Come as you are, as you were, as I want you to be. @imaginevermind - Tumblr Blog

The Last.

For someone who has had his heart broken for more than ten times now (I stopped counting), I’m pretty amazed that I could still find hope that I would fall in love again.

This, mind you, was never part of the plan. Love never is part of the plan, but lo and behold, here we are again, head over heels and madly in love.

It started off like how all the others did, completely spontaneous. I always believed that love is something you shouldn’t think about. That’s why they call it “having ‘feelings’ for someone”, and not ‘thinkings’.

Let me tell you, she’s one of a kind; comes packaged with all the quirks I like, plus a lot more. And though she was not without her share of problems, I was pretty determined to support her all the way.

Time went on and we eventually grew closer together. She was closest to me out of everyone, probably due to common interests, but most especially because she had caught my attention from the get-go. A lot of stuff happened, but I managed to gather the courage I needed to confess my feelings; a big move on my part, as some would point out, to which I completely agree.

I considered this to be my last chance at love. My heart has already been beaten down and crushed more times than one would normally go through, and I’ve found it increasingly difficult to invest in someone emotionally. And I've already promised my self that this would be indeed the last time, so it’s only natural to give it my all, right?

Confessing something like that is not as easy as it sounds, though. You don’t always get a straight ‘yes’ or ‘no’. If you have it as bad as me, you’ll get a very confusing answer: Something along the lines of ‘I don’t know’, the worst possible response you can get.

To be fair, she gave me a valid reason as to why her answer was like that. We would run into certain obstacles; a few things here and there that I’ve already accounted for before even confessing, so I was pretty confident that we can make it through those obstacles. We tried, and I can say that we managed to make it work.

Everything was going great, at least on my side of the rainbow, that is.

But lightning struck and the world turned upside down on me; she told me that she indeed liked me, but she couldn't make it work, and that the problem was with her, not me. Now I’m not the type who believes in “it’s not you, it’s me” crap. I knew from the beginning that the problem was me. But no matter how hard I asked her what the real reason was, she never budged. She claimed to have a thousand reasons why, but she stuck with the most painfully obvious lie.

Here I am, still struggling with the pain. The pain from losing her, I guess? No, I never had her in the first place, so that’s not the case. Maybe it was the pain from never having her, or maybe it was the pain that was caused by the dishonesty. I always knew she never saw me as a potential partner, and I can state a thousand reasons why. Maybe she found me too clingy, maybe she found me annoying, maybe the difference in our years really bothered her. She never really did see me as someone who’s mature, right?

All I asked for was a little honesty, to help me get by. But she couldn't even give me that much. Shows how much she really cared. Zero.

What was the reason, you ask?

She told me that her future was muddy, and felt that she was going nowhere. That if I were to continue, I would just make it messier.

I guess I’m not a part of that muddy future.

If you’re reading this. Thank you.

Thank you for the 3-month roller coaster ride you put me in. I wish it lasted a little bit longer, but people get tired. It may not have meant much to you, but it meant the world to me, and it still does. I don’t think I need to wish for your happiness anymore, because I can see that you’re already getting it from others. There’s something that bothers me though: I’m not sure if the person I was with back then really you, or just another lie. Was any of it real to you?

I guess there’s no point in asking.

I just hope that whoever you’re with now is treating you right.

And to all my friends, thank you for keeping me company for the last five years or so. I know I was quite a bother, but it’s all over now. It’s time for me to give back to you guys.

I’m done with love, and this time, I’m serious.

This is also probably the last post I’ll make in this account. So there.

Bye!

-benewashere

#personal #last post

krys23

revengeofthemudbutt-deactivated

This show is gold.

africant

guilty-as-battery-charged-deact

The joke’s on both of you

You end up dating each other

suribot

On Seeing the 100% Perfect Girl One Beautiful April Morning - Haruki Murakami

One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo’s fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl. Tell you the truth, she’s not that good-looking. She doesn’t stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn’t young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a “girl,” properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She’s the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there’s a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert. Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you’re drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I’ll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose. But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can’t recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It’s weird. “Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl,” I tell someone. “Yeah?” he says. “Good-looking?” “Not really.” “Your favorite type, then?” “I don’t know. I can’t seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts.” “Strange.” “Yeah. Strange.” “So anyhow,” he says, already bored, “what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?” “Nah. Just passed her on the street.” She’s walking east to west, and I west to east. It’s a really nice April morning. Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I’d really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world. After talking, we’d have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed. Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart. Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards. How can I approach her? What should I say? “Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?” Ridiculous. I’d sound like an insurance salesman. “Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?” No, this is just as ridiculous. I’m not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who’s going to buy a line like that? Maybe the simple truth would do. “Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me.” No, she wouldn’t believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you’re not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I’d probably go to pieces. I’d never recover from the shock. I’m thirty-two, and that’s what growing older is all about. We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can’t bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She’s written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she’s ever had. I take a few more strides and turn: She’s lost in the crowd. Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical. Oh, well. It would have started “Once upon a time” and ended “A sad story, don’t you think?” Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened. One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street. “This is amazing,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you’re the 100% perfect girl for me.” “And you,” she said to him, “are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I’d pictured you in every detail. It’s like a dream.” They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It’s a miracle, a cosmic miracle. As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one’s dreams to come true so easily? And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, “Let’s test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other’s 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we’ll marry then and there. What do you think?” “Yes,” she said, “that is exactly what we should do.” And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west. The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other’s 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully. One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season’s terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence’s piggy bank. They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love. Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty. One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew: She is the 100% perfect girl for me. He is the 100% perfect boy for me. But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever. A sad story, don’t you think? Yes, that’s it, that is what I should have said to her.

#Haruki Murakami #Short Story #The Elephant Vanishes #perfect #love #chance

deactivated-eromal

There is a goddamn Naruto coat in the window of the charity shop across the road from my flat and the employees have dressed it up in a womens belt and necklace not realising that it isn’t a casual womans garment.

brickme

Why Magical Girls Are Never Attacked During A Tranformation

As some of you might already have guessed, I’m a fan of Japanese girl idols. One of the many, many idol groups in existence today in Japan is NMB48, a Osaka-based spin-off group of the (in)famous AKB48. NMB has a weekly show that’s surprisingly entertaining as well as educational called NMB to Manabu-kun, in which the members of NMB and a few comedians listen to guest lectures by experts in various fields.

Back on May 15th, the theme of the episode was pataphysics/the science of sci-fi. One of the topics of the lecture held by university professor Yanagita Rikao was the age-old question of "WHY ARE MAGICAL GIRLS NEVER ATTACKED WHILE TRANSFORMING???"

This was his answer, based on the magical girl series Futari wa Pretty Cure.

Question: The transformation scenes in Pretty Cure are very long, so why don’t the bad guys attack the girls in the meantime?

"Even when I was little, I was thinking ‘Hey! Attack them now!’"

"I found this odd as well, so I watched the transformation scene many times. And what I noticed is, when the Pretty Cures yell ‘Dual Aurora Wave!’ and transform, a rainbow-colored column of light shoots up from the ground, going BOOM!"

"And then the Pretty Cures levitate, and go up into the air. Based on this, I believe the protagonists of Pretty Cure are being held up in the air by the power of light.”

"When we think of light, we usually think it heats up things or lights up things. But in reality, light has the power to hold up things as well."

"When the sun is beating down on us in the summer, the human body is being pressed downwards by the sun beams with a force of 2/100,000g.”

"But this is only about a one-hundred of the weight of a mosquito, so no matter how hot it is, we don’t feel that sunlight is heavy."

"So that means the light holding them up must be extremely strong. If we assume that the two Pretty Cures each weigh about 45kg and do some calculations…”

"It means the light during the transformation must have the energy of 2,100,000,000kW per 1m2.”

"While the entirety of power that Japan is capable of generating is only 100,000,000kW.”

"So they’re using 21 TIMES the amount of energy the whole of Japan can generate.”

"So what would happen if a bad guy jumped in to try to sabotage their transformation?"

"He would EVAPORATE INSTANTLY.”

“DEATH AWAITS ANYONE WHO DARES TO DISRUPT A PRETTY CURE TRANSFORMATION.”

"So this means the best thing to do would be to transform close to any bad guys."

"Yes. They are the strongest while they transform, and are practically invincible.”

vintagebooksdesign

MURAKAMI IS COMING

billieviperarchive

kelpls

PRINT FOR AX i think i keep forgetting to mention it but im at G24!

why does noface looks so dramatic what is happening

"You were hurt badly, and those scars will be with you forever. I feel sorry for you, I really do. But think of it like this: It's not too late to recover. You're young, you're tough. You're adaptable. You can patch up your wounds, lift up your head, and move on."

Haruki Murakami (Kafka on the Shore)

#kafka #on #the #shore #haruki #murakami #crow #kafka on the shore #haruki murakami

fuckyeahsexpositivity

In Light Of The New 50 Shades of Grey Trailer

E.L. James knows as much about BDSM as she would have found in a five minute Google search, which is to say that she knows precisely jack shit.

50 Shades of Grey does not depict a realistic kinky relationship, nor does it depict a healthy relationship of either the kinky or vanilla variety.

It is a Twilight fanfic, and has all the elements of Edward and Bella’s abusive relationship with kink added for extra flavor. Just as Edward and Bella are not a healthy or realistic couple, neither are Christian Grey and Anastasia Steele.

Christian Grey is an abuser who manipulates a young woman with zero knowledge of BDSM into a relationship with him. He knows she is ignorant of what a healthy BDSM relationship looks like, and uses this to:

ignore and override her attempts at negotiation,

play without a safeword (since she doesn’t know that they exist),

create a false dichotomy of “either we’re kinky my way or we just don’t have sex at all,”

threaten and stalk her,

rape her,

prevent her from discussing her relationship with anyone other than him,

and control aspects of her personal life, including what car she drives, what medications she takes, and how she spends her free time.

This is not BDSM. This is not sexy. This is abuse.

Using 50 Shades as your basis for how a kinky relationship works (for critical or practical purposes) is like treating Titanic: The Legend Goes On as a historical documentary. Don’t do it.

—BB

benewashere

Lessons from the "golden hour".

“All you can do is wait. There is a right time for everything. Like the ebb & flow of tides. No one can change them.” ― Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

After countless trials and errors, and after a month, I’ve finally managed to think of a good subject to write about. Technically, I could write about anything I want to. But that’s the fun thing about life, you need to constantly challenge yourself to improve.

What is the "golden hour" you ask? Well, a quick Google search would give you an answer, but in the simplest explanation possible, it’s that time of day when you bring out anything with a lens attached to it and start taking pictures of the sky. If you still didn’t get it, well…

The golden hour usually begins at 5 in the afternoon and lasts for about an hour or so (duh). It’s when the sky becomes a huge canvass painted with surreal colors. It’s counterpart, the "blue hour", which begins at 5 in the morning and lasts for an hour, is just as wonderful.

(the golden hour…

…and the blue hour. Now do you get it?)

Taking photos during these hours have somehow lost their “feel”. With companies continuously improving image quality in smartphone cameras, along with automatic settings and annoying filters. It’s become a soulless, lifeless attempt by the others to easily fish for likes on whatever social media site they’re in. But I digress, or do I?

Have I just turned this into a rant post? I honestly did not mean for it to be one, but the reason is because I want people to savor the moment they’re in. It’s not everyday you get to see a nice sunrise or sunset, and if you do, it’s not the same as the one you saw before. It’s always a new sight to see.

I remember when I was still learning how to take those kinds of photos using a proper camera. Every single second was important. Miss just a few, and your photo will not be as good.

During those days, i climbed up to the roof my house as early as 3, whether it be in the morning or in the afternoon. As soon as I did, I would start planning where to place my camera, and adjust the settings. After that, it was a waiting game, to wait for that moment to come. At times, I was successful, and sometimes I fell asleep on the roof, missing the chance I prepared for.

So maybe this is what I’m really trying to say: There’s nothing wrong with waiting for a chance to come by, but if you are, make sure you’re prepared for when it comes knocking at your doorstep. Otherwise, you’d just be wasting your time.

cutbu

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Come as you are, as you were, as I want you to be.