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| Pain, Misery, Misfortune, and Turmoil are strange things. They become mere memories, things of the hazy.They all become things of the past gradually, and then they’re not there at all. Certainly not in our heads. Such things should not disappear, but it’s so easy to take the life we live currently for granted. We forget where we have from come from, where our parents have come from, and the sacrifices and pain they have spent in order to arrive here. And perhaps happiness distracts us of the past, and we convince ourselves it’s natural that they cease to exist. But it isn’t right, if we’re unable to learn from any of it-instill it in our present. Sometimes we may get ridiculed, because it isn’t exactly modern to “live in the past”. And the language we try so hard to combine with our lessons of the past into our knowledge of today becomes incoherent to the generation today. And suddenly we’re so weak to the new pains, miseries and misfortunes that have evolved into bigger monsters. Scars are there for a reason, not only to haunt us, but to remind us-that the pain any of us may face today is suddenly nothing. And suddenly pains become miracles.
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| When happiness happens, you forget everything that has ever hurt you in out-of-this-world measures, wounds that you felt would never stop bleeding, monsters that never die even though you stop believing in them, but the truth is we’ll always be the children that never stop fearing what is under our beds- because the things we hide or throw underneath always know where we sleep. And we forget about our monsters, our wounds and our troubles while we sleep blissfully. But the truth is that we’ll always be vulnerable children. | | |
| "True love is knowing a person's faults, And loving them even more for them." | | |
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I feel like a large part of me have just been run over by a eighteen-wheeler. Does it hurt? No. Should it hurt? Yes, I'd like to think so. I can remember climbing back up to my feet, with a stagger, with cheeks stained with smears and my clothes tattered with blackness. The sort of thing that happens after you've been under eighteen wheels, eighteen wheels that have been everywhere, freeway to freeway and from stateline to stateline. The very same ones that have been through occasional road kills and oil stained warehouses. Some parts of me are gone, and I don't feel myself crying. I can only but feel the lump in my throat that ceases me from speaking. Oh, but I want to speak so badly. But no one could hear me, let alone listen to me. They only see what they can see, a tragic happening. No one wants to listen to me because I look as if I've just suffered under eighteen wheels. Every part of that is true, and I don't expect myself to clean myself up anytime soon. I don't even notice my limbs are gone, I can't even feel the feel of them. I want to speak so badly, but I can't. I want to speak until all of my words no longer retain any meaning. I want to speak until none of it matters anymore. I want to tell someone else, to convince myself that what happens is never important. Like now, what happened just now is nothing. Like being underneath eighteen wheels is nothing, and I am soon to be nothing. I would be fine, as long as I speak. So long as I can decieve myself that it doesn't matter if I've made the mistake of getting back up with a half broken smile. I smile because I can't feel. I smile because the pain means nothing. Smile and speak until every thing that I do will cause no effect, so evidently pain will also become nothing to me.
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Knowing who I am, I don't want to accept it. I get lost when I run out of bread crumbs to leave behind, I have no more soul. | | |
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