What lies beoynd.:.

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“I hate metaphors. You left. You didn’t fall from a tree, Or exit the station. You didn’t separate or disintegrate. You left. I can’t write about you light-heartedly anymore with rhymes and beautiful words because it’s not romantic. You are not here. That’s the tale. You left without saying goodbye. My heart didn’t crumble, it broke. Quite literally too. You left. It’s not a metaphor.”

— I hate metaphors. (via musinginsp)

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𝐼 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝓃𝑒𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝒻𝑒𝓈𝓈, 𝒾𝒻 𝑜𝓃𝓁𝓎 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝓎𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒻, 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐼 𝓃𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝑒𝓍𝓅𝑒𝒸𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃 𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓌𝒶𝓎. 𝒯𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝑔𝓇𝑒𝓎 𝒽𝒶𝓉𝓇𝑒𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒷𝑒 𝓈𝓅𝓊𝓃 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓈𝑜 𝓋𝒾𝓋𝒾𝒹 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓁𝑜𝓇𝒻𝓊𝓁 𝒶𝓈 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒. 𝒪𝓊𝓇 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒. 𝐼 𝒸𝒶𝓃’𝓉 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝑒𝓍𝓅𝓁𝒶𝒾𝓃 𝒾𝓉 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒶𝓃𝓎 𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝐼 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓉𝑜. 𝐼 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉’𝓈 𝓈𝑜 𝓅𝑜𝓌𝑒𝓇𝒻𝓊𝓁 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒾𝓉 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝓅𝑜𝓈𝓈𝒾𝒷𝓁𝓎 𝓈𝒾𝑔𝓃𝒾𝒻𝓎 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐼 𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓁 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝒽𝒾𝓂. 𝐵𝓊𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒾𝓈𝓃’𝓉 𝑜𝓃𝑒. 𝒩𝑜𝓉 𝒶 𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓁𝑒 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓉𝓌𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓎 𝓁𝒶𝓃𝑔𝓊𝒶𝑔𝑒𝓈 𝐼 𝓈𝓅𝑒𝒶𝓀 𝓈𝑒𝑒𝓂𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝒻𝒾𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑒𝓂𝑜𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒽𝒶𝓈 𝓇𝑜𝑜𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒾𝓉𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒻 𝒾𝓃 𝓂𝓎 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉. 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝑜𝓁𝒹𝓈 𝒾𝓃 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒽𝒶𝓃𝒹𝓈 𝓃𝑜𝓌𝒶𝒹𝒶𝓎𝓈.

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒶𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒻𝒶𝓁𝓁𝑒𝓃 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝓅𝓁𝒶𝒸𝑒 𝓈𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓉𝓌𝑜 𝑜𝒻 𝓊𝓈 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝒶 𝓌𝑒 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓈 𝓂𝑒 𝓌𝑜𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝒾𝒻 𝐼’𝓋𝑒 𝓈𝓅𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓂𝓎 𝓁𝒾𝒻𝑒 𝓈𝑒𝒶𝓇𝒸𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝒽𝒾𝓂 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒾𝓉. 𝐼𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒸𝒶𝓋𝒾𝓉𝓎 𝒾𝓃 𝓂𝓎 𝒸𝒽𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝒽𝒶𝓈 𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝒷𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓂𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝓌𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒾𝓉 𝓊𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓁 𝓃𝑜𝓌, 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝒾𝓉 𝒽𝒶𝓈 𝒷𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝒻𝒾𝓁𝓁𝑒𝒹. 𝐼𝓉’𝓈 𝒶 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓂𝑒, 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝑒 𝒻𝒾𝓁𝓁𝑒𝒹 𝓊𝓅 𝒷𝓎 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝑒𝓁𝓈𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉.

𝒲𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝒾𝓏𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝒻𝒾𝓇𝓈𝓉 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝓊𝒸𝓀 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝒶𝓃 𝑜𝒷𝓋𝒾𝑜𝓊𝓈 𝓅𝒽𝒶𝓈𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒹𝑒𝓃𝒾𝒶𝓁. 𝒰𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓁 𝐼 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝒶𝒹𝓂𝒾𝓉𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝓎𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝐼 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓁 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒶𝓇𝓂𝓈 𝒶𝓇𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹 𝓂𝑒. 𝐻𝒾𝓈 𝓁𝒾𝓅𝓈 𝒶𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃𝓈𝓉 𝓂𝓎 𝓈𝓀𝒾𝓃, 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓂𝓉𝒽 𝑜𝒻 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓈𝓀𝒾𝓃 𝒶𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃𝓈𝓉 𝓂𝓎 𝑜𝓌𝓃. 𝐸𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓇𝓉𝒾𝓅𝓈 𝒹𝓇𝒶𝑔 𝒶𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓈𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝓎 𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝑒 𝒾𝓉 𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓁𝓈 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝒻𝒾𝓇𝑒𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓀𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒾𝓉 𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝒶 𝓈𝑒𝒶𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒷𝓊𝓇𝓃 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝒻𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝒶𝓈 𝓅𝓊𝓁𝓁𝑒𝒹 𝒷𝒶𝒸𝓀.

𝐼𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒾𝓈𝓃’𝓉 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓁𝓈 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒, 𝐼’𝓂 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝓈𝓊𝓇𝑒 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒾𝓉 𝒾𝓈.

𝒜𝓃𝒹 𝒾𝒻 𝒮𝑒𝒶𝓃 𝒾𝓈𝓃’𝓉 𝓅𝑒𝓇𝒻𝑒𝒸𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃, 𝓅𝑒𝓇𝒻𝑒𝒸𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝒹𝑜𝑒𝓈𝓃’𝓉 𝑒𝓍𝒾𝓈𝓉.

𝒟𝑜 𝐼 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝒸𝓁𝓊𝒹𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒶𝓃 “𝐼 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒮𝑒𝒶𝓃 𝒫𝒶𝓇𝓀” 𝑜𝓇 𝒹𝑜 𝐼 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒷𝑒? 𝐵𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝐼 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝓀 𝒾𝓉’𝓈 𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓉𝓎 𝑜𝒷𝓋𝒾𝑜𝓊𝓈 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐼 𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓁 𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝓃𝑜𝓌. 𝐸𝓋𝑒𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒾𝓈 𝑜𝓃𝓁𝓎 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓂𝓎𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒻 𝓉𝑜 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹 𝓁𝒶𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝑜𝓃, 𝓂𝒶𝓎𝒷𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝒻𝒾𝒻𝓉𝓎 𝓎𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓈, 𝒾𝓉’𝓈 𝓃𝒾𝒸𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈, 𝒾𝓈𝓃’𝓉 𝒾𝓉?

𝐻𝑒𝓁𝓁𝑜 𝒻𝓊𝓉𝓊𝓇𝑒 𝓂𝑒, 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒻𝑒𝓁𝓁 𝒾𝓃 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓂𝑜𝓈𝓉 𝒷𝑒𝒶𝓊𝓉𝒾𝒻𝓊𝓁 𝒽𝓊𝓂𝒶𝓃 𝒷𝑒𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒾𝓈, 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑜𝒹𝒾𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝓅𝑒𝓇𝒻𝑒𝒸𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃. 𝐼 𝒽𝑜𝓅𝑒 𝒽𝑒’𝓈 𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓎𝑜𝓊 , 𝓈𝒶𝒻𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓁𝓉𝒽𝓎. (𝐻𝑜𝓅𝑒𝒻𝓊𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒾𝓂𝓂𝑜𝓇𝓉𝒶𝓁 𝑔𝒾𝒻𝓉.) 𝐻𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒻𝓊𝓃, 𝒹𝑜𝓃’𝓉 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑔𝑒𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝒶 𝒷𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓀 𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝓈𝒾𝓃𝒻𝓊𝓁 𝒶𝒸𝓉𝒾𝓋𝒾𝓉𝒾𝑒𝓈 𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓃, 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒸𝒶𝓃’𝓉 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓎 𝒾𝓃 𝒷𝑒𝒹 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝒹𝒶𝓎 (𝑜𝓇 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝓎𝑜𝓊?)

[noahsthctic]

𝐼𝓉 𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓅𝑒𝓃𝓈 𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓃, 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝓁𝑒 𝐼 𝓈𝒾𝓉 𝒷𝑒𝓃𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝓁𝑜𝓈𝓈𝑜𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒸𝒽𝑒𝓇𝓇𝓎 𝓉𝓇𝑒𝑒𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓊𝓃 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓂𝓈 𝓊𝓅 𝓂𝓎 𝓈𝓀𝒾𝓃, 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐼 𝓌𝑜𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝑒𝓍𝒾𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝓂𝑒𝒶𝓃𝓈. 𝒟𝑜𝑒𝓈𝓃'𝓉 𝒾𝓉 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒶 𝒸𝑒𝓇𝓉𝒶𝒾𝓃 𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓅𝑜𝓃𝓈𝒾𝒷𝒾𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓎 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓉𝑜 𝒹𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝑜𝓌𝓃 𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉? 𝒯𝑜 𝒸𝒶𝓇𝓇𝓎 𝒶 𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝒷𝒾𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝑒𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒾𝓃 𝑜𝓇𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝓈𝓊𝓇𝑒 𝓈𝑜𝒸𝒾𝑒𝓉𝓎 𝒶𝓈 𝓌𝑒 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝒾𝓉 𝒹𝑜𝑒𝓈𝓃'𝓉 𝒻𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝒶𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉? 𝐼 𝓌𝑜𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓂𝓎 𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓅𝑜𝓃𝓈𝒾𝒷𝒾𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓎 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃 𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝑒. 𝐼 𝒶𝓂 𝑒𝒹𝓊𝒸𝒶𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝓂𝓎 𝒻𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝒹𝑜𝑒𝓈𝓃’𝓉 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓈𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝓅𝑒𝓇 𝒶𝑔𝑒 𝓎𝑒𝓉. 𝐵𝓊𝓉 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝐼 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓌𝒶𝒾𝓉? 𝒩𝑜𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒’𝓈 𝑒𝒶𝑔𝑒𝓇𝓃𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃 𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓀 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝓎 𝓁𝒾𝒻𝑒, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝐼 𝒶𝓂 𝓉𝒾𝓇𝑒𝒹 𝑜𝒻 𝓈𝒾𝓉𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝓇𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝒶 𝓂𝑒𝒶𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓁𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝓅𝒾𝑒𝒸𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒶 𝓅𝓊𝓏𝓏𝓁𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓃𝑜𝒷𝑜𝒹𝓎 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝓅𝓁𝑒𝓉𝑒. 𝑀𝒶𝓎𝒷𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝓌𝒽𝓎 𝐼 𝓈𝓅𝑒𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝑜 𝓂𝓊𝒸𝒽 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒 𝓌𝓇𝒾𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔? 𝑀𝒶𝓎𝒷𝑒, 𝐼 𝒶𝓂 𝓉𝓇𝓎𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝑜 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃 𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝒹𝒾𝓈𝓉𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓉 𝓂𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓃𝑜𝓌? 𝒲𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹𝓃’𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒷𝑒 𝒶 𝑒𝓍𝒸𝑒𝓁𝓁𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔… 𝒶𝓈 𝒾𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝒶𝒸𝓉𝓊𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓅𝑒𝓃.