I think I have been unhealthily obsessed with the concept of love since I was a little girl. Freud might say that it stems from when my father abandoned my mother and I when I was two, but that’s where my daddy issues come from as well. I watch these films and read these pieces of literature and the love is so thick, I happily wade through it, inch by inch.
And I think to myself, someone has felt these feelings. Someone has thought these thoughts. Someone has loved another person THIS much that they are willing to put it into a song or stand on a rooftop and shout it to the world.
And I don’t think I’ve ever felt love like that.
And I think what scares me most in life is that I never will.
I discovered Atticus late one night while perusing (and by perusing, I mean, losing hours of my life on) Pinterest. His poetry is simple and pure and beautiful and accessible. His poetry has been pulled straight out of my heart and onto the page.
Atticus is an elusive figure in pop culture as he continues to keep an anonymous life. We don’t know what his face looks like, only that he has blondish hair, is Canadian, late 20s, and my hero. He said he wants to keep himself anonymous because then, he can write what he wants to write, not what he feels like he should be writing. There is no censor for him and I completely get that.
So, he writes these beautiful little love notes to the world and I drink them up.
And in my life, and it’s infinite loneliness (okay, that’s a tad dramatic, but you get the drift) I have his words to keep me warm and for that, I am thankful.