highlyeccentric | Maria Minolo

I want to devour my favorite books again, fuck
the ones I “need” to read because they will “dazzle” and
“compel” me, and anyway if I ever see “tour de force”
on another back cover I will throw up and die. I want to
eat more grains. I want to write poetry that consumes

my sadness, spins it into candelit softness and homemade
truths. I want to bake cookies. Buy lipstick. I want to kiss
the love of my life with dry leaves on the ground; I want
the leaves to understand that falling doesn’t have to mean
hurting yourself. I want to stop buying lipstick. I want to
think hard about holing up in a cabin in the woods forever,
and then I want to stop thinking about it. I want to cry

at the front row of a Bon Iver show; for the agony,
I’d rather know. I want to buy date-me heels and not
wear them, I want to take photos and not post them. I want
to be right and not show it–I want to learn that some
things are best kept to myself. I want to keep things.
I want to let go only when I’m ready. I want to say
“let’s go” almost always. I want take-offs and landings. I
want to be safe and brave at the same time. I want to quit
drinking but I probably won’t. I want to write more
lists. I want to stop writing lists. I want to leave

room for surprises. Don’t you? I want too leave spaces
blank. I want to leave a few boxes unchecked.

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