I live with the coldest people on this planet. There’s no other way of saying it— no need to sugar-coat it, no need for big and profound words to express it. I live with the coldest people on this planet. No wonder why I’m the way I am. I’ve inherit the grotesque characteristics they possess. What flows in their bloodstreams, flows in mine, too. What goes on with their monotonous lives, happens to me, as well. I share the danger they walk around scaring all the people with. I get the same impressions they seem to have grown and got used to through the years. I own the same curse they try so hard to deny as a part of who they are.
I remember once, someone asked me to describe the blood that runs off from my sore heart through my flimsy arteries and veins and I told him a story about my family— how we live, talk, sleep and deal with one another. After hearing it, he didn’t say much except, “So simple… but dull… and poignant… and tragic.” I said it’s okay, and that I wouldn’t speak of my family background or story ever again, because I don’t like people telling me how sad my life is. And then he tapped my shoulder and whispered, “Just by looking at you, one could tell the kind of blood that runs in you and the way it keeps you alive. So I’m telling you; hold on.” I just shrugged and smiled, because I didn’t want him to think that my own blood’s killing me. I didn’t want to think that my own blood’s killing me.
Thinking about it now, I doubt that I’d still shrug and smile if someone tells me that my own blood— this same red fluid flowing along my internal tunnels and passing through my filthy organs, this same sticky liquid that have gone and passed from the old roots to the fresh fruits and promises a perpetual calamity, this same gift of life that I received and is supposed to keep me growing— is also one of the main reasons why I find it hard to hold on any more.
My own blood will be the end of me. There’s no other way of saying it— no need to sugar-coat it, no need for big and profound words to express it. My own blood will be the end of me. It carries along nothing but pieces of my broken rage and shades of my foreboding awful death.
The new premature ad is priceless. There’s singing and slow dancing.
Sometimes my suicidal thoughts get so bad that I believe I’m already dead.
The sad thing about Tumblr is you can find and meet a lot of your potential best friends and soul-mates here and it’s sad because it’s just sad and you know it’s sad because it really is.
I don’t understand why homosexuality and abortion are even important to politics. What the fuck do either of those have to do with running a fucking country? Maybe if you stayed the fuck out of people’s business, and started working on things that fucking matter like education and self sufficiency, I’d be more inclined to believe you were worth anything.
(via iheartpaulbanks)
You touch the girl in the dark with the soft lips and sapless body and she whispers to your soul, “I love you.”
But you are too busy pushing hard and giving it to her to hear the soft words escaping her mouth.
It’s alright, though. She didn’t really mean what she said. It was only the force, the energy. It was only the rhythm, the heat.
(via it-could-have-been)
