The Places You Found LoveEveryone, but you especially as a woman, is biologically programmed to find babies cute. It's an evolutionary imperative, because the rational thing to do when you've got a screaming, shitting dependant taking up your food, is to kill it, and we need something to stop us doing that. It's also why people are generally attracted to big eyes and smooth skin - because they're characteristics of children.
And I'm not saying this to detract from the beauty of parenthood, or to make you sad, I'm saying it to point out that this fact doesn't make a baby's laugh any less wonderful. And I don't think the source of anything can make it less so.
This is why I can point out that any form of love isn't God or fate or destiny, it's that if two people have a strong emotional attachment, their children are more likely to survive.
Atomic bombs are beautiful.
So I will say that the me I am now, will and always has been feeling what I feel, but that sentence doesn't even make sense until we consider that
The Reasons We DieWhat I meant to say was that sometimes I just stare at the cigarette in my hands and beg for it to stop messing around and just kill me already.
But I figured you don't want to hear that.
The Shifting Nature of RealityYou asked me, "In these dreams, what does it look like?" I told you it looks different every time. Sometimes it's like a million feathers falling, sometimes it's like snow, sometimes it's like little stones, sometimes like ash, sometimes like a fine sand blowing across the hills. It's always silent. It falls around me but it never touches me. It never sticks. I told you sometimes I see dim figures walking in the distance through all the falling white. I told you I wish one would turn around and come to me. I wish one had your face. I wish the pink of your cheeks and blue of your eyes would appear to me unveiled from out of the drift. But the sad small figures don't turn around. They walk on, shoulders low, and disappear. I just watch them. You said, "I'm here now," and touched my hand. "I'm here now."
The Time Gone ByTick tock. All day. Every day is tick tocking by. There is no clock in your office that ticks or tocks, but you can hear the tick tock in your head. Tick. That's another second of your life gone, you think. Tock. That's one more second waiting for the man to tell you what to do. Tick. I'm a thinker, you think. Tock. Time to be a doer. Tick. You walk into your boss' office. Tock. I quit.
The clock stops.
The NuancePlay it one more time please, I need to hear it again. I need to make sure that its the only sound in my head. Play it again for me, I want to hear it once more. I want to make sure the only sound is correct. I don't want to hear that stare again. I don't want to see those words. I'll play the part again, I need to play it again. I need to make sure that every note is right. Give me a second to rehearse that part once more, I haven't been playing it right this entire time. I know it might sound right to you, but it doesn't sound right to me. I can't hear those words anymore. I never want to see that stare again. I have to keep playing. I never want to hear that again.
The Silence Goes On For YearsIn case of emergency, break glass. Throw plates. Cave to the insecurities you've harbored all along. Scream. Curse. Panic. Accuse her of never loving you, even though you know she did and still does. Tell her you never loved her. Tell yourself. Feel the world crumbling around you. Rip the rest of it down. Ignore her pleas. Her tears. Your regrets. Watch yourself leave, unable to stop your own feet. Slam the door. Keep walking. Realize, too late, that you didn't mean it.
The Art of Finding FlawsMaybe that's all it means, to grow up; to watch your heroes become human, right before your eyes.
the Millennia LaterDesolation has its own stark beauty. It's in the limbs of dead trees twisting up, pleading at the grey sky. It's in the air, cold with a faint hint of smoke and the barest breeze that stirs up the dust at your feet. The white-grey ash falls like snowflakes, dusting your hair, your coat, your mask. You catch one of the flakes and it crumbles between your gloved fingers. The ground is packed as hard as concrete under your boots as you turn your back on this cold, still world. You look up; the moon is barely visible. You will carry that memory with you as you go back underground. Mankind no longer has use for the stars.
--At first, she made dirty jokes, swore too much, and wore much more black than anyone should care for. She got annoyed far too easily and cared way too much. She wanted everyone to be happy, but she wasn't trying to please anybody by changing into something she wasn't. She'd make fun of herself and always found something humorous in any situation. She was attracted to the dark and abnormal. She was passionate, cynical, and strong. She was unapologetically herself.
Dig a little deeper, and you'll notice the bright blush across her face when she presented in class. You'll hear the softness in her voice when a teacher called on her, and realize that she never raised her hand, or greeted people first in the hallway. She always apologized first, often excessively. She felt bad for things that weren't her fault. She was the first to hold someone's hand when they were scared, and the last to give up on something that was important to her. She was shy, insecure, emotional and compassionate. She
The Things I Never got to Say “I’m sorry.”
That was always how my sentences should’ve started.
You usually were.
“I love you.”
Three simple words. Never could bring myself to say them, you always seemed to know, but you still deserved to be told.
“I love you more than the booze.”
I hate that I never told you that.
“I love you more than the drugs.”
“I miss you.”
I did every second we weren’t together.
“I love the way you laugh.”
I did. It made me feel lighter, like the world was ours and there was nothing that could stop us.
“I love your smile.”
Why didn’t I ever tell you that? I knew you knew, but I also knew that you were waiting for me to tell you.
“Your hair looks beautiful”
You never thought so, but I always loved it.
They went to school and never came back..
I was as usual in a state of bliss. That omnipotent feeling like duh, nothing can possibly go wrong with me. Nothing that life throws at me can stir me I am living happily in the paradise of oblivion I created. People are killed? Oh that's pretty normal. People are killed everyday. That place had a traffic accident? Who cares, driver should be blamed. Not my fault. Not my business. Terrorist are going to attack again? Oh a minute of worry. Than its shrugged off. After all , I am living in a big city. They wont attack here. WHY CARE FOR OTHERS? Why affect our own lives for them, after all I am a cursed observer who wont ever be victimized or so I believed .
Anyway, cold and jinxed as I may be, somewhere deep down I still cared, I still had the capability to feel the pain of others. And that I discovered today, on 16th December 2014 even a person like me couldn't stop her tears. The tragedy that has befallen us cannot be described in words.
Imagine yourself as 15 year old ready for schoo
Waiting, Fading, and Floating AwayI started talking to serial killers years ago when the depression started to form. Or maybe it had always been there? I’m not the kind of person who lets my emotions get the best of me. I’m always the calm and rational person people often go to for advice and support.
Though, I’ve always found it funny how people always expect me to be there for them, but when I need them, no one is around. But I guess that’s kind of how my whole life has been. I’m only here when you need me, and I guess that existence is an existence enough.
I had read books on true crime and killers for a while, but it never occurred to me to write to them until I was fifteen. I remember coming home one day done with the world, and instead of taking my life, I wrote a letter.
At first, I had written to Charles Manson, Joe Metheny, Gary Ridgeway, Charles Cullen, and David Berkowtiz (Son of Sam). I wrote about my life, my pain, my struggles, and how lonely I felt. It never really phased me
There is that girl
Yes that girl
Well I know her
I know her since a while now
and I like her
not like a lover or anything
I just like her
I like staring at her
when she draws
when she stares at the sky
I like staring at her in general
I don't know if she is pretty
But I find her pretty
I seem being the only noticing that
I tend to bother her a lot
because I like her
I like her a lot
She says she hates that
But I don't believe her
So I keep bothering her
She also says she is fine
when I ask her what is wrong
But I don't believe her
So I keep asking
I keep asking
because I know
I know she lies
I like her
I like her a lot
and I seem being the only one noticing
I like her so much
that I don't wanna show her
how I feel about her
Even if I have to say
I don't like her
I like her
I like her a lot
I like staring at her writing in her diary
I know she dislikes that
But I keep
Against Human TraffickingI'd rather sell my body to the highest bidder, every night for the rest of my life, than sell my child.
I'd rather be a burglar than trade away my child to pay off my debts.
I'd rather live on the streets than see my child give up an education so she/he can earn money for the family.