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Fate whispers to the warrior, “You cannot withstand the storm,” and the warrior whispers back, “I am the storm.” Unknown
/ta-‘chen-da/ Things that are not to be spoken about or made public Things that are best left unsaid
Silence is the best response to people who don’t deserve your words.
Cafuné—the act of running your fingers through the hair of someone you love.
Love. It always felt wrong that people chased something so fickle. Something that could be there one day and gone the next.
People assume strength is loud. In reality, strength is silent. It is resilience, the will to never surrender your dignity. And sometimes, the only person who knows strength exists inside you is you.
\’mȯirə\ (noun) a person’s fate or destiny
Benkinersophobia is the fear of not receiving a letter from the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry on one's eleventh birthday. I was sure I’d hit the jackpot with a Potterhead. I would have enjoyed that more.
My spirit animal was a three-month-old chihuahua who weighed one pound and three ounces and responded to the name Muchacha.
It reminded me I was still more privileged than I deserved. I had a roof over my head, a bachelor’s degree, and a few Hamburger Helpers in my cabinet.
Anagapesis. Aesthete. Yūgen. Gumusservi.
Loneliness fueled the jealousy. Mother had Uncle Balthazar. Reed had Basil. And I had a broken heater and endless Netflix binges of F.R.I.E.N.D.S.
Fika is Swedish for a moment to slow down and appreciate the good things in life,
cryptoscopophilia in my head. The urge to secretly peer in windows of homes as one passes by.
Malaise. A general feeling of discomfort or unease.
Metanoia. Tarantism. Marcid.
“Balter?” “To dance—artlessly, with no grace, no skill, but always with enjoyment.
I’d learned that my dad loved me fiercely, storms were magic, and unique words were the prayers that fueled them.
“Snow White trusts a twenty-something dude she’s alone in a forest with because he sings to her? Sings. And the Queen gets jealous of how pretty a fourteen-year-old girl is and decides to poison her. Unbelievable. She didn’t need seven dwarves. She needed a knife and two body bags.”
I’d always had an obsessive fascination with storms. They reminded me to breathe, smelled like fresh starts, and were teachers in a world full of lessons.
Storms will always rage. Don’t run from them. Face them. Some things in life can only be learned in a storm.”
“Oenomel. Phosphenes. Kilig,”
All my life, I’d been accused of being too much. “Too out there.” “Too artsy.” “Too deranged.” “Too petty.” “Too lanky.” “Too independent.” “Too mouthy.” “Too much.”
“Selcouth.” Adjective. Unfamiliar, rare, strange, and yet marvelous.
“It’s different each time. Magic words. Words that make me happy. Words on my shirts. Words on my mind. Words that matter. Words that don’t.
“So fucking good.” He ran a palm through my hair, clutching the messy strands and gripping onto them in a way that hurt so nice. “That’s it, baby. Take my cock.”
I could have killed him, picked apart his eyes, and fed them to the coyotes.
Fashion is showing people who you are on the inside because most of them never bother to look past the packaging.
Saudade. Sciamachy. Thanatophobia.
Querencia. Noun. A place where one feels safe. A place from which one’s strength of character is drawn.
A hummingbird had replaced my heart, and it fluttered inside me, beating its wings to a rhythm I couldn’t keep up with. Shut up, Heart. I can’t deal with you right now. Go hibernate.
“Did you ever feel like fighting for him?” His eyes read my face, collecting all the answers he needed from the dumbfounded expression pasted on it. “If someone looked at him wrong, talked to him wrong, touched him wrong, you would pick up a fucking sword and dive into battle without remembering to grab your armor?”
Love is the most expensive thing you’ll ever own. You pay for it with grief, tears, and a piece of your soul, but in return, you receive happiness, memories, and life.”
“Lagom,”
“What’s lagom?” My hands fell to his chest, thrilled by his heart’s tempo. It matched mine. “Not too little. Not too much. Just right.”
“Perfection is unattainable. It’s stained by the suffering required to chase it. Perfect is something you think with your head. Lagom is something you feel with your heart.”
Nyctophilia. Basorexia. Ibrat.
Nash reminded me of a favorite song. One you play so often you think you can't stand anymore. But in the silence, when the world is quiet and your brain is pliant, the chords repeat in your mind, and you remember it’s your favorite melody.
“I also have the numbers of every important politician along this coast, including the president; an ability to lie my way into and out of any situation; an ethical code that sits somewhere between Jordan Belfort snorting cocaine off his mistress’ asscheeks and using toddlers as test subjects for torture à la MK-Ultra; and a strong repertoire for vengeance, including but not limited to one-starring your ass on Uber.”
If you think about it, the concept of a photograph is fucking mind-blowing. A moment in time. Captured. Preserved. Forever.
“Life is a Sisyphean task. You put out one fire, and another one starts. It’s easier to accept it burns.” I couldn’t think past his touch, but I tried. “And when there’s no place untouched by the fire?” “You live in a world consumed by fire, but at least it’s the truth. You’re not lured to sleep with a false blanket of security, telling yourself you exist in a part untouched by the flames.” “That’s a horrible way to live.” “Newsflash, Little Tiger, it’s life. There’s death, and betrayal, and revenge, and guilt everywhere you turn. It’s healthier to live it, breathe it, and participate in it
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“I love words, because they're mine. Utterly, completely mine. I can share them with others. I can keep them to myself. I can use them over and over again. No matter what I do, they’ll always be mine. No one can take them from me.
“The existence of a word proves that someone in the history of humanity felt the same way I did and gave it a name. It means we’re not alone. If there’s a word for what we're feeling, we’re never alone.”
“Lacuna.” She grabbed my hand and squeezed. “Lacuna is a blank space. A missing part.”
“Let’s play a game.” “We already are.” Her eyes fluttered closed. “Golf.” I ignored her, “Slide your panties off, hand them to me, and position the putter between your pussy lips.” “Why would I do that?” “Because you’re mine, Tiger,” I declared, soaking in her lust-heavy gaze. “Your lips are mine. Your tits are mine. Your ass is mine. Your soaking wet pussy is mine.”
“I’m telling you, Nash. I'm not drunk. I'm chasing happiness. I want to balter.”
She laughed, the only source of heat in this damn rain. Even under this starless night, she reminded me of the sun. So fucking warm all the time. Inside and outside.
“I don’t want someone who holds an umbrella over my head when it rains. I want someone who doesn't even own an umbrella. Someone who watches me balter in the rain when they don’t know the word exists. Someone who stares at me instead of the stars in the sky.”
“You are phosphenes, Nash. You are the stars and colors I see when I rub my eyes. You feel real in the moment, but you fade away.
alexithymia shirt, which I’d Google’d as soon as I saw it. Noun. The inability to identify and express your feelings.
