#life failure

[internetgreatesthits]

Is this legal? Because it will require a new identity if you want to start over completely.

[grimreapermandy]

[likesolastalgia]

ok i wrote this a long time ago based on @adorablecrab‘s heartbreaking drawing i know the bloody baron pontmercy joke sailed soo long ago but just thought i’d put this up anyway.

we can all use some hugs.

-

The first time he has the dream, Marius does nothing. Courfeyrac isn’t home and the last text in his phone is a sweet goodnight form Cosette that he doesn’t want to mar with any descriptions of the innerworkings of his breain. Instead, he rolls over in bed, curls into himself and tries to count backwards with eveyr breath he takes, tries to calm his breathing enough to fall back into a semblance of sleep.

The off-white of the wall is more pleasant than any of the images behind his eyelids, so he stares at it, hazy and unfocused, until his alarm goes off the next morning.

-

The next time, he’s sleeping next to Cosette. He bites his tongue, hard enough that he tastes blood. (Of course, there’s still blood) He turns to look at her where she’s sprawled out next to him, a stray lock of hair across her forehead; she’s breathing and beautiful and so blissfully alive. Marius can’t wake her up, not for this, not for something that might make her question everything about the person he tries so hard to be for her.

He lays back down, feeling his heart pound in his chest, and nestles himself into Cosette’s side, careful not to wake her. She makes a small contented noise in her sleep, turning to wrap herself around him. He breathes in the scent of her, soft and floral, rests his head on her shoulder and tries to sleep.

-

The third time, it’s worse; much worse and he wakes up screaming. The thick stench of blood seems to follow him into wakefulness. His hands feel sticky with it. He can still feel the weight of the knife, hear the hollow metallic clatter of it falling to the floor as he sees - well, anyway, he’s screaming before he even realizes he’s awake.

He doesn’t quite notice until the door to his room bursts open and Courfeyrac is in front of him, hands heavy and insistent on his shoulders. He’s talking, rushed and worried, in a way marius knows he wouldn’t be if he knew what had just happened in his dreams. “Hey! Hey, it’s ok. Marius, look at me. What’s wrong?”

Marius has a hand clapped over his mouth and he’s staring down at his lap. It takes everything in him not to flinch away from Courfeyrac’s touch, from his concern.

“Tell me what happened.” Courfeyrac’s voice is gentle, but insistent, and Marius has no choice but to comply.

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing he says. “It was a dream. You shouldn’t have gotten up.” He’s vaguely aware of how hoarse his voice is from screaming. (Just like their screams, he remembers, followed by silence.)

Courfeyrac ignores his apology. “What happened in the dream? Tell me about it.”

Marius takes a deep breath. “Well, you were there,” he says. “And the rest of our friends. We were in the Musain and it was, uh, chaotic. There was so much blood everywhere and everyone was yelling for each other and I wasn’t sure where the blood had come from, at first.” He realizes how stupid it all sounds, saying it out loud for the first time, but it doesn’t stop the tightness in his chest or the way his oice wavers when he tries to continue. “But then I looked down and it was all over me too, all the way up my arms, I couldn’t -”

And then there are hot tears on his cheeks and Courfeyrac is pulling him forward, arms tight around him as Marius buries his face against his shoulder. He can’t remember crying like this in a long time, big heaving sobs that pound against his temples and leave him drained and exhausted, breathing in small gasps as Courfeyrac rubs his back, his head tucked down against Marius’s.

He is surprised, weirdly, behind the part of him that isn’t horrified, that Courfeyrac doesn’t hate him for what he’s just said, for the terrible part of him that he’s clearly kept locked up inside, now clamoring to get out, night after night in his head.

Marius moves back slightly, wiping his face on his sleeve, and starts to mutter apologies again, but Courfeyrac cuts him off.

“Move over.”

“What?” Marius lets Courfeyrac push him to the side as he starts to slide into the bed next to him. “What are you doing?”

“Coming to sleep with you, idiot.”

“You really don’t have to!” Marius starts to protest. “I’m fine, I promise -”

Courfeyrac’s hand finds his under the covers, squeezes his fingers.

“Goodnight, Marius.”

[rotten-sunflower]

I’m a failure but I’m a vegan failure so I’m organic trash.

[insbright-blog]

Many of life’s failures are people who did not realize how close they were to success when they gave up.

-Thomas A. Edison

[naotingtouthang]

#life.

People who's hands and feet are always too cold; Are people with anxiety or depression problems. This is because the heart is focused on pumping blood to the brain, since the people who suffer from this, their brain is never at peace, so the heart Stops pumping blood to the extremities that are less important.

[thedesperateandunwanted]

Happiness lived through discolor glasses of failure.

What does it all mean to me?

Something I wanted for all my life. Something I knew with undobutfull certainty that is my destiny and that I will achieve it. By the age of 16 nevertheless. Like my idols.

I'm 27 now. Nowhere near where I pictured myself I would be. I should’ve been living through my music by now and shared it with the world. And the world would love it. Because it would be something personal. Because I promised to tear up my soul into microscopic pieces and pack each one into a very nice package and throw it into the world.

By the age of 24 I've done nothing meaningful to even start this dream of mine. I didn't know where to begin. I sang in my room, wrote verses in diaries and hoped something would come along to guide me. I've thought of youtube but I didn’t have a good camera, any equipment and the thought of me singing to karaoke melodies just wasn't it for me.

I was never good enough. And probably never will be. Certainly. Then I met a friend, who later became family, but that’s another story. And he knew stuff you know. He knew stuff I knew nothing about and it evolved a possible way in. He had recording equipment and knowledge of turning a raw track into a complete one. And he played the guitar and had a band and was into all of that. And he wanted to cooperate with me. And I saw it. I saw that path, it lightened up like when you walk home alone after a fun night and all your happiness is spent and suddenly the street lights turn on as you walk by and it feels... complete, like your walking on a path you're meant to walk on. And my head was full of dreams and they weren't dreams anymore. All of it was so close I could smell it. Like I was a girl who grew up on a faraway farm land and I just moved into a city full of chances.

And it all went great, we practiced some covers, we recorded some, it sounded amazing and my hea and my heart were blowing up day after day. We even did an original and decide that it was time that we put it out. So we went full on social media, invited all our friends to join and we put our original song up. And our friends listened and it was very cool. The originals stopped there. We decided to do some covers we liked and people would like so maybe we could build an audience and then start to work on the originals. Logical, right?

 So the cover was... some successful some not, neither was tide-breaking. But I never stopped hoping and if you asked me I could do one song daily, no rest. I never feel as complete as I do when I do music. And yet that hope is starting to fade an I can feel a little part of myself wanting to give up. And that has never happened before. How did it come to this? I don't know did we drift apart or weren't on the same page with ideas or were just busy with other stuff. Well, I wasn't. I'm never to busy for music.

We started a new project in the meanwhile, a band that went great at first. Not my genre but it felt so good to create original songs, pour some ideas, write lyrics that were maybe a bit too dark for the genre I would put my music in, even though I never liked to put it in any genre, and they worked. Practice every week, song after song, and I could see the stage I'd step on and preform. I started to practice facial expressions, mic holding, stage performance, deep „artistic“ stares and movements.

Summer came, a very hot summer. Way too hot for us to be practicing. Well, not me. I'd practice above the heart of Mordor if necessary. So we skipped practice a few times. Then winter came so it was too cold or someone had to go somewhere or someone was working or nobody mentioned the will to practice. From every week, two weeks now months apart.

I recorded a few covers on my own, tried to mix and master them but somehow when no one was there to share the excitement like before I presumed my covers weren't good enough. It's just not the same. Now my hope swims through waves while inspiration lies deep on the bottom and sometimes I can sense a glimpse of it. And I'm searching for it, I'm searching for that drive, for that certainty that I will live my music. I will live music. Will I?

Days go by without me singing a tune. Ever since I knew myself I was singing. Every day, every free moment, with or without knowing. Now I'm used to silence and life is in grayscale. It's planned, secured and not at all bad. But never complete. My first love, my last love, my music.

I'm 27 year old now. 28 soon enough. For the first time in my life I'm lost in my path, I don't know my destination and the realisation is killing me.

Music still feels the same. I still get lost in acoustic strokes and raspy vocals. MY mind wonders in a fantasy happy place where nothing is real but I'm free as I'll ever be. Fairy in a forest or a watcher of beautiful nature, the hero of the story or the silent narrator. Nothing will feel like that. Why didn't I make it? I probably didn't try enough. I should've spend every free moment of my time in music if I wanted it so much. And I didn't. Why can't I do it? Why do I kill that dream with not doing anything about it? My heart feels like its burning inside me and that hole between my lungs is getting bigger but I still sit an do nothing.  Like I'm paralyzed but screaming inside.

It doesn't go away, that feeling. But instead of giving me strength and will to go on and fight it's a weight that’s drowning me inside out. Will I ever get out of it? IS this how the rest of my life is going to feel like? Happiness lived through discolor glasses of failure.

[rianatsanta]

You call it a failure, I call it a chance to get better

Riana Tsanta