atnspsa,

These lyrics make me think of you. I want to get to the bottom of what Karen Armstrong would call* the mystery at the centre of your being. I want your mystery. I want to know who broke your heart, or if you’ve never got it broken the way you’ve broken mine.

I think you’re too good to not have had your heart broken yet. I think you’re too distinct to not have had it broken.

But I know that if I know it’ll get me nowhere. I will be no better off knowing what makes you you because rationality turns to bullshit when you’re trying to understand someone. Maybe I can say, hey, A happened to you and that’s why you treated me like that. Or that week B happened so you smiled at me. Or tomorrow it’s C-day so you’ll laugh and tell me what you think is the truth. But that won’t mean anything. Initially I thought the mystery of a person — once you know it — is gone forever, dissipated. But how can it go like that? It can’t. We like writing things, people off. Once we think we’ve got to their core, we feel, okay, well, my job here’s done, I understand.

I hope I never figure out what makes you you because if I think I do then I don’t. I’m no better off, just have extra “knowledge” saddled on to me. I don’t want to figure anything out. If you tell me, if you think it’ll make it easier for me to know something about you, if you think it’ll give me some insight, by all means, go ahead… but jeesus, I hope I never figure a single thing out about you. Not by clues or nail polish or shoes or anything (I’ve got some really bad writer habits which would coincide with a stalker’s habits I suppose: noticing people I like, and little things about them. It used to be interesting but I’m giving it up).

N

*I don’t know why that term stuck in my head…probably because my lit teacher repeated it later and it sounded MUCH MORE LYRICAL without the religious context

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BTW HI THERE GUYS! IF YOU READ THIS BLOG YOU SHOULD PROBABLY KNOW THAT I INTEND TO MOVE IT SOMETIME IN THE FUTURE. I SHALL START THE TRANSITION BY ANNOYING YOU GUYS EVERY TIME I POST ABOUT THE  FACT THAT YOU SHOULD PROBABLY SUBSCRIBE TO MY OTHER BLOG WHICH IS ESSENTIALLY THIS SAME BLOG, ONLY ON BLOGGER.

This new theme: y/n? Comment please.

N

Your distressed relative is pleased with the beautiful blouse. I love it! Received it this morning. Will implant it when I am clean, immaculate. I long to exhist [sic], wear it, to receive a dark brown skirt to implant it upon.

I miss you. Am sorry that I couldn’t bestow a present upon you that isn’t my love. I am implanting a stitch on a dish towel that I can allot to you. It is a brilliant trajic [sic] one that I love, hope to bestow upon you.

My blue dress which I received for Yuletide fits, is becoming! I am pleased with it, with the candy, cake, work basket, cookies. I do enjoy rich, flesh making delicacies.

I need some new gowns.

Come and see me soon. I love you.

Rose

source

as a break from all the improbable, I’ve posted an actual letter this time. It was from Rose Williams to her brother Tennessee.

‘Hey girl/I am the best/accept karo/meri friend request’ — worst ad ever.

N

wtf is wrong with you. what.

N

Dear Mr Jinnah,

I just saw a picture of you that I hadn’t seen before and it took me a little time to recognize you. I feel really sad and strange at the same time.

Yesterday I was talking to Maliha and I told her of the thought that’s been hitting me for the past couple of days: what about the Pakistani dream? What of it? We hear of The American Dream™  all the time but what about The Pakistani Dream? I think we had the same dream, except all of its wishy has been washed out and it just stands, staring at us, its face lined and somewhat unrecognisable, somewhat like

yours.

N

FUCK OFF.

N

nuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu

To whoever is responsible for this,
WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY
N

It's true.