mean it - by grant - cypress and barbells

I used to obsess about what things meant. As a teenager, I’d sit and stare at my bedroom walls or my life, wondering what they were made of. When I’d stare long enough, the walls would begin to blur and breathe. I realized I was never looking at things “out there” in the first place. I could only look at the looking itself. Meaning, too, is found in the looking. Meanings constantly change shape and form. When you stare too long, they warp like the visual field. They emerge from the way you look at things, from the stories you tell about them. As an adult, I spend slightly less time staring at walls. Instead I ponder the meaning of much more grown up things, like all my failed relationships. What did all those mean? Some days, a particular ex looks like a pile of mistakes. Sometimes they present as bulked-up hamstrings and sex appeal. Other days I remember them like a lesson. And one absentminded morning on the bus, I simply remember them as the best thing I ever got to love. Which of t

I used to obsess about what things meant. As a teenager, I’d sit and stare at my bedroom walls or my life, wondering what they were made of. When I’d stare long enough, the walls would begin to blur and breathe. I realized I was never looking at things “out there” in the first place. I could only look at the looking itself. Meaning, too, is found in the looking. Meanings constantly change shape and form. When you stare too long, they warp like the visual field. They emerge from the way you look at things, from the stories you tell about them. As an adult, I spend slightly less time staring at