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A person who was raised immorally is nutured into a beast.

— A replica of the people they vowed they would never become.

[theimmortalityofliteraturesblog]

I wish the world would shut up, at least for a minute. So I can hear the beating of my heart and know that I am alive.

- The Immortality of Literature.

[theimmortalityofliteraturesblog]

I saw a jobless man on the side of a forever-moving road.

I held a warm piece of baked bread in my lap, feeling my hands clench around it until I met his eyes.

His eyes, I saw the pain, I felt what he felt. I saw what he saw.

I saw myself as a selfish bitch.

I wanted to ask the driver to pull over, but we would probably be stampeded with oncoming traffic. I wanted to hand the man my food.

I wanted to smile at him and help him, I wanted to change his life, when I can't even change my own.

The sandwich belonged to him, I stole his food and I shall forever feel bad for enjoying it when I arrived home.

- E.J.W. The Immortality of Literature.

[theimmortalityofliteraturesblog]

I am a bad, horrid, terrible friend.

I do not talk to them — I want— I need isolation. I am a bad friend for not conversing with them and all I have to say is: "I'm sorry."

I am not worthy of your overbearing friendship and you deserve much batter than what I can offer you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry.

- E.W. ( Written by The Immortality of Literature).

[theimmortalityofliteraturesblog]

I ran out of space on my arm. Blood is a sadistic substance who loves to see the pain in your eyes when it leaves you for something either than your pathetic fragility.

When my blood decides to boil in the home of my skin, instead of remaining cold, I will know what it's like to be alive. But— it is easy to put the blame on the knife when you're the one holding the handle.

- E.W. ( Written by The Immortality of Literature).

[theimmortalityofliteraturesblog]

Nothing can describe Autumn better than itself. The frozen bonhomie tainted with golden sunlight. It all falls around me as if the sky is raining fire. Frost mounted itself upon grass blades. The first time I ever saw frost, I thought it was snow. — It didn't last, like everything else.

I cannot express my lively adoration for the season that brings death. As I walk, the leaves crunch beneath my tired feet like bones been trampled upon by a stampede of untamed horses.

When I looked up, the sun burnt holes in my eyes and I could finally see.

I wish to mimic Autumn. I jettisoned myself off a plane with the hopes of being as beautiful as the falling leaves. Beautifully falling — like the morningstar.

I feel as though I have stolen air from an airless world instead of dying with the orange-filtered earth. The frost upon the grass contrasted with the parched Autumn, glowing like crystals. — How I wish to grow in times of decayment.

( Maybe if I stay really silent, they'll forget I even lived).

- E.W. ( Written by The Immortality of Literature).

[theimmortalityofliteraturesblog]

I have read two dozen novels to claim pieces of relativity that I cannot find in anyone else I have ever met.

Perhaps if I look closely, I can catch sight of myselfwalking through the pages, the same way I walk through my own home. I built a house between the lines.

- E.W. ( Written by The Immortality of Literature).