April 2012
21 posts
Animals With Stuffed Animals Of Themselves
And my favorite:
Oh sweet Jesus, this post.
“Here she is, all mine, trying her best to give me all she can. How could I ever hurt her? But I didn’t understand then. That I could hurt somebody so badly she would never recover. That a person can, just by living, damage another human being beyond repair.”
—Haruki Murakami, South of the Border, West of the Sun (via seabois)
Some people love their pain, they nurture it, it’s their little pet to feed, to hold onto and to blame every wrong they do or is done to them on. Pain can so easily become an excuse, a safety net. I think you truly have to hate your pain (depression etc) to move on. You have to despise it so much that you want to kill it and bury it and never see it again!! When you finally make that choice, you never look back….
“
The last time you came to see me
there were anchors in your eyes,
hardback books in your posture.
You were the five star general of sureness,
a crisp white tuxedo of a man.
I was fiddling with my worn coat pockets,
puffing false confidence ghosts in the cold January air.
My hands were shitty champagne flutes
brimming with cheap merlot.
I couldn’t touch you without ruining you,
so I didn’t touch you at all.
It’s when you’re on the brink of something
that you lose your balance.
You told me that once.
When I can’t bring myself to say what I need to,
my heart plays Russian Roulette with my throat.
I swear I fired that night, but, nothing.
Someday, I’ll show you the bullet I had for you,
after time has done the wash.
I’ll take it out of the jar of missed opportunities.
We’ll hold it up to the light.
You’ll roll it around your mouth like a fallen tooth.
You won’t forgive me exactly,
but we’ll laugh about how small it is.
We’ll wonder how such a little thing
could ever have meant so much.
