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shoutout the goodman family

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Scrunchie saga!

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goodman siblings my beloved <3

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i am once again goodman sibling posting becaue i love them both so much

with a side of henry and natalie because ofc

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Do you sometimes feel like you're an awful person? Not in a low self-esteem way, being unable to see why someone would like you, believing that you're boring or that no one is going to want to be your friend, but more in a "I am not as good a person as I seem to be, and I do all these things that make people think I'm kind, and good, but deep down I'm not, there's something rotten in me, and I don't want to trick all these people around me, but I don't really know how to put it into words and tell them this, because they will probably just deny it, but I still won't believe them because they cannot know all of me, and I'm scared to tell them all the unkind things because maybe I will be right, I will be rotten, and therefore unloveable" way.

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Al volver a abrir los ojos, te das cuenta de que las farolas han dejado de deslumbrarte. Probablemente has deambulado lo suficiente y el inminente amanecer hace que el ambiente esté más iluminado, pero en ese instante no llegas a pensar tanto. En ese momento, lo único que ocupa tu mente es cómo aquellas luces, que eran tan intensas unos momentos atrás, que ocupaban casi el total de tu atención con su brillo fulgurante, han quedado ahora relegadas a un segundo plano en el paisaje.

Entonces, como es natural siguiendo esta cadena de pensamiento, te preguntas si sucede lo mismo con las personas, si alguien que ha sido tan importante, tan fundamental, puede pasar en un instante a ser un mero eco advertido sólo al mirar las fotos desde determinados ángulos. Sería tan liberador pensar que sí…

Hace años que cuando te miras al espejo eres solo un mar de recuerdos, que ya no puedes ni siquiera describir quién eras tú, la esencia de ti, antes de todo lo que ha sucedido. Por una parte, parece razonable no recordarlo, hace toda una vida de esto, al fin y al cabo, pero a la vez es confuso. Pensar que puedes continuar viviendo, moviéndote, hablando, sin saber realmente quién eres es algo que nunca podrías haber imaginado. 

Antes, cuando eras joven, acostumbrabas a tenerlo todo claro. Tú eras tú, y eso era todo, era una explicación completa, suficiente. No habrías dudado en cómo describirte, quizá de manera distinta cada día de la semana, pero siempre clara, a mano, no había un solo día que te mirases al espejo y vieses a una extraña. Ahora en cambio, lejos de aquellos días, cuando tratas de describirte no encuentras una colección de adjetivos, sino de recuerdos: no eres quién eres de manera definible, el cómodo molde de tus por qués ha quedado atrás, para siempre olvidado, una definición obsoleta… Tu nuevo yo, el actual, no es una lista de palabras, es un compendio de experiencias: la memoria de ser alguien que ha pasado por un gran número de cosas, y la gente con las que ha pasado por ellas.Cuando miras atrás, en lugar de mirar en tu antiguo yo, miras en el actual: miras la persona que eres ahora, que sigue llevando esos recuerdos dentro aun sin saber por qué.

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When he looks out the plane window, he recalls everything he's ever left behind.

He left home with only a 17 year old's hopes and courage, all his belongings in a bag. He didn't look back then, it was easier. He had the certainty that everything that would come after would be better. But now he's older. Not old, although some days he feels so, but time has passed, he's experienced things he never would have believed he'd get to see with his own eyes when he left home. He's met loads of people, some of them worth it, some of them awful, as one does while walking along the path of life.

Now, he leaves again. He realizes now, that he has always been running away. He ran away from himself, since he was a kid, and then, when he came to terms with who he was, he run away from home. and what anyone would think, say, do. After that, one would think theres not much more to run away from, but he knows that's not true. There's always something to be scared of, if you know where to look. After all, even with all we may wish to believe,for most of our history humans have been ruled by fear, haven't we?

He takes the plane, he seems brave, everyone will paint him a hero, an adventurer, a courageous man, not scared  of what future may bring. What they dont know is that behind this departure is the fear of staying, of becoming, of looking back one day and finding a man who settled down, who accepted something he shouldn't have, who stopped changing, got down of the wave of the revolution and closed his mind.

So he runs away, afraid of becoming his father. Scared of doing what was once done to him. Terrified of letting someone down, and willing to cut any tie necessary to avoid that.

When the plane takes off, he feels calm. A water drop in the sea. Knowing himself invisible has always had a calming effect on him.

There's something exhausting in being always on the move, but he doesn't think about that now. He only thinks of the freedom he has, when he closes his eyes.

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Somos el hilo ininterrumpido de haber sido siempre nosotros mismos.

Una noche sin luna, Juan Diego Botto

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and then i caught myself wishing i was like summer, in a futile try to make the stormy days the minority of me

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When he enters the hall, everything lies so still he feels out of place. "It's weird, how you can enter a place you felt like home and suddenly find in yourself a stranger," he thinks. And it is. But it's also a relief sometimes, to know that you have finally left something behind.

He walks, he goes through every corridor, up the stairs, into a room he used to think of as his. Every wall is blank now. They didn't used to be, he'd put everything he found on the walls, as if by covering them he could cover his own heart. But cover it from what, the world? He knows now, you can only escape the world so long. After a while, reality is undeniable and the pain of having believed yourself free, way worse than the one of being trapped. So he fled. As painful as it is, as much as he's tried to avoid thinking of it for years, he run away. Now he knows that's the truth.

And he knows the boy he was would have never run away. The boy he'd been, a boy that's still, partly, inside of him, would have stayed, and drowned, and maybe even died, because he'd thought of running away as something shameful. The boy he was would have fought to live, but you can't keep fighting forever. A tear escapes his eyes. Not, as it could have been, for the life he could have lived but hadn't, nor for the hardships he's had to overcome in his short life. It's neither of those, not really, what breaks his barriers and sends a rush of emotion through all his body. He sheds a tear for the boy he was, for the pain that this kid (a kid he wouldn't even recognise anymore, a kid who wouldn't have liked him if they ever met) went through, for the knowledge that the past is immovable and no matter what he ever does, he will never be able to save that kid.

He turns away. It's probably the last time he will ever enter this room. The last time he will ever walk across this hall. He doesn't plan on coming to this street ever again. And then, through the tears, he smiles. Not because he's happy, he isn't yet, that will come later, at the warmth of his home. No, not because of any momentary happiness, but because of the relief of knowing, that even through hell, the kid survives. Even after entering his childhood house again, he keeps his head up. Because the kid, who during so many years wanted to die, realizes that he wants to live again.

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The morning after, the birds chirp while you walk home. The next day the wind blows their hair away from their face, making a mess of their bangs, a beautiful one. Weeks later, you burst laughing about a joke so bad that no one will get why it seemed funny when you tell them the story. After some months, they will give you flowers they picked on their way to you, flowers you will keep in a book, trying to stop them from rotting, because they will recall a moment you never wish to forget. You will cherish these memories, because they make who you both are as a pair, and because in taking a part in said pair you have also shaped yourself. These memories will seem crucial, unforgettable, and you'll want them to be. Because missing them would be missing youself.

But time passes, and in years, you'll have forgotten this. Not all at once, not everything, but little by little it will go away. You won't have time to be scared about losing yourself because you won't even realize you can't recall every detail anymore. And then the memories will be buried, remaining in the back of your mind forever, less defined with each passing day no matter how essential they once seemed.

And if you knew you were going to forget them, you wouldn't let yourself forget. Maybe that's why you open that specific book some morning; that's why when you overhear some kids talking in the bus, telling that particular joke, you feel whole again, made anew; maybe that's why when you come across a boy with bangs, combed that particular way, you feel happy for a moment, without even realizing it, or why. Because no matter how deep, they're still in you. They're still you.

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I grieve every life i could have lived but won't. Not because I hate the one I have, but because it seems unfair to have to face that many possibilities with so little time.

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The bird flies away. You stare at it in the distance, looking up at the sky. You don't want to let it go, but it has to, needs to part. You look at it with awe, impressed with how beautiful its wings are, horrified when the thought appears that if you could just clip them, tie them, cut them, even, it wouldn't be able to go away.

You let it fly away and as the distance between you grows, you stay still. You wonder what life would be if it never had to leave, if you could always be together, and you wonder if it wonders too. You wonder now as it parts if you will be wondering forever, you think that you will. What ifs have always been too appealing to you, too beautiful a concept to let go, too fragile not to pay them any mind.

One day, you hope, you will look at the sky and remember, you won't yearn, or cry, or scream because life is unfair and it took what was yours. One day the sky will only show you what was, and not what could have been. You await for that day to come.