Ilya Repin, What Freedom!, 1903
There was this crust punk dude I knew in my early 20’s who died a couple of years ago after getting really drunk one night - alone - and punching a window for reasons, I suppose, none of us will ever know. He bled to death alone in that room. He was a really cool guy. Like, one of the most affable (if not agreeable) people I’ve ever met on this planet.
There was this other guy I knew, a crust punk dude from Minneapolis, a friend of my girlfriend’s brother who was more or less her second younger brother, who killed himself. He was so fucking charming. I remember walking with him to buy beer one night. It was one of those random conversations where, you know, your brain presses record the entire time and you remember everything in crystal clear clarity. What I wore, what he wore, how cold it was walking to that store, but that it didn’t matter because he was making me laugh all the way there and all the way back, smoking Parliament Lights and lighting them with a Zippo.
I knew this one crust punk kid from San Jose, this guy Jon. He wore a snapback hat with a picture of a yellow bear on it for the entire time I knew the guy. He’d ride the city bus with me when we were too bored to go to class and tell me what bands were “up”. I gleamed a few things off of him: I believe he was the first person to get me to listen to Bad Brains, things like that. He was always kind of an asshole, but the kind of asshole that you don’t mind being friends with when you’re 18.
I ran into him a couple years ago, randomly, at Westgate Mall. He was near unrecognizable in a gray sweater and slacks, wearing basketball shoes and a Livestrong bracelet. He was the one to recognize me. I didn’t believe it was him. He was with two girls, one in a spaghetti strap camisole, the other in a Nautica polo of some kind. They both looked like the kind of person who’s password for everything on their computer was indeed “password”.
You changed, I said.
Yeah, for the better, he said.
Really? was what came out of my mouth.
Yeah, I’m not wasting my life chasing shitty bands anymore, he said.
Was it the bands? I asked.
He took his arm off of the shoulder of the girl in Nautica and scratched his head.
I mean, he said, I don’t know, they’re just bands.
But! I said, Dude! You used to talk for hours about music!
He shook his head.
That was then, he said, putting his arm around the girl in Nautica.
We talked for a little more and then parted ways. My mouth started to taste like copper and I couldn’t figure out why. I thought about the other two crust punk kids, how happy they were when they talked about the music. It was as if they were babies again, staring at a mobile turning, turning, turning. But then something inside of them gave up. Something inside of Jon had given up, too, but it was different, something uglier.
Everything tasted like copper that day.
— ― Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower (via trransatlanticism)
— Rwandan Proverb (via thelittlephilosopher)
— Wendelin Van Draanen (Flipped)
— (via journeyonlifesway)
— Robert Frost (via cheesegasm)
Fernando Pessoa (via impaledsiilence)
these quotes are perfect for my melting reality
— John Keats, Letters of John Keats (via serialstranger)