Had a wee bit of a breakdown over the summer.
And I wandered around East London with this song on repeat:
I was in an empty apartment near the Thames, standing barefoot on the balcony with coffee from a machine that cost more than my rent back in New York. And, as winds whipped off the river, I had the familiar, sinking feeling of realizing that your image of a person has always been just that: your image of them. It has never been, will never be reality.
I do this consistently: ignoring and excusing, shifting and glancing away. Not consciously, of course. But there’s a way my will weakens around people who say they love me. I’ll let you get away with anything. For a while, at least.
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