Sure, I’m afraid of what might lead to my death: car accidents, plane crashes, drowning. But, I’m more afraid of what won’t kill me: people dying, people leaving, the silences that seem to never end. It’s the idea of having to live through something that scares me, not the end itself.
OB. (via wedrivearoundandshedrivesuswild)
~~This is beautiful. The passage captures exactly the pain of living. We can’t be afraid of death, because death is nothing. It doesn’t exist, because after it happens, nothing happens. At least as far as we know. The things we fear in life are the pains we have to live through.
February 25, 2014 at 10:23pm
Sometime. When you’re done crying on the bathroom floor. When you can poke your head of the shower. When you’ll let me warm your hands. I’d like to tell you that I love you. And that the world is miserable. But somehow that’s okay.
You know them when you come upon them. They’re unmistakable things really. Taller than the rest with outstretched arms. Perfect nooks for feet and hands to grab and rest. Perfect limbs to sit and think and read and hope and whistle and nap. Just have good balance. When your head breaks the canopy. And you see the overwhelming green being lightly whispered by the air. You know.
Colder weather gives each arm a voice. With every step and reach and pull. The limbs creak under your weight. Some snap and fall to the ground below. Of course if it gives way. You fall with it. Into the snow and ice beneath you.
Warmer weather lets you stay longer. Think longer. Get lost longer. You watch the change of the sun. Feel the rays caress each bevel. The songs the animals. The places where they play. Where you play.
When the leaves start to crunch. And your body knocks them down as you climb. You notice how the red burn. And the yellow wane. Some brown. But the twigs grow bear.
When they grow again. In the renewing time. The light green bulbs are easy to crush. The juice is sticky and when you rip back the first layer the light green mixes with a startling white. At least amongst the young ones.
Breaking the young ones. Is Bad. It Stops them from becoming the big ones. The big ones. Perfect to sit and think and read and hope and whistle and nap. Just have good balance.
February 16, 2014 at 10:51pm
Preface: unrequited love is never a laughing matter. it’s a pain so real and terrifying. one everyone goes through. society will tell you to pull yourself together. to ask the question. to face your fear. but it’s a real fear. it’s real pain. it’s not being over dramatic. it’s not being a coward. it’s being stuck. stuck in an emotion that accompanies a tremendous amount of passion with a crucial amount of pain. the hopeless romantics, are not hopeless, nor should they be ridiculed. they live within this hope. one that many refuse to face. one that many can never connect to. they choose to live within this. to me, that’s the most courageous thing you could possibly do. [end of digression(y) rant]
it’s unnerving. in a way that really has no clarification. in a way that feels like nothing else and everything else all at the same time. not embarrassing, not comforting, just the situation i continually find myself in, even though all i do is strive to avoid it. it lives within this horrible combination of absolute fury and the most sincere test of patience, the strongest feelings you can have, the greatest fear you could imagine, the greatest joy it could possibly bring you, and the greatest despair you could go through. and everyone’s felt it at some point, but to you, to you alone it always will be wholly personal. that thing you think no one else could understand, but in a way how could they? it’s your experience, your frustration, your entire being, being poured into the most futile of instances. but it matters. it causes you to feel, to want, to cry. the fear though. the fear is what leaves it in that entirely divided, entirely separate space. so that even with a few words you could have your answer, but you don’t want the answer, because the answer has a good chance of not being the one you want it to be and that’s the fear all over again. so you live in that fear. you let it keep you in that space that you hate and yet still gives you the most tiniest bit of hope.
i remember that it hurt. looking at him hurt. the memory of that won’t fade. that utter confusion of the pain mixed with the overwhelming want and the slightest hint of hope. it’s the surest way to drive a person insane. forever drives me insane. never fully wrapping my head around that which was right there next to me, in front of me, and yet the furthest thing i could possibly imagine.
February 15, 2014 at 9:53pm
the world doesn’t fit behind a white picket fence
February 5, 2014 at 10:05pm
Having a soft heart in a cruel world is courage, not weakness. In acting on the feelings of your heart, you defy the cruelty of the world. Empathy and compassion does not make you weak.
No451 [The Beginnings]
It is impossible to be heading in the direction of nowhere.
"Where are you?" he asked.
I remember it hurt. Looking at him hurt. And accompanied with that pain were so many questions that made the hurt, hurt more. One’s I was far too afraid to answer or to ask. I could never rightfully rationalize which was worse, being terrified of my questions or living with the pain of looking at him. Either way, I was a coward. Still am to this day for never picking an answer. Regret, however, seems to harsh a sentence for my self-committed crime, although I guess all crimes are self committed. I prefer to phrase it woeful curiosity.
No1. Avoid becoming a monotonous robot, rather be an active participant in my life.
No2. Don’t whine so much.
No3. Vent to feel better, not to whine.
No4. Be rebellious in a matter that challenges life without risking the legal statutes that society has created.
No5. If you break the legal statutes, don’t get caught.
Rules as follow: send a series if random emojis and respond with a story encompassing said emojis.
For those not on an apple device: mouse, composition notebook, average suburban house, cat with hearts (the commercialized valentine day symbol, not the anatomical structure) for eyes, a hand with a pointing index figure, & a hand doing the a-ok symbol.
"🐭📓🏡😻👉👌u sent me this awhile back & I feel compelled to contextualize
The man, content with himself, spun 360 in his office swivel chair to take in the life he had created around him. The scientific contributions he had made far exceeded those of any other in his fields. The numerous mice he sacrificed in his cure for selfishness dutifully gave up their lives for the greater good. Each tiny mouse heart, for he knew everyone having written their names and death dates in a journal he kept in the lab, played a crucial role in his discovery. Having cured the world of selfishness, the man was praised. Face on time magazine, barbara Walters only important person of the year, Pulitzer, Nobel and all that nonsense. He didn’t really care for all the huff and puff. At the end of the day he was simply glad that the greed and once self centered world had subsided. People were giving to a point where charity and community service became life in itself. At birth, one was injected with the serum and saved the hideous burden of selfishness. The trick was to create a formula that respected all pursuit of self-happiness without the overly excessive need to be cruel. No simple task, yet one that over 60 years of hardwork had procured. But he looked at the accolades and the merits and realized he was alone with them. His empty house all but gleamed, thanks to his Puerto Rican cleaning lady and cook, but she had her only family. The contribution he made took care of everyone but himself. He had not cured the world of loneliness, because that solution had been found. It was found in others. He neglected this. There was a time in his youth when a fellow spunky scientist, fair haired cat loving lass, would have given the world to be his wife. They would sneak away on private beach weekends, giving each other rimjobs by the fireplace. He loved her, but his work drove him to drive her away. His selfishness for the cure for selfishness, or his pride, or his lack of social cues, whatever it was made him pursue his work. He cursed the male biological tendency for one track focusing. Wished he could renounce all his work in order to have his love back. But in all his thinking, in relishing in the misery of loneliness, he wondered if giving up his research for the one he loved was selfish in regard to the greater good or could their love have made the world an equally better place, forcing people to learn and love the beauty of charity and self-sacrifice through the selfish mistakes they made. A conundrum of the heart and one he could no longer dwell on, for it would consume him.”
the cool side of a pillow. i hate when it’s talked about in song, almost as much as i hate the phrase “plant a kiss”. the relief your face feels on the chilled part of a face cushion is nothing but calming and relaxing. it’s the number one defense against the dreaded migraine, the empathetic shoulderless shoulder you can cry into, the flip side of an all but cough syrup stained mess. yes, my crisp postern of the down filled sack i lay my head into, i appreciate you.