10 years of Speak Now | October 25, 2010
Real life is a funny thing, you know. In real life, saying the right thing at the right moment is beyond crucial. So crucial, in fact, the most of us start to hesitate, for fear of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. But lately what I’ve begun to fear more than that is letting the moment pass without saying anything. What you say might be too much for some people. Maybe it will come out all wrong and you’ll stutter and you’ll walk away embarrassed, wincing as you play it all back in your head. But I think the words you stop yourself from saying are the ones that will haunt you the longest. So say it to them. Or say it to yourself in the mirror. Say it in a letter you’ll never send or in a book millions might read someday. I think you deserve to look back on your life without a chorus of resounding voices saying ‘I could’ve, but it’s too late now.’ There is a time for silence. There is a time waiting your turn. But if you know how you feel, and you so clearly know what you need to say, you’ll know it. I don’t think you should wait. I think you should speak now.
304 notes
·
View notes
When she fell, she fell apart. Cracked her bones on the pavement she once decorated as a child with sidewalk chalk. When she crashed, her clothes disintegrated and blew away with the winds that took all of her fair-weather friends. When she looked around, her skin was spattered with ink, forming the words of a thousand voices, echoes she heard even in her sleep: "Whatever you say, it is not right." "Whatever you do, it is not enough." "Your kindness in fake." "Your pain is manipulative." When she lay there on the ground, she dreamed of time machines and revenge and a love that was really something, not just the idea of something. When she finally rose, she rose slowly. Avoiding old haunts and sidestepping shiny pennies, vary of phone call and promises, charmers, dandies and get-love-quick-schemes. When she stood, she stood with a desolate knowingness. Vaded out into the dark, wild ocean up to her neck. Bathed in her brokenness. Said a prayer of gratitude for each chink in the armor she never knew she needed. Standing broad-shouldered next to her was a love that was really something, not just the idea of something. When she turned to go home, she heard the echoes of new words. "May your heart remain breakable, but never by the same hand twice." And even louder: "Without your past, you could never have arrived- so wondrously and brutally, by design or some violent, exquisite happenstance...here." And in the death of her reputation, she felt truly alive.
344 notes
·
View notes