#servire

[ninoelesirene]

A volte siamo importanti per quello che rappresentiamo, perché inneschiamo negli altri un meccanismo a loro familiare. Non piacciamo davvero (o soltanto): serviamo.

Tra servire e essere amati c’è una differenza sottile, eppure, a volte, lunga decine di anni.

[foreverblondie23]

[chi-va-piano-arriva-dopo]

“E’ strana la vita. Credi di essere completa, di avere tutto quello che ti serve. Poi arriva qualcuno e piano piano, senza che tu te ne accorga, diventa fondamentale. E quando stai per perderlo, o quando lo hai già perso, ti accorgi di quanto te la cambiava, la vita.”

― Maurizio De Giovanni, “Il pappagallo muto. Una storia di Sara”.

[licaonia]

♠️_Osserva con un sorriso che denota controllo e attesa. La tua devozione è chiara. Non cerco promesse, solo la silenziosa conferma del tuo desiderio di servire. Che la tua obbedienza sia la tua offerta e il mio piacere la tua ricompensa. Uno scintillio nei suoi occhi accompagna le sue parole, portando con sé la tacita promessa di reciproca soddisfazione, dove ogni atto di sottomissione trova eco nel piacere sperimentato.🖤🌹

©️Licaonia Lupe

[ragazzoarcano]

“Ma la grande, la tremenda verità è questa: soffrire non serve a niente.”

— Cesare Pavese

[giucodicarta]

[foggynerdhideout]

È proprio un bel libro per bambini la bibbia, pieno di abusi, stupri, violenza gratuita a go-go; di padri intenzionati seriamente ad uccidere il proprio figlio per dimostrare la propria fede: tutti atti considerati leciti perché "lo vuole dio".

Dov'è il Moige - battaglione per la moralità e la censura "per difendere i più piccoli" - quando serve davvero?

[kidfrommodesto]

au!starter for @servire

Mortality beats a heavy drum.

Fuck. Truer words were never spoken.

Daniel had somehow survived Dubai in one piece, Armand had taken Louis warning to heart about not touching him and allowed him to go. He went back to New York, wrote the book and published Interview with the Vampire, causing a stir on multiple fronts. The vampire community pissed that they were exposed, those who believed in the story, and those who thought Daniel was loosing touch with reality and slipping further and further into madness, and honestly, he couldn't argue with any of them.

Things were okay for a couple of years, good even, his daughters even started reaching out to him. But as his Parkinson's Disease progressed, the treatments seemed to be less and less effective. Routines Daniel used to do with ease were becoming progressively harder with the passage of time. Daily things one took for granted like being able to tie your shoes, feed yourself, fuck even just dressing himself became more and more a chore as time went on. He adapted as best he could, leaning on assistants, his girls the times they visited, but Jesus Christ, Daniel was getting exhausted.

Some days were better than others, and that day, Daniel had decided to venture out to his favorite coffee shoppe. There was a barista there, Amy, who was always very kind to him, having explained one day her mother also had Parkinson's, so she would always go out of her way to help Daniel hold onto some sense of his independence. Introducing him to adaptive silverware, making sure the coffee was in a bigger cup than what he paid for so it wouldn't spill if he was having a hard day, or hell, just taking a moment to talk to him. He had never expected to feel so isolated as the disease had progressed.

After leaving the shoppe, he headed back to his apartment, exhausted by the excursion but thankful for it all the same. Stuffing his hands in his coat pockets, he went to head towards his building but slowed down as he approached seeing an all too familiar face standing on his stoop.

"H--Hello Armand."