The Nice Room

I found an old note the other day, addressed to Dear beautiful girl. It was left among old note pads and papers in between ramblings typed out on my typewriter. The edges had become worn, and you could feel the bumps on the back of the page from where rough hands had become overzealous on the keys. I don’t remember where it’s from, I don’t remember who wrote it, it must have been a long time a go, when someone loved me or someone wanted to be remembered. They sat there in the dark of my old apartment, one of them anyway, with a dingy light and unaccustomed hands and wrote down these words because I was the beautiful broken girl. And this person, this boy, wrote about me as this beautiful broken girl, so fragile in the world, so unequivocally sad. He spoke of my eyes and my hands and my sorrow like it was the best thing about me, like it was the only thing about me. Yes I know that sadness is a draw and it just pulls you in and makes you want to rescue me but, don’t. Because I wrote my best when I was sad, and I made art because I thought otherwise I would explode. Back then I wanted to be happy, wanted to be happy so badly I would think about it all the time. I would look up at the new buildings being erected and wonder who lives there, look at successful people and wonder why I didn’t have what it took to be them.

And now here I am, sitting on the floor in a nice room, in a place I didn’t know I could be and I miss the sadness, I miss having nothing to lose. Countless hours spent mourning over the loss of something I didn’t have and now, now I have it. Now I have it and the urge is gone, and the pain is gone, and even though I never thought I would, I miss it.

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18 thoughts on “The Nice Room

  1. I can’t help but enjoy your writing. Not just this piece. Such rich melancholy and honesty that, maybe for some, is darkness, yet I experience such deep, rich beauty. A heart releasing itself through words so thoughtfully placed together as if flowing from another place or time. Deeply engrossing and relatable. Like being transported, not to physical place but deep within my own heart or even universal heart. Quietly listening to a voice in your words, so calm and peaceful, yet passion filled, completely engaged and feeling each one as they flow from page to mind to heart. Intoxicating.


  2. Because in truth, it doesn’t matter who finds you beautiful when you’re happy and at your best. What matters is who finds you beautiful when you’re sad and at you’re worst.
    Beautifully written. ❤

    (PS- I just put up my first real length story which may or may not have a sequel. I’m waiting to see the response on it, and would LOVE your opinion. You’re so good with words and expressions and I really need YOUR opinion on it! Thanks 😊)


  3. Because sadness is just as beautiful as happiness. My closest friend, upon discovering this, said, ” I just don’t want a girl I can be happy with. I had that. I need someone I can also be sad with. ” taught me that both States have aesthetic and honest value

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I think you’re right, they absolutely do. Someone told me once that sadness is how we know absolutely we are human, I think your point speaks to that. thanks for stopping by! :)

      Liked by 1 person

  4. Wonderful. I’ve recently dissected a large memory box–a trunk, really–and found so many sweet and thrilling reminders, but also many things that stir no recollections. It is difficult not to lament those memories so far forgotten that even the artifacts archived against time fail to retrieve them. And then, do I follow the pragmatist urging to discard everything that lacks resonance, or do I keep them just in case hindsight returns them to me?

    You have a beautiful blog, by the way–it’s difficult to resist stacking click upon click.


    1. Thanks so much, I love this comment, I think it’s so hard to find that balance between cherishing memory and trying to live in the present. The past always seems so perfect and sweet doesn’t it?


  5. I love this. I have a stack of letters from my junior and senior high days that I wrote to a friend who returned them to me last summer. I have only read one so far as I have been afraid to read the rest. Afraid to find out who I thought I was going to be and who I ultimately ended up being are not at all the same. Someday.


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