I shouldn't blame my emotional immaturity on the poor upbringing that's been given to a kid who wanted a hug, but all they got was an earful, but I do. Sometimes I feel like I've picked up callosity, drowned the empath I used to be in a puddle left by October rain, because I love fall and my birthday is in the end of October, my birthday is a notorious date to celebrate, when it comes I cry. I stopped waiting impatiently for my birthday, when I was 14 or was it 13, or earlier? I don't remember now, but wishes lost their meaning and I quit believing, magic is something I love to dream of, I wanted to be a witch like Sabrina, but fantasies are luxuries I can't have. They never come true. I've long learned if you want to get something, you have to earn it. You have to endure. You have to bruise, bleed and sell your soul – better on sale to be a more appealing offer on the market of neverending, tiresome, man eating conveyor creating obedients, too traumatized by reality to keep climbing higher, residing in the order of things. The flawed ones are those who couldn't eradicate their courage and strength to break outside voicing their desires loud, because they have been storing some magic inside their pockets all this time, refusing to give wizardry up. Because they grew up, but kept the kid they once were close to the heart. Because they don't blame their poor upbringing for being a jerk to the kid. Because they learned that the key to keep on living is to accept the endless reeling and move on.
Or, maybe, I should ask them for their therapist's number.
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@literaryvein-reblogs “callosity” was on my mind since the first time I saw word list (and that was a very long time ago, tbh), just clicked with me, I guess. I couldn't find the right place for it for awhile now, until I did. or I didn't. nevertheless, what a wonderful word.
