Your Ego’s writing checks, your body can’t cash.

A huge respect and love for @XI_graphics for taking the time to design this profile picture for us. You guys should check out of their work on the link.

A monster appears
like one from your childhood
An inner battle commences
Between the bad and the good
At first, you'd find them in movies
or under the bed
Now as you grow, you fear
The monsters live in your head
Disguised as shadows in night,
New monsters now appear
These monsters are sneakier,
They know what you fear
Struggling to breathe,
your eyes filled with fear
Trapped, alone, no where to hide
Can't escape, it's far and it's near
This monster is tricky,
It plays tricks on your mind,
You plead for it to stop,
But there's no where to hide
This monster knows you
It makes you question your past
With a bleak outlook,
You wonder how long this might last
The one place you felt safe
Before this monster invaded
Now your mind is no solace
Every good memory faded
How do you run from something
That plays tricks on your mind?
How do you know who you are
When it's yourself you can't find?
How do you feel joy from
things that now trigger pain?
How do you move forward with life
when only fear remains?
We all grow up
It's a natural part of life
No one ever warns us though
That life comes with great strife
No one ever tells us
To be afraid of our thoughts
Feeling lost and alone
With many battles still to be fought
Once this monster invades,
It's hard to get back
To a life once lived,
Before this monster attacked
Our parents warned us of
the bad guys outside
They never told us
of the ones in our minds
And now this monster has control
You no longer recognize the mirror
You pray for this to end,
For prayers fall upon deaf ears
You question your sanity,
You question your morals
This monster knows how to torture
To envelop you in its toil
You know you have a battle ahead
This monster can't defeat
Crippled by the past
You must overcome and beat
This is an illness
This is internal torture
But you mustn't forget
You've got a bright future
You must fight on,
Between this inner war
Good versus evil,
What do you fight for?
Fight for love,
Fight to win back your mind
Fight for family and joy
Fight for what you still must find
Monsters can attack
Anyone, anytime
Lest not judge
For you never know when a monster might prey upon YOUR mind

Irrationality. I found the thought faintly pleasurable. Or rather, I felt at ease with it. What frightened me was the logic of the world; in it lay the foretaste of something incalculably powerful. Its mechanism was incomprehensible, and I could not possibly remain closeted in that windowless, bone-chilling room. Though outside lay the sea of irrationality, it was far more agreeable to swim in its waters until presently I drowned.

People talk of "social outcasts." The words apparently denote the miserable losers of the world, the vicious ones, but I feel as though I have been a "social outcast" from the moment I was born. If ever I meet someone society has designated as an outcast, I invariably feel affection for him, an emotion which carries me away in melting tenderness.

People also talk of a "criminal consciousness." All my life in this world of human beings I have been tortured by such a consciousness, but it has been my faithful companion, like a wife in poverty, and together, just the two of us, we have indulged in our forlorn pleasures. This, perhaps, has been one of the attitudes in which I have gone on living. People also commonly speak of the "wound of a guilty conscience." In my case, the wound appeared of itself when I was an infant, and with the passage of time, far from healing it has grown only the deeper, until now it has reached the bone. The agonies I have suffered night after night have made for a hell composed of an infinite diversity of tortures, but—though this is a very strange way to put it—the wound has gradually become dearer to me than my own flesh and blood, and I have thought its pain to be the emotion of the wound as it lived or even its murmur of affection.
–Osamu Dazai

I have seen three pictures of the man.

The first, a childhood photograph you might call it, shows him about the age of ten, a small boy surrounded by a great many women (his sisters and cousins, no doubt). He stands in brightly checked trousers by the edge of a garden pond. His head is tilted at an angle thirty degrees to the left, and his teeth are bared in an ugly smirk. Ugly? You may well question the word, for insensitive people (that is to say, those indifferent to matters of beauty and ugliness) would mechanically comment with a bland, vacuous expression, "What an adorable little boy!" It is quite true that what commonly passes for "adorable" is sufficiently present in this child's face to give a modicum of meaning to the compliment. But I think that anyone who had ever been subjected to the least exposure to what makes for beauty would most likely toss the photograph to one side with the gesture employed in brushing away a caterpillar, and mutter in profound revulsion, "What a dreadful child!"

Indeed, the more carefully you examine the child's smiling face the more you feel an indescribable, unspeakable horror creeping over you. You see that it is actually not a smiling face at all. The boy has not a suggestion of a smile. Look at his tightly clenched fists if you want proof. No human being can smile with his fists doubled like that. It is a monkey. A grinning monkey-face. The smile is nothing more than a puckering of ugly wrinkles. The photograph reproduces an expression so freakish, and at the same time so unclean and even nauseating, that your impulse is to say, "What a wizened, hideous little boy!" I have never seen a child with such an unaccountable expression.

The face in the second snapshot is startlingly unlike the first. He is a student in this picture, although it is not clear whether it dates from high school or college days. At any rate, be is now extraordinarily handsome. But here again the face fails inexplicably to give the impression of belonging to a living human being. He wears a student's uniform and a white handkerchief peeps from his breast pocket. He sits in a wicker chair with his legs crossed. Again be is smiling, this time not the wizened monkey's grin but a rather adroit little smile. And yet somehow it is not the smile of a human being: it utterly lacks substance, all of what we might call the "heaviness of blood" or perhaps the "solidity of human life"—it has not even a bird's weight. It is merely a blank sheet of paper, light as a feather, and it is smiling. The picture produces, in short, a sensation of complete artificiality. Pretense, insincerity, fatuousness—none of these words quite covers it. And of course you couldn't dismiss it simply as dandyism. In fact, if you look carefully you will begin to feel that there is something strangely unpleasant about this handsome young man. I have never seen a young man whose good looks were so baffling.

The remaining photograph is the most monstrous of all. It is quite impossible in this one even to guess the age, though the hair seems to be streaked somewhat with grey. It was taken in a corner of an extraordinarily dirty room (you can plainly see in the picture how the wall is crumbling in three places). His small hands are held in front of him. This time he is net smiling. There is no expression whatsoever. The picture has a genuinely chilling, foreboding quality, as if it caught him in the act of dying as he sat before the camera, his hands held over a heater. That is not the only shocking thing about it. The head is shown quite large, and you can examine the features in detail: the forehead is average, the wrinkles on the forehead average, the eyebrows also average, the eyes, the nose, the mouth, the chin . . . the face is not merely devoid of expression, it fails even to leave a memory. It has no individuality. I have only to shut my eyes after looking at it to forget the face. I can remember the wall of the room, the little heater, but all impression of the face of the principal figure in the room is blotted out; I am unable to recall a single thing about it. This face could never be made the subject of a painting, not even of a cartoon. I open my eyes. There is not even the pleasure of recollecting: of course, that's the kind of face it was! To state the matter in the most extreme terms: when I open my eyes and look at the photograph a second time I still cannot remember it. Besides, it rubs against me the wrong way, and makes me feel so uncomfortable that in the end I want to avert my eyes.

I think that even a death mask would hold more of an expression, leave more of a memory. That effigy suggests nothing so much as a human body to which a horse's head has been attached. Something ineffable makes the beholder shudder in distaste. I have never seen such an inscrutable face on a man
–Osamu Dazai

Things you can do during this time (other than studying):

- Make a bookmark
- Arrange the room
- Watch educational videos on YouTube (such as drawing, cooking or whatever you like)
- Watch short series
- Arrange mobile files, laptops or computers
- Create a notebook of the recipes you know
- Clean and tidy up library books
- Make a playlist for spring
- Making Dreamcatcher
- Reading about painters of different artistic periods
- Watch all the films made by a director
- Make a list of books you like to buy
- Write the date of birth of the people you love
- Beautify the house keys with nail polish
- Drying fruits like oranges
- Make a list of things that make you feel bad and upset
- Make a list of things that make you happy
- Making bloody fragrance
- If you have a habit of highlighting beautiful sentences in books, go find them and read them.
- View scientific documentaries
- Visit your photo album
- Write a letter to someone you love (you can keep it and give it to them whenever you can)
- Write a letter for your future

We are teenagers with the odious view of the world. We don't see any beauty in any part of it. We are all brokenhearted, people hating, mentally broken kids. We have negative view of love, relationships and marriage.
A land can be beautiful if we plant on it or polluted if we throw waste on it. We are the wastes and we are gonna creat a polluted land. We are gonna creat a polluted generation. They are gonna do the same, it's never gonna end. It's gonna be a cycle.

Listen, I am coming to you, when my heart was amputated for the first time my eyes were hit by rain, the autumn occupied my spirit, but my feelings were very sincere to the sun as if it was her first and only son, the only constant idea was, your image that resides in my petal in the spring of my shadow She took her full turn towards herself, and the entire solar group would not forgive my siding with the moon, the things were filled with one batch, then the countdown began, to retrieve the fragile story remains, other seconds, the love entered the door of our house, did not enter from the window in a way that did not penetrate the window. If someone shouted, "How do you give your hearts to the impatient, impatient people?" You will perish!
6 years and an hour and a half and 4 minutes and 3 seconds and I try to absorb the first time after the first look after the first of each first, but it was a tragedy, the bullet did not target me, but penetrated the wall, but my chest was bleeding.
4 years more in resisting the traditional current that stretches between race and race with exhausting many positive charges and receiving negative, until it stopped, I ignited the charging generator again, however! I found that there was no point, no spirit in enriching more, and reverence for meetings, so the papers fell, from my eyebrows, from my hearts, and from the past, the laws of walking sentenced me to the red indication of the extent of staying in you.
So we go back to the first week and the other, and heart attacks, how not to lose something? And how does his heart frown smile? Why do we try to be right in front of those we do not love, why do you have to speak and I have to listen as long as you are not forced to listen? How do people want to be respected without being loved? How do people love without being respected? Very fake, there are many mazes inside us, why do people think we are in a race and we have to prove who has the power to drive?
Who is the best in speaking style?
Who is the most beautiful in the eyes of the group?
Idealism is a foolish thing when you are not in your eyes, when I do not find it in your smile, when I do not tell you, let us fly without installing your wings that you bought with the race of days,
Do you want to release me?
And you are restricted!
Hear my chaos, you are always able to reach your hand when I ask and when I do not, even when you flirt with me, rebuked as I am, your features provide me with sympathy, like pouring rain that does not stop while the sun is at its center, I put the first eyebrow and then the second, then the second .. ., Alarm clock alarm, wake up, now you have a lot of life works, the most important of which is your vision. Smiling in your face is foreplaying your broken letters and then silence, I do not see you, I do not see you. No, it is a big and more usual predicament, when we meet again there are many stories that we both will drink together but we are not from the same cup, as we are both always sick, we haven't found the medicine yet.

I always try to convey something that cannot be moved, to explain something that cannot be explained, to reveal something that I only feel in my bones
 Franz Kafka.

I will write in spite of everything, I will write anyway. It is my struggle for self-preservation.
- Franz Kafka

Either you are the lady of space and time in someone's life, or you do not accept that you are just a female to complete the void.

Tonight’s advice: love, go ahead, ask, be angry, care, get angry, express your feelings, complain, protest, interact, share with others anything .. prove that you deserve life ..
Whatever the circumstances, do not tend to indifference and cold,
Do not turn into walls and human refrigerators.

Night Apology: For those who taught me how to love and love others, for those who approached me and fled from them, for those whose faces were forgotten .. For those whom I wanted to embrace, and I did not arrive, I apologize to everyone who left me who loves me and did not tell him that I am not fit for anything.

I deeply regret that we met at a distorted time like this, and I always wished if I had known you in the days that I felt that sky was my home, I would hang you on her chest as a star.