I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cut your hair. I hate the way you drive my car, I hate it when you stare. I hate your big dumb combat boots and the way you read my mind. I hate you so much it makes me sick, it even makes me rhyme. I hate the way you’re always right, I hate it when you lie. I hate it when you make me laugh, even worse when you make me cry. I hate it when you’re not around, and the fact that you didn’t call. But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you, not even close… not even a little bit… not even at all.
Most importantly, if you can at all avoid it, don’t be normal. Strive, burn and do everything you can to avoid being the industry standard. Even the highest industry standard. Be greater than anything anyone else has ever dreamed of you. Don’t settle for pats on the back, salary increases, a nod-and-a-smile. Instead, rage against the tepidness of the mundane with every fiber of whatever makes you, you. Change this place.
I still have the dream sometimes. I do. I come home from the store and find you on my doorstep with a suitcase. And not your entire wardrobe. Just a carry-on, a duffel bag. We don’t say anything, but you have this look in your eye that kills me. It just… And I unlock the door and let you in. And that’s it. That’s the dream. When I wake up, I wake up happy, vibrating for a few seconds with my head in the sand…content. Then it goes away, and you go away. I really don’t want to get out of bed then because it’s cold out there, but I do.
When we hold each other, in the darkness, it doesn’t make the darkness go away. The bad things are still out there. The nightmares still walking. When we hold each other we feel not safe, but better. “It’s all right” we whisper, “I’m here, I love you.” and we lie: “I’ll never leave you.” For just a moment or two the darkness doesn’t seem so bad.
Neil Gaiman, Neil Gaiman’s Midnight Days (via thresca)