather that necessitates coats, scarves, and mittens. Outside there should be see-your-breath air that offers the promise of sidewalks covered in snow, while inside, families drink hot chocolate by a roaring fire, huddled close together with their pets to keep warm.
But somehow, knowing the Moleskine was tucked away in my bag, containing our thoughts and clues, our imprints to each other, somehow that made me feel safe, like I could have this adventure and not get lost and not call my brother to save me.
The worse people feel the next day, the better the party.
The mosh pit will reveal all the answers. The mosh pit never lies.
Like dogs and lions, small children can sense fear. The slightest flinch, the slightest disinclination, and they will jump atop you and devour you.
Because I hadn’t known that I knew these things. Just having a notebook to write them in, and having someone to write them to, made them all rise to the surface.
What did it say about me that he hadn’t? That he couldn’t possibly like me as much as I’d started to like him. That I would never be as pretty and interesting as that Sofia girl, while Dash’s handsome face would continue to appear in my daydreams. Unrequited. It wasn’t fair that I sort of missed him. Not his presence so much – I barely knew him – but having that red notebook link to him. Knowing he was out there thinking or doing something that would be communicated to me in some surprising way.