Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know.
— Ernest Hemingway (via semicolonlove)
When we’re incomplete, we’re always searching for somebody to complete us. When, after a few years or a few months of a relationship, we find that we’re still unfulfilled, we blame our partners and take up with somebody more promising. This can go on and on—until we admit that while a partner can add sweet dimensions to our lives, we, each of us, are responsible for our own fulfillment.
I know exactly how that is. To love somebody who doesn’t deserve it. Because they are all you have. Because any attention is better than no attention. For exactly the same reason, it is sometimes satisfying to cut yourself and bleed. On those gray days where eight in the morning looks no different from noon and nothing has happened and nothing is going to happen and you are washing a glass in the sink and it breaks-accidentally-and punctures your skin. And then there is this shocking red, the brightest thing in the day, so vibrant it buzzes, this blood of yours. That is okay sometimes because at least you know you’re alive.
I wanted to write about the moment when you can no longer hide from the truth. When your whole life breaks down. That’s the moment when you have to somehow choose what your life is going to be about.