the notebook
postcard from Villa Minozzo
for the slow conversations, the familiar faces, the quiet kindness that turns a small town into something you miss before you even arrive.
Bailey
the pieces
seven
the loudest noise is the one inside your head. i hope you survive all the things you have had to carry alone.
the notebook
but at what cost?
what doesn't kill you makes you: * lose your innocence * stop trusting anyone * wonder what makes you so unlovable * live in a constant state of survival * question everything you thought you knew * replay all the ways it could have been different * ask yourself if it is worth going on
the notebook
postcards from Mondim de Basto
soon, i may have to start calling Portugal something closer to home.
the notebook
small chapters
1. Fishy and her sister came visiting from Saigon, carrying with them a little piece of justice. her sister's rapist been thrown into jail, and somehow, with my help, the world corrected itself by one small inch. it felt like watching the universe return one stolen thing. not
the pieces
six
note to self: healing can be so hard when your inner child wants love, your teenage self wants revenge, and your adult self only wants peace.
the notebook
money, money, and money
the version of me in my twenties believed that life had three missions: knowledge, lifestyle, and love. only after growing older did i realize that was not enough. because out in the world, the three words people worship most are money, money, and money. and it is strangely hard to
the notebook
after the parade
i tried to become a good person. i tried to shrink myself into something your love could keep safe. but here, they turned my pain into a carnival. they paraded me through the streets like a monster they could not kill. and i kept bandaging the same places they had
the pieces
five
apologies to the ones i left unread, my inbox blown up while i vanished into thin air; i like the idea of being someone's peace- but unfortunately, i am a menace.
the notebook
the archaeology of us
my beloved, these days, while the brutality of each battle with life got imprinted on your eyes and lips, i desperately tried to grab all the most beautiful memories of my life with all my strength, before everything is washed away in the whirlwind of time. those were also the
the notebook
a bad pain perdu and a decade
i last seen Laurent at a French bistro in Saigon. i ordered a cocktail, he wanted to try the pain perdu. the forty-five minutes conversation was much about things and people that run in parallels: big corporations, his mother, Parisienne at their finest, someone else's man has became
the pieces
four
on the days when i am trying to crawl out of alcohol withdrawal symptoms, like right now, i often think of a few lines by Charles Bukowski. "some men never die and some men never live but we're all alive tonight."