“In many ways, the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read. But the bitter truth we critics must face, is that in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is probably more meaningful than our criticism designating it so. But there are times when a critic truly risks something, and that is in the discovery and defense of the new. The world is often unkind to new talent, new creations; the new needs friends. Last night, I experienced something new, an extraordinary meal from a singularly unexpected source. To say that both the meal and its maker have challenged my preconceptions about fine cooking is a gross understatement. They have rocked me to my core. In the past, I have made no secret of my disdain for Chef Gusteau’s famous motto: Anyone can cook. But I realize, only now do I truly understand what he meant. Not everyone can become a great artist, but a great artist can come from anywhere.”—
Anton Ego, from the animated film Ratatouille  (via falenburg)
Memories that were once so vivid start to blur. The sky blends in with the silver lining of the clouds, and you find yourself staring at rough sketches of cobblestones, a swing set and a cement table where you both used to smoke. You don’t remember if you used a Zippo or those small electronic Cricket lighters you buy at the supermarket. You don’t even remember what you were smoking; you easily changed from Marlboro lights to reds, to menthol lights to blacks, to Lucky Strike (because it was cheaper, really) and Philip Morris (but only when you started, because smoking anything was cool and you were cool).
But you still remember who you were with. He was the one, after all - the one with the dark hair that shines against the haze of the light of the lamppost and the sparkling, mischievous eyes; the one with long, manly fingers that you always wished were holding yours instead of flirting with the cigarette; the one in band shirts and skater shoes; the one you thought you were in love with. Sometimes, you wonder how long it will take for you to forget the curve of his jaw lined with stubble, or the smooth mocha complexion, or the way he smiles when you let him bum off that small pack you just bought.
You wonder how long it will take for you to forget what could have been. It could have been long nights under the acacia trees, staring out at the football field. It could have been sneaking out past midnight to meet by the bridge and toss rocks into a canal that was barely there, or to swing yourselves so high up you forget you’re swinging, or to smoke by the cement table and carve your names onto the surface just so everyone knows that spot was yours, rather ours.
You take comfort in the fact that it starts to fade. Fading somehow means that you’re moving on, that you’re holding on less to the details. Fading somehow means everything will go to black, and you tuck it back into the recesses of your mind. It’s like hiding a secret under the shirts in your dresser, or saving yourself the last bit of chocolate at the back of the refrigerator.
You wait for it to fade completely, until all you see is the flame of the lighter, or the last flickering sparkle in his eyes. Then, you reassure yourself - you’ve moved on. Maybe.
You like someone, but you’re starting to get attached. & because you’re attached, you are being clingy. & because you are being clingy, you think you are being annoying cause you want to talk to them so much. & because you think you’re being annoying, you feel like you’re bothering them every time you talk to them. But really, you just enjoy talking to them. But you’re afraid they’re getting bored & sick of hearing from you.