ColglaziersLuck

Ryan. Age always changing. Thoughts in flux. Make no enemies accidentally. See inside flap for more.

[completelyrnc]

To All Existential Haters,

Enjoy the little things. You are horrible at the easiest things but manipulate people into saying it is because you are too smart or you think too much. Being happy is more difficult for more intelligent people because of corresponding chemical imbalances associated with increased brain function and because being an unhappy cynical haters is far easier and draws far more attention then actually being happy. Little things matter far more than anything else. The universe is not a large place made of large things. Read between the lines and live the untold truth of being human.

Haters suck. Stop being one.

Definition

         -hater

  People who behave antagonistic towards a person, concept or group out of a need to reduce the target of hatred's standing. A person who deals in negative cognitive bias with little or no justifiable basis.

[sinfulasever]

denism79.deviantart.com

If Star Wars were a 1980’s High School movie.

[crossconnectmag]

Brazilian street artist Herbert Baglione has somehow managed to make an abandoned psychiatric hospital in Parma, Italy even creepier with his paintings of shadows. 

Be sure to check out Unknown Editors on Tumblr & Facebook.

[completelyrnc]

The world held not her soul for her burden was false and no mortal coil could bind that which was never understood. The world was not enough, only in death, at the moment when She was not did She become a mortal being. She became that which all saw but none believed. Death is her beloved. Death gave that which she craved. A human life.

[1los]

Bees are nature’s 3D printer

[suchcorn]

Fucking bees are the best.

[killa-kelly]

Fuck yes they are.

[shifting-symmetry-deactivated20]

what the actual fuck bees. why are you engineering geniuses

[completelyrnc]

Memories are constructed out of what has happened. The happenings and will happens, never will bes and could have beens can never enter the realm for they are not of the past and once they are they cease to be. Memories can sustain much and are sometimes, oftentimes more than what the were when they were a happening. Sometimes the past is a chaotic and uninteresting, miserable and frightening unchangeable, intangible mountain that can never be scaled with the knowledge to not only know where the footholds lie but to be aware of multiple paths. In all memories that mountain is present. Background and getting smaller in the distance but there. An inkblot on the horizon or a looming presence makes no difference on the impact it will have when it destroys any hopes for the past and darkens the dreams of the future. These things should be thought. I type and speak to myself and it happens upon tumblr though I opened the page. Would I want reply? If not then why share? Because, I tell myself, you are a closed book and should open the pages of books that have spines atrophied from disuse and with pages stuck together with the agony of remembrance. No more. Sleep.

[completelyrnc]

[completelyrnc]

[audiothirteen-deactivated202601]

[tootymctooter-deactivated202301]

[completelyrnc]

Lonely marches. Sunny day. 

[completelyrnc]

Happy the man, and happy he alone, He who can call today his own: He who, secure within, can say, Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.

John Dryden

[completelyrnc]

There is a pleasure in being mad which none but madmen know. I read that once and as I have always taken pleasure in chaos I figure I must be a madman enjoying myself. Woman, really, but I have never been one to fight the cultural norm of calling God, Him, or using the royal we of men for human beings. I did once cut a man who called me a dyke. He insulted my pants. I slashed him across the chest. Madness? I was not in a rage. Just retaliating. I knew words would not do anything. This man, however poor excuse of a man he may have been, saw women as little more than chattel for raising his kids and absorbing his abuse. And what do animals do when cornered.

Cold wind blows down the urban street. Buildings crumble, people grab onto anything close to keep from being tossed into the sky, vehicles tumble and spin like ungainly ballet dances, even the street cracks and pieces are flung high as the cold wind blows.

Daydreaming again. If only the bus would arrive. Hopefully before I get too restless. This lady talking at her phone next to me is coming dangerously close to being the next focal point for an attack on the structures of society and the people who live in it. I do ride their buses. Next time.

[completelyrnc]

Still distracted when he gets home. The 45 minute drive through better than usual traffic while listening to great music and a surprise phone call from his tragically untouchable woman did nothing to quiet the stormy skies of his mind. The discontent with his job. Bills to be paid with loans to be paid with too small checks to be spent to lengthen the something he tries to get through while thinking 'I do not want to get through this. I should do better'.

Better. He decides to do better yet the fragmented swirling destitute thoughts stop him at his front door.

A winded sigh like that of the last gust of wind from a spent hurricane escapes his mouth. Key in the lock. Turn of the knob. Pushing open the door. Take things one at a time.

The door opens on his small flat and sitting just outside the door's radius is Denna. The smile on his face is instant. Troubles are not forgotten just insignificant next to this. Love and acceptance radiate from Denna. Concerned and expectant and joyous eyes stare at him. Glad he is home. Worried because he was gone so long and she grew restless and chewed one of his shoes. 

[completelyrnc]

[blue-voids]

Loneliness does not come from having no people around you, but from being unable to communicate the things that seem important to you.

Carl Jung (via felicefawn)

[completelyrnc]

Nothing means nothing unless something was there first. The crisp leaves of autumn crunching underfoot and blowing in the wind remind us of the sun and the heat and the glory of summer just as they are harbingers of the cold and hungry dead of winter. The conspicuous absence of cooking food from the kitchen or the flickering of the tv in the living room told a story about what was gone. Only to someone who remembered what had been there before. A stranger could walk in and think "This is just like home. There is carpet. A couch. Bookshelf. A nice little table for two in this nice little apartment for two." They do not know that everything is gone. This place is hollow.