you're just an ass on the crack of humanity.
We hope that you choke.
that you choke.
It's cold in my room tonight. I'm wearing his hoodie, her old sweatpants and the walls are talking, shouting. There's no one here to rub my back or kiss my cheeks or make me feel less. How better life would be if we could just experience the bare minimum of every emotion. Happiness: a smile. Sadness: a tear, instead of the ache that doesn't just take over your heart but all your organs and your limbs and your life. (And, yes, I would gladly trade a fleeting moment of happiness for a fleeting moment of grief.)
There is a place without darkness and without fear. There is a place where children smile with wisdom as they pass ice pops between sticky hands; there is a place where women lie naked in fields together and still feel beautiful; there is a place where men do not fight but sit side by side with one pot of coffee between them and lumber they know they can lift together. There is a place where your only expectation is to live your dreams and where thinking of yourself is not selfish, because everyone else is thinking of you too. There is a place with no shame.
I've been whispering to the cracks in my wall, I follow the jagged lines, watching them cut through the posters and then disappear behind my bedframe.
And I can't figure out what's worse. When Death jumps on you, wraps its blackness around your body before you can hold up your hands in protest. These are the car accidents. It's all smiles and radio static and then a moment later an ambulance and survivor's guilt. But then Death can come slowly, it creeps up on you, grazes your hair, kisses you lightly
"It is hard to breathe when the unhappiness gets lodged in your throat and pushes at the backs of your pupils until it's all blurry, like peering over the surface, your eyes halfway below the water. What do you do? What do you do when you're almost drowning, tell me."
--zach braff.
I only have this room now and these walls that are shouting tonight and I wish I wasn't the only one listening.
that you choke.
It's cold in my room tonight. I'm wearing his hoodie, her old sweatpants and the walls are talking, shouting. There's no one here to rub my back or kiss my cheeks or make me feel less. How better life would be if we could just experience the bare minimum of every emotion. Happiness: a smile. Sadness: a tear, instead of the ache that doesn't just take over your heart but all your organs and your limbs and your life. (And, yes, I would gladly trade a fleeting moment of happiness for a fleeting moment of grief.)
There is a place without darkness and without fear. There is a place where children smile with wisdom as they pass ice pops between sticky hands; there is a place where women lie naked in fields together and still feel beautiful; there is a place where men do not fight but sit side by side with one pot of coffee between them and lumber they know they can lift together. There is a place where your only expectation is to live your dreams and where thinking of yourself is not selfish, because everyone else is thinking of you too. There is a place with no shame.
I've been whispering to the cracks in my wall, I follow the jagged lines, watching them cut through the posters and then disappear behind my bedframe.
And I can't figure out what's worse. When Death jumps on you, wraps its blackness around your body before you can hold up your hands in protest. These are the car accidents. It's all smiles and radio static and then a moment later an ambulance and survivor's guilt. But then Death can come slowly, it creeps up on you, grazes your hair, kisses you lightly
"It is hard to breathe when the unhappiness gets lodged in your throat and pushes at the backs of your pupils until it's all blurry, like peering over the surface, your eyes halfway below the water. What do you do? What do you do when you're almost drowning, tell me."
--zach braff.
I only have this room now and these walls that are shouting tonight and I wish I wasn't the only one listening.