i wish i could write beautiful things. think like the sun's intense, radiant beams shining down on a still surface of a lake. glistening and sparkling as if the water was made up of hundreds, thousands of round cut diamonds on a summer’s afternoon.
i wish i could write flowery things. words to trick one's mind that i was ever soft, delicate with kind eyes and the gentlest of touches. that i love deeper than any tourist trap canyon or any trench with the pressure of one hundred adult elephants.
i wish i could write inspiring things. sentences that hit you like a speeding car on an otherwise empty street, unsuspecting and sudden. sentences that encourage you to climb the tallest mountains, confess your love for that person that makes your being quake. sentences that convince you to leave your old ways behind and run into the arms of something new.
i wish i could write relatable things. with each page, you feel as if you’ve gained an ally in the war of life. someone to sit by your side in the trenches. someone you meet and immediately think: they just get it. someone who celebrates your victories and sobs at your downfalls alongside you. nevermind that i’m using a fake name and i live oceans away.
but i can’t write beautiful things. nor flowery, or inspiring, or anything relatable.
because when i write the fog in my brain grows thicker. if my words were love potions then those who were cursed to read it would forever roam this earth alone. clumsy and rushed because i must move onto the next sentence before the train filled with all my best ideas leaves me behind on the platform.
there’s this monster inside me, the one that fuels the sadness, rage, and confusion within me. in order to write anything i must stick my small hand deep within its mouth, down its throat and gather the scraps of feelings i can recognise as human before it’s sharp teeth and heavy jaws sink into my skin. what ends up on paper is less than eloquent.
i suppose it’s comparable to the birdhouse i made my mother in woodwork when i was twelve years old. a structure with the resemblance of a birdhouse. four walls, a little hole, and a roof. except for the lethal nails sticking in and out of the damn thing. in fact i haven’t seen it since i brought it home to her.
but it doesn’t stop me from trying. from typing sentences over and over until they don’t make any sense. from picking up the pen and the small one dollar notebook i bought from the post office. from creating the worlds that i visit when my head hits the pillow and my eyes close shut.
because if i do keep trying then maybe one day i will write something inspiring. write something poetic and flowery, write something relatable. write something beautiful.
20 years of building his success by slamming britneys reputation and feeding into tabloids and rumors and bragging abt taking her virginity and calling her a madonna wannabe and exposing janet jackson on national television and then humiliating her by blaming the incident on her when he was the one who ripped her clothes and all these women get is a notes app apology posted on instagram!!!!!! the audacity!!!!!!
The Comically Serious: After his Heel-Face Turn, he frequently acts as a straight man foil to Guy and Lee’s insane enthusiasm, however sometimes Neji proves to be Not So Above It All, leaving Tenten as the Only Sane Woman.
jacobvanloon
dededos
dailybridgerton
baratheonpilled
