In another universe far from here, I would have punched you in the face instead of saying it's okay. I'm fine
Forwarded from Unresolved Issues
Love tastes better at a distance. Like a faint perfume or a soft silhouette. It's better when its a gentle caress and a barely there kiss. Love is better when imagined, embellished by hope and shrouded in delusion. Love is better when its a small breeze moving the curtains on a quite evening.
Love is better when you can't see my flaws and I can't see yours. When I'm a little far away, just hazy enough for you to see a shape, an outline of someone you can love, somone perfect.
The moon looks pretty from down here, the craters a charming hue, a trick on the eye, a play of lights and shadows. But were we close, were we on the surface, those craters are mountains to climb and valleys to sink into. They're no longer beautiful. They're a nigthmare. A challenge. A burden.
So love me from a distance and let me do the same. I don't want you weary of climbing the mountains of my ego or the valleys of my anger. I don't want you exhaused and cursing the ground you walk on or the skin your fingers trace. No, I want you on earth. Far far away. Looking at me on a chilly October night while lake water swishes beneath you. Let my flaws captivate you from afar, their edges softened by distance. Let me be a vision you're trasfixed by or a dream that leaves you in awe. Let me be a phantom you can never catch but can't help but love.
#fiction
Love is better when you can't see my flaws and I can't see yours. When I'm a little far away, just hazy enough for you to see a shape, an outline of someone you can love, somone perfect.
The moon looks pretty from down here, the craters a charming hue, a trick on the eye, a play of lights and shadows. But were we close, were we on the surface, those craters are mountains to climb and valleys to sink into. They're no longer beautiful. They're a nigthmare. A challenge. A burden.
So love me from a distance and let me do the same. I don't want you weary of climbing the mountains of my ego or the valleys of my anger. I don't want you exhaused and cursing the ground you walk on or the skin your fingers trace. No, I want you on earth. Far far away. Looking at me on a chilly October night while lake water swishes beneath you. Let my flaws captivate you from afar, their edges softened by distance. Let me be a vision you're trasfixed by or a dream that leaves you in awe. Let me be a phantom you can never catch but can't help but love.
#fiction
❤1
Forwarded from Scattered skull.
What encourages me to write?
Is it my parents?
Or maybe my embarrassing high school fling?
My clumsiness, my awkwardness, my insecurity?
The strict people pleasing?
Or the bullies who mocked my loud breathing and dark skin?
I don’t know.
Maybe I call myself a “writer” only because I analyze myself too much,
Because I write about the things that have happened to me.
And honestly, I’ve only written a handful of things that don’t connect
to those parts of me.
Yet somehow, the pieces tied to those painful moments
are my favorites.
Not the ones I imagined, not the ones I reached for.
Why is that?
I feel so disconnected, so open.
I keep trying, but writing isn’t helping me like it used to.
Everything I create feels unfamiliar
I hate what I say after I’ve said it,
I hate what I do after I’ve done it.
I’m not just lost
lost is too simple a word for this.
I wasn’t here to begin with.
I am a facade
and for that, I am sorry.
there is nothing in the back.
Is it my parents?
Or maybe my embarrassing high school fling?
My clumsiness, my awkwardness, my insecurity?
The strict people pleasing?
Or the bullies who mocked my loud breathing and dark skin?
I don’t know.
Maybe I call myself a “writer” only because I analyze myself too much,
Because I write about the things that have happened to me.
And honestly, I’ve only written a handful of things that don’t connect
to those parts of me.
Yet somehow, the pieces tied to those painful moments
are my favorites.
Not the ones I imagined, not the ones I reached for.
Why is that?
I feel so disconnected, so open.
I keep trying, but writing isn’t helping me like it used to.
Everything I create feels unfamiliar
I hate what I say after I’ve said it,
I hate what I do after I’ve done it.
I’m not just lost
lost is too simple a word for this.
I wasn’t here to begin with.
I am a facade
and for that, I am sorry.
there is nothing in the back.
Forwarded from Sosina
'Born to be an artist, desiring to be the muse.'
An artist is supposed to paint or write poem or novel whether there's a muse or not. But when the muse comes that's when the artist crates that masterpiece. That piece is what he'll be remembered for. Oh how wonderful must it be to inspire the artist to create a masterpiece. How full of life the muse be to shine through the art forever.
Thinking about this makes me wonder if l am an artist or a muse. But then I remembered how deprived of colors I am and know for sure that I'm not the muse.
If I'm not a muse then I must be an artist, right? But if I am an artist I should be expressing or reflecting the way artists do. I'm not doing that either. There should be a third category for me. An audience. Watching the artist reflect and admiring the muse. I'm an audience.
20 Nov, 2023
An artist is supposed to paint or write poem or novel whether there's a muse or not. But when the muse comes that's when the artist crates that masterpiece. That piece is what he'll be remembered for. Oh how wonderful must it be to inspire the artist to create a masterpiece. How full of life the muse be to shine through the art forever.
Thinking about this makes me wonder if l am an artist or a muse. But then I remembered how deprived of colors I am and know for sure that I'm not the muse.
If I'm not a muse then I must be an artist, right? But if I am an artist I should be expressing or reflecting the way artists do. I'm not doing that either. There should be a third category for me. An audience. Watching the artist reflect and admiring the muse. I'm an audience.
20 Nov, 2023
How wretched it is to fall in love, to plunge into that churning whirlpool of expectation and yearning! To claim one’s heart, only to be stripped bare and left exposed to the harsh winds of reality. Desperate hands grasp at illusions, fiercely holding on, oblivious to the suffocation they invoke. In this anguished embrace, I see the truth of my wretched existence reflected back at me.
What contempt lies in this unending cycle of seeking and losing! I fell into it and, in doing so, I fell apart, piece by piece, each fragment a bitter reminder of what I sought and what I could never attain. It is in these moments of desperation that I uncover the villainous roots of my being. I become the architect of my own ruin, constructing a labyrinth of hope only to wander endlessly in despair.
To remember that the best, the most exquisite things, with all their shimmering potential, are fated to end before they even begin is a thought that claws at my insides. How I despise this cruel irony! Each moment of warmth poisoned by the knowledge of its fleeting nature, each spark of joy extinguished before it can ignite into something tangible.
With every encounter, I weave a web of longing, only to tear it apart as the realization sinks in—this is a farce, a tragedy that I am both director and actor. The ties that bind us are swathed in darkness, and I am left to stare into that abyss, loathing the reflection that gazes back. Beyond my countless desires lies a barren wasteland of remorse and hatred, the remnants of dreams that dared to flourish only to rot in the soil of my inadequacies.
_polkadot
What contempt lies in this unending cycle of seeking and losing! I fell into it and, in doing so, I fell apart, piece by piece, each fragment a bitter reminder of what I sought and what I could never attain. It is in these moments of desperation that I uncover the villainous roots of my being. I become the architect of my own ruin, constructing a labyrinth of hope only to wander endlessly in despair.
To remember that the best, the most exquisite things, with all their shimmering potential, are fated to end before they even begin is a thought that claws at my insides. How I despise this cruel irony! Each moment of warmth poisoned by the knowledge of its fleeting nature, each spark of joy extinguished before it can ignite into something tangible.
With every encounter, I weave a web of longing, only to tear it apart as the realization sinks in—this is a farce, a tragedy that I am both director and actor. The ties that bind us are swathed in darkness, and I am left to stare into that abyss, loathing the reflection that gazes back. Beyond my countless desires lies a barren wasteland of remorse and hatred, the remnants of dreams that dared to flourish only to rot in the soil of my inadequacies.
_polkadot
Forwarded from What's this BMO!
Forward this if you want money instead of fake friends