Eilidh

“He never knows what he wants. It changes completely from minute to minute, and he has no decisive inner voice that says 'This is the real you, this is what you desire.' Ed is blurry, to even himself. His outlines are vague. This is fine except that you need to be solid for other people. To have relationships, to be trusted, you have to say, 'This is me, this is what I want' and act as if that were true at all times.”
― Oisín McKenna, Evenings and Weekends

“I feel like living in London is like being on the constant verge of an orgasm but never being able to cum. Do you know what I mean? It’s not that you’re not turned on. It’s not that you aren’t having a lovely time. But something deep down inside your body won’t allow for it no matter how hard you try.”
― Oisín McKenna, Evenings and Weekends

“If you cannot love me, I will die. Before you came I wanted to die, I have told you many times. It is cruel to have made me want to live only to make my death more bloody.”
― James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”
― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar