To love and to be loved is to hurt and be hurt.

I do not want to be hurt, nor do I want to hurt you.

Alright breaking out of my angsty character for a bit to check up on everyone. I don’t have a lot of followers but whenever someone follows me I become very concerned for them, so while we can be sad together, remember to take a break from the intense negative thoughts too my friends. The media you engage yourself in can effect your mental headspace more than you think. What I post can be pretty depressing so remember not to let me make you feel even worse than necessary.

To gift someone life is to doom them to the suffering of death

Gather moon and morrow.

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I read about pain like it feeds me. I imagine myself in their shoes and feel a sickening bliss.

(……) my body is a house/ & my house is haunted/ & I believe that God is the ghost./ (……) God is haunting me/ & I deserve the curse.

— J.S. Park @/jsparkblog via twitter (on spiritual trauma)

My body will outlive my soul, and I don’t think I can bear to endure that.

I want desperately to be broken. So that I may be fixed.

It is not that I do not want to opt for some more conventional path. It is just that I do not think I will ever let myself survive if I had pursued anything other than art, anything other than poetry and writing. I might starve to death this way, but I would have strangled my soul to death any other way. I am too big for this body, this body should not have been mine, I was supposed to be beautiful. Art is the only way I can be inhuman, to chase half the beauty that is nothingness, even for a minute.

I am sorry for trying to plant seeds in festering wounds, the only way I know to cope with suffering is to turn it into some sort of wretched beauty.

Temporary passenger.

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I dare say my parents are among the best a child could have ever asked for. Yet, I can just as confidently say, out of anyone in the world, they are the ones who have caused me the most suffering.

She opened her mouth in an attempt to explain herself, for a miracle to happen, for this unfeeling woman she calls mother to understand her for once in her life— anything— She made me happy, mother, she wanted to say, She made me feel loved. I just wanted to love her back, please… she wanted to beg, but her mother raised a hand before any of it made it out her mouth, silencing her. She turned away. And she was gone, those buried words forever left unsaid, unheard, unforgiven, unaccepted. Forever misunderstood.

— an excerpt to some writing I’m working on

Her face was sad and lovely.

— F. Scott Fitzgerald, on Daisy, The Great Gatsby

I wonder what it must be like to be beautiful.

I long for it. I long for my pain to be exploited by all these depraved souls out there. So there will be a point to all this. So my pain can also become beautiful.

Than maybe they will understand.

People disappeared, reappeared, made plans to go somewhere, and then lost each other, searched for each other, found each other a few feet away.

— F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

I am forever impressed by how simple out of the blue descriptions written by Fitzgerald can end up being such profound analogies. This sentence was simply a line of description for a house party where people came and went.

Please Understand

I am sorry to the woman I glared at so viciously

That day at the protests

When she spoke ill of them so carelessly

I did not mean to glower

But simply to stop myself from weeping

I wish I was born beautiful so my melancholy can too be painted into songs by the poets.