At fifteen you had the radiance of early morning, at twenty you will begin to have the melancholy brilliance of the moon.
― F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise 
04.09.14 | The Economics of You and Me

I had slipped into a cruel cycle of trading in markets dictated by monopolies—corrupt and greedy, devoid of feeling and incapable of giving a damn. And yet, over and over, I always gave and seldom took.

Exhausted of my resources, I would sever the strings only to fall back into the pattern. 


Men in my past have taught me that exposing my sadness is a first degree felony. To do so was to burden them with the notion of empathy and affection, nothing short of a crime. Have you ever been held by someone who chained your words and tied them into a noose behind your back?

Adoration becomes synonymous with execution. 


That is why I supply silence when you demand words. 

You can use your hands and fracture my jaws, but not even your fingertips can crawl down far enough inside me to reach the fragments lost within the crevices. You can use your mouth to part my own, but not even you can breathe substance into these ghosts silhouetted by silence. 


In another dimension, another universe in my past, I plummeted into the orbit of too many black holes who ultimately swallowed my light. You, my dear, are not a black hole. You are a sun. But suns are still stars, and stars can still implode into black holes. Falling for a star, investing in risky stock—it’s all the same. Who can predict what will become of us? Perhaps, I will fly too close and burn my wings like Icarus. Or perhaps, you will collapse and gravity will pull me in to be devoured. Or perhaps, just maybe, we will find equilibrium.


I don’t know what will happen to us. But even if we end up on a trajectory towards collision with tragedy in this dimension, that just means we must have landed on success in another. Theoretical physics and economics may not make sense all of the time, but you and I make sense most of the time, 

These are the words I can supply to you in confidence: We make sense. 

To expect too much is to have a sentimental view of life and this is a softness that ends in bitterness.
― Flannery O’Connor, from The Habit of Being: Letters of Flannery O’Connor 
Wouldn’t we be quite the pair?—you with your bad heart, me with my bad head. Together, though, we might have something worthwhile.
― a letter from Zelda Fitzgerald to her husband F. Scott Fitzgerald
You have to keep breaking your heart until it opens.
― Rumi 
Re: ‘The Unbearable Lightness of Being’

As vociferous a reader as I’d like to believe myself to be, it’s not often that I stay up all night and devour an entire novel. But I could not help but feel that some divine power was ushering me to this book at this time. 

Was he Tomas? And I Tereza? Or Sabina? Or just another body that Tomas had ploughed into, another name not even worth a space on a page? After a few chapters, I became highly cognizant of why I was so entranced by Kundera’s story. Yes, it reminded me of us. But certain components of almost anything reminds me of us at this point. 

I was looking for you. I was hoping to find you buried somewhere beneath the printed lines on any given page. You picked up your life in New York and moved across the continent without a word. You left me in more ways than one. Ever since that morning my broken feet walked out your door, I’ve been struggling to let go of someone who never held on in the first place. As you said, “You picked this battle. I didn’t.” Yet here I was, here I am, still lingering on in a war whose battlefields are stained only with my own blood. Fool’s paradise slaughtered. 

I tried listening to your attempts in explaining how our relationship was different from the other one. At least Tereza knew the name of the other woman. You didn’t even give me that. You never really had a way with words, so perhaps Kundera was speaking for you through Tomas. Can sex be autonomous of love? Yes. No.

Did I doubt that Tomas loved Tereza? No. Even when he perpetually sailed in the dark sea of infidelity, Tereza was the beacon of light he always returned to. Did I doubt that you loved me? Yes. You didn’t love me. 

I despised Tereza for both her weakness and her strength. Part of me pitied her, pinned her as a sad excuse of a woman. A woman lacking the force to exit gravity’s pull; a moon orbiting a planet for eternity. Part of me envied her. She was not deterred by the waves nor the storms. Tomas was not a destination for Tereza; he was the journey. And she stayed. 

I couldn’t stay with you. My hands didn’t know how to hold onto a ghost ship. And when the fog subsides, I see that you and Tomas live in a mindset that I could never move to. 

You could be a Tomas, but you are not my Tomas. And I am not Tereza. 

Do you miss me?

It is necessary to fall in love, if only to provide an alibi for all the random despair you are going to feel anyway.
―  Albert Camus 
No matter how far you travel, you can never get away from yourself.
― Haruki Murakami