Studies show that intelligent girls are more depressed because they know what the world is really like. -“Opheliac,” Emilie Autumn
one of my favourite thought catalog pieces is called “Never Date A Girl Who Reads”. i love it. it’s hilarious, funny, true, and wholly satisfying. but i want to write an open letter to the boy who writes, because while i agree with everything, i can’t help but feel the sadness that comes from knowing that i am a girl who reads.
i want the life worthy of being storied! but the boy who writes forgets that the girls who read, we’re the saddest because we’ll spend the rest of our lives in search of a love beyond the pages of Neruda, Bronte, and Lewis. We’ll spend eternity, and not find it, because the girl who reads is a dime a dozen, but the boy who writes?
one in a million.
maybe i should settle down, and stop comparing so that there would be no less than ideal, no “there must be more”s. maybe i should stop thinking that life is art, stop believing in the movie scene finales, because at the end of it all, if i were smart, i would know fiction from truth.
but i am the girl who reads, or maybe the broken girl who reads, and i wear my nostalgia with a poignant grace, in search of great perhaps’ without a clue, holding on to love because books are easy and life is hard. i am the girl who reads, but i am also a fool because i’ve read too much into life and somewhere along the way, became disillusioned by the truth behind paper.
the girl who reads is lonely.
she is lovely, but she’s lonely, and her expectations are contradictory, and she’s self-imploding because the girl who reads, knows too much, and in knowing so, knows that she doesn’t know.
because the girl who reads knows that she can’t be with the boy who doesn’t read, he will never get the nuances of subtlety, never do anything more than kiss her in the rain, have pseudo-deep whispered conversations into the dark, and if they were to marry, he would never give her anything more than the white picket fence with two and a half kids.
but you, the boy who writes? terrifies her. because you are everything she needs and wants and craves, but you will never offer her anything more than the half-hearted relationship she does not deserve, but she wants you because she knows that despite the inevitable dissolution, despite the mood swings and the half-hearted attempts at playing house, despite that she will never have more than the mandatory romance that you’ve decided she requires, she wants you.
it terrifies her because the boy who writes is also the boy who reads, and she knows that you’ll see through her too, and realize that beneath the mandatory romance she gives back in return, despite her insistence of wanting a life worthy of being storied, she doesn’t know what she wants.
so you terrify her, and he bores her, and her books hold solace for fleeting moments.
but that’s no way to live. not really.