52

51

She thought she was going to be sick.
She could do nothing but stand there, staring back into her own eyes.
She felt so sick.
She traced her hand across her skin, pulling her fingers under her jaw, reaching up for her lips as they quivered so slightly.
Her knees, her legs, her arms, they felt so heavy.
Her chest felt as her ribs had finally been torn apart, and her heart lay bare and vulnerable.
It thudded, so loudly.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Louder, and louder.
It pounded through her chest, her throat... she could feel it's loud pulse traverse across her skin.
Her eyes had become glassy, that sparkle of blue worn away to a blank expressionless stare.
She had never felt so human in her life, and it made her sick.
It made her feel so incredibly raw and vulnerable, it made her feel so unstable, so malleable, so...
So dependent.
Words began to feel difficult to say, to even utter.
Words of which she had promised never to feel, never even to contemplate.
Words she had sworn; were labels for things that never even existed.
But she stood there, faced towards the mirror, her eyes frozen into a glassy stare, with the words,
"Oh fuck." running through her head, over and over and over.
She couldn't help the memories that were forcing themselves into her mind, she couldn't help the way her hands shook as she struggled to deny the truth.
She couldn't help her dreams.
Those little vulnerable things, that refused to hide.
"And so, a tragedy occurs." he had conceded, so sweetly, so sadly.
And even in her dreams, she could feel her heart break.
She had never felt such raw emotional pain before, never to such extremities, and all from the words her dreams had conjured forth.
Her dreams had forced her to realize a terrifying truth, of which she knew, even now, she would persist to deny as long as her heart would allow.
She would deny the fact, that made her so sick, and so scared, that she had fallen.
She had fallen.
And in doing that, she knew she would never utter the words, the word, as long as her dreams kept at bay.
As long as her lips remained sealed, and his heart kept safe.

50

Skin is memories.
Skin is ten years old, lying in the grass.
Skin is fragile.
Skin is just tangible hauntings.
Skin is memories.
And when you touch my skin, I know;
I will remember this.

49

We are the selfish beings- Praised for negligence.
We are nothing but bitter articulations.
We are rotted men and heartless women.
We are cold creatures, withering slowly and documenting our bitter perceptions in paper and ink.
We are nothing.
Nothing but words.
Nothing.

48

No it's not.
It really, really, really isn't.
It's just a name, like Peter Pan.
The boy who never grew up.
The window never shut.
The story always awaiting it's finish.
Peter Pan- The boy who never breathed.

47

Make up words and languages so no once has a choice but to discredit your thoughts.
And then continue to be indecipherable and honest in this stolen tongue.
Speak, never to be heard.
To be heard rarely means to be understood.
So, speak.

46

When did civility infringe upon the innate?

45

Cynicism is brutal but... Who said brutality was not honest?

44

Loathing, with such burning seething passion for something so fragile.
I often think fear and anger are the same thing, just with different extremities.
Passive.
Now that, that very word, that very mentality... It should be loathed, it should be feared.
Passive is a disease.
Passive is what renders all to nothing.
Passive does more than rot- Passive removes existence.
But... what if you are a passive creature at heart?
When then?
Are you destined to hear your thoughts degrade each thing to nothing?
Perhaps then it is just to be found within yourself, whether or not you give a fuck enough to fight for something.
"Live for something, or you'll die for nothing."
What then, if it doesn't matter to you whether you die for nothing?
Perhaps that's just the tragedy to all but you.
Meaning. Reason.
You never call for either.

43

I feel uncomfortable being sure.
It's rare.
And yet I'm here. Sure. Clear. Understanding.
Surprised... But sure.
Makes me cautious, because this can never last.
It only makes me wonder what is next to come, what is next to be deciphered.
What will bring me back to discontent.
It is confusing waking up, and realizing nothing is wrong, and you are safe.
It is confusing to meet nothing, when you push past the doors you had avoided.
It is uncomfortable to be in a sure state of mind.
And... and I don't know why.
Perhaps because when you don't know for sure where the trouble lies.
Perhaps all this time you've had your back unknowingly turned to it.
It means when it strikes, you're blind.
I suppose that's the cause of my discomfort, I don't know where my next downfall shall arise.
I am unprepared.

42

Why did you look as if you were about to cry.
Why did the way you spoke send my heart into my mouth.
What have I done to you.
"I heard this great one liner..."
"Oh really?"
"Yeah... There's this guy, and he really liked this girl, but she wouldn't go out with him..."
"Oh..."
"But she knew he liked her."
"Uh huh..."
"But anyways, apparently she did something really nice for him."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah... But I dunno what, but anyways, he said about it afterwards,
'Thank you, you'll be in my dreams tonight', and she just goes, 'But I'll only end up giving you nightmares.'
And he said, 'Who says I'm gonna be asleep?'"
"Wait... If it's a dream but he's not asleep..."
"It's a fantasy."
"Oh."
"Goodnight."

Never have I met a man so raw as you.
Never have I been in the presence of a man so young and yet wise.
I could see the burden upon your shoulders.
You were unhappy, and even now, you still are.
Your presence... It is...
You're...
Words fail me.
You are in one breathe indecipherable, and in the other, I understand you more than I think you know.
Although... Once you let me in. Almost.
Perhaps you saw more of my understanding than I had thought.
You are not accustomed to love.
And yet, you handle it with more open arms than I had the desire to.
I crushed it, you sought after it.
Perhaps that is why your eyes brimmed at the edges.
Perhaps that is what I should have seen.
With so many similarities, I failed to remember the most fragile of difference between you and I.
Perhaps I would not be writing about you now, had I remembered them.
You thought I would do more than understand, didn't you?
You thought...
I'm sorry.
You are strong for everyone.
Is there no one to be strong for you?
I hate to see you in pain, but even more, I hate to have that sickening feeling, knowing that I am the cause of a piece of it.
I could not mend your heart, for you would only alight the parts of mine that had grown to destroy these fragile things.
You would have been my vulnerable downfall.
I only feel remorse that I could not be there for you, that my mind no longer had the strength to return to the life I once was so accustomed to.
I am only sorry you and I did not know each other when younger.
Perhaps our burdens would have seemed lighter.
Perhaps I could have mended you, rather than unintentionally add to an already suffering self.
I wish someone who could help you, would see how you really are.
I wish someone actually gave enough of a fuck to see that you're not doing OK, you're not happy, and things are not fine.
I'll try to do what I can, but I know I am not who you want to talk to.
Once perhaps, but then I became a part of the problem.
Then I just got too close.

41

You know what?
You mean something to ME.
And yeah I know, things are hard, and right now, you can't see any other way out.
But look at me.
Look at just how uncontrollable I get when I think of you not being here anymore.
Look at how furious, how afraid I become when I think of you not breathing, when I think you not being there to text at night, to hug in the day, to smile at silently when your voice rises.
Life is hard.
Life is cruel, and you know what?
With each beautiful pulse you feel, life fucks you up.
Life takes every scrap of your innocence, and crushes it, it renders your body, and your soul, and your heart to a  memory of what it once was.
But you can't let it forever.
You've gotta see, that while this life is cruel, and while this life is dark, in it every single day, there is beauty.
And yeah, I know, right now, you don't wanna see that.
Heck, right now, you can't.
Right now all you can feel is your broken heart, your young soul, and your heavy shoulders.
Right now all you feel is the blood gushing through your veins, and the thoughts traversing past your eyes.
And know what?
I'm not gonna say it's selfish, Because... Because I've been there.
I've been there.
I've lied on my stomach, on my bed, going through the easiest ways to do it.
I know that, when we beg for you to hear us, all you can feel is hollow words.
Nothing is real, nothing is perceived as warmth.
Life is cold. Life is numb. Life... life is better off without you.
But listen to me.
That?
That is your shattered soul speaking.
That is the deepest moment of isolated darkness, that you can let crush you, or you can move past.
In this life, in this beautiful fucked up life; nothing lasts forever.
Nothing hurts forever, and the past never returns.
But, You do this?
You do this?
You will never get the chance to see that.
You will have chosen a dark forever.
You will have broken my heart, and so many others, and me telling you that I love you, will do nothing.
I love you.
Don't do this.
Don't break my heart.
This life... It is cruel, and I know you don't know how to be with it yet.
I know you're not there yet.
But please, listen to me.
Cruelty is not all there is.
Sometimes the most beautiful things in life, are just the mere fact it exists.
Just the mere fact that my pulse races every time I hear a certain song, that my skin goes cold for just a few seconds when I feel vulnerable, that I can never help but smile when I feel the sun on my hands, and I think,
"This may not have been."
The fact that 3 years ago, I almost ended everything.
I almost gave up what it was to feel my skin pressed against a keyboard, my warm breath passing through my lips, my legs crossed across each other, gently swaying to music.
I almost gave this up.
I thought there was nothing.
And this is what you're contemplating.
You're not just ending your misery.
You're ending what it is to be human.
What it is to feel and to see and to smell and to taste and to touch.
You are giving up the most unappreciated delicate moments in which you realize,
"This is what it means to be alive."
You are giving up what it is for you to exist, this very second.
You're giving up the sounds you hear, the things that make you smile when nothing else can, the memories that  haunt you so silently but sweetly, the feel of the sun upon your face, and water upon your neck, the taste of coffee on a cold morning, the eyes of a beautiful stranger as you walk by, the smile after a kiss.
You're giving up the feel of cold tiles in the morning, the promise of dreams, the escape of films, the beauty of art, the liberation of running.
Just... running.
With the wind wrapping itself so tightly across your neck, with the rain pelting down upon your spine, and your feet just slamming, one after another on cold damp ground.
You're not only deeming it all dark, but you're giving up everything that is so delicately, so indescribably, so imperfectly; beautiful.
You are letting the darkness take you.
You are saying goodbye to the future.
You are saying goodbye to me.
Please.
You have no idea just how much you mean to so many people.
Don't do this.

40

You're a beautiful girl.
Beautiful.
Beautiful.
Beautiful.
And... Right now, sitting in this cluttered room, music drolling out across it's walls, I want nothing more but to write for you.
I... I don't even know you that well, but there's a silence between us.
Every now and then, a silence in which I feel like I understand you, and you me.
I wish I knew you well enough, so I could actually... be there for you, rather than making do with a kinder smile, or a louder hello.
Right now... Right now I wish I could be there to understand for you, to just... "be" for you.
But, I'm rendered to a letter you'll never see in obscure web space, that I will never send, and that will never benefit you.
I want you to be happy, so much.
But I know happiness doesn't come with choice, not deep down.
I know you need time, I know you need to grieve, and...
I hope you're given the chance to do that.
You're a beautiful girl, far too young for those empty smiles and lowered eye lids.
And I...
I want you to smile enough, that it deepens the lines by your eyes, and the sun bounces off them, like sparks bursting from flames.

39

You know something?
I adore the way your stare lingers, just that second longer.
Heck, It's longer than a second.
You unashamedly do it. You grin as you do it, your smile growing broader as I cringe, blush and avert my gaze.
Or when I can't stop myself from sleeping.
When my eyes shut, under the warm sun, and you quietly lean closer, kiss my lips, my forehead, my cheek, and lie next to me, as I silently smile, and reach for your hand.
I adore that.
And I adore the fact that you use that word, "Adore."
I adore a lot of things actually.
I like how loud we can laugh. I like how sometimes I lose my breath from laughter, and when I open my eyes, you're keeled over, one hand pressed against your mouth, your eyes squinting happily.
I like how fucking crazy we are.
We are. Fucking. Crazy.
And... I like that.
I like how we've given up on fear, and when we wake up, you simply say,
"Good Morning."
And I just smile.
I like how you admit it makes you happy when I kiss you on the cheek.
I like that fact, that, upon you telling me that, I reached for your face to kiss you on the cheek, to feel your smile draw across it as my lips pulled away.
I like that I wasn't afraid to do it.
I like the fact you're sappy.
Yeah, I really do.
And... I like how surprised you and I are, that I don't scoff at every moment of intimacy, that I would have shied away from before.
Perhaps it's because you make me feel safe. Perhaps it's simply that I trust you.
Perhaps it's just because you're you, and... That's a pretty good reason.
I... Like the fact I write on obscure blogs about you, and... That... My notebook, and my blog, and my writings... You consume them.
Just that little bit.
It seems difficult to be inspired by other things.
You're just that little bit more inspiring.
And so, "You", that little word, litters most of what I write.
It litters... It litters creativity.
What I like most though?
The very most?
How I can sit here, legs crossed, catching my reflection in the window, music softly playing, hands pressed against the keyboard... and... I feel so whole.
Things may not be perfect, and my head may not be fine, But... I feel whole.
I feel strong, and good... and... Happy.
So very happy.
And I like very much, that you're to blame.
I blame you, and thank you, for being so very you.
And, I adore you for that.

38

Eyes wide shut.
Funny, isn't it?
Just how... heightened every aspect of your body is, once those lids have closed.
Once that glassy blue stare is hidden beneath long lashes and heavy breaths, how the hairs upon your neck rise, how your skin has that electric tinge to it.
How every touch sends wilder pulses through your skin, how every heartbeat thunders in your ears.
Funny, isn't it?
How your breath rises and falls, how... instantly and instinctively your eyes desire to shut, as skin meets skin.
Funny, isn't it?
The electricity, the heightened senses of closed eyes.
How music obtains even greater depth, heartbeats pound louder through quivering ears, and the smell of fresh grass, and the promise of summer, lingers upon your taste-buds.
Eyes wide shut.
Funny. Isn't it?
We shut our eyes, for only the greatest of things, to feel them all the more, and linger in their haunting presence.

37

Panic is the founding father of ill action.
Disdain; the leading growth of bitterness.
Fear; the crucible of lacking control; both mentally and physically.
Happiness; the sweet procrastinator.
Bliss; the home of silent content.
Hatred; the force of destructive passionate acion.
Detachment; the fatal passive end; rendering all passion, all hate, all desire, void.

Hatred is a thousand times better than a passive soul.
An impassionate soul, is not in fact existent, merely it's strength of desire waned.
An impassionate soul... A completely passive soul... To ALL things?
Dead.
Fear the passive soul, for fear will seem to be all you will have left, alongside your dull surrounding of ice and solitude.

We are humans.
We were born to feel.
We are humans; and soul is all we have.