i inherited an entire library full of books that offer explanations as to why you are incapable of loving me.
the romance section was laughable, giving me bullet point commentaries as to why i am doomed to never be loved or feel loved again, reasons why i settle for beautiful boys who enjoy my company because i'm quirky, cute, time killer material, not anchored, solid, strong, soulmate material. but that's just it, i guess, no one can deny it- (everyone knows when they are in the presence of precariousness.)
the mystery section offered me nothing but a full buffetย ย of questions i already had, questions that always seemed to give clues to future answers, delicious questions that tasted sweet at first then turned suddenly sour, questions that made me understand the meaning of a deceptive cadence. (these books made me wish i didn't leave fingerprints on everything i touch.)
the fiction section made me feel like a child again, these were the books that reminded me why hope is and has always been my favourite bedtime snack. (these were the books that reminded me that just because i couldn't make you love me did not mean that i couldn't make believe you love me.) since i've stepped out of my fins every step has made me wish for the courage to throw myself into the sea, to dissolve in an instant, to be a daughter of the air forevermore. (perhaps Hans Christian Anderson was the only person in the world who knew just how much it hurts to be a human being.)
the self help section gave the illusion of answers, the way a fortune teller with a foreign accent doused in flattery and jewelry might seem. i have spent hours of my existence with these books, laying on my stomach, furrowed brow, fingers turning white from clutching the ballpoint pen for dear life thinking maybe if i just keep underliningunderliningunderlining things will start to make sense again. (because, don't you know? the more you underline the parts of your life that are relevant on paper, the closer you are to having figured out your life so perfectly you eventually will walk by these books wondering which unfortunate person you should donate them to.)
i inherited an entire library full of books that offer explanations as to why you are incapable of loving me. i think maybe there are some things that we are never meant to know.