guru
beside the gravestone
seated, he remained
for many monthsthe entire town
observed him
and he’d only
spoken oncethe wisdom he
imparted to
the people
brief and rarewas all that life
had taught him
and his duty
was to share“remember not
the good times
when a worry
you had notbut focus on
the struggle and
the things for
which you fought”
Source: thebusiness
It’s not so much that I *can’t* write anymore.
But a part of me doesn’t want to share my thoughts in words, even if those words are for my eyes only. My emotions are selfish; I want to cradle them in my own head,
to nurture them,
and save them for later.
On what people think of me, why it matters, and why it doesn’t.
I’m not going to say that I don’t care about what people think of me, because it simply isn’t true. I care very much so about whether or not people like me or don’t like me. The most important thing in my life is the people in it, and part of that is how they perceive me as an individual.
But one person’s bad opinion of me isn’t going to make me want to change who I am. I know my strengths and weaknesses, and if I decide to work on a facet of my personality, it’s not going to be for the sake of coddling someone else’s fragile sensibilities.
I woke up crying.
I’m not one to remember dreams, but the ones I do remember are often the worst ones to stick in my memory. I woke up crying, shaking, and gasping for air, and the boy just held me as I sobbed into his chest and tried to make sense of my incoherent blithering. I’m writing this out because writing helps, even and especially when it’s not pretty.
—
A random stranger who I was only associated with because of the situation we were all in was punishing himself for a reason I can’t remember. A crowd had formed, made up of his family, friends, and the rest of us curious onlookers. He had beaten and flogged himself to the point of near death, and I vividly remember seeing his skull cracked open and bleeding onto the pavement.
The entire crowd was gathered begging him to stop hurting himself, but he insisted and continued beating himself. He stood on a ledge and would threaten to jump if anyone got close enough to touch him. It was a hopeless situation, for his injuries were far too extensive to make recovery plausible, and yet we all urged him to come back, to let us help him, but to no avail.
Eventually the crowd began to thin out, starting first with the strangers. And yet I stayed. This was a man who was a complete stranger to me — I can’t even remember his face in the dream — and yet I stayed. I stayed with his family and friends as even they began to dwindle in numbers. Some even started to become aggravated with his stubbornness, claiming that if he thought he deserved punishment so much, then perhaps he should just kill himself. It would be easier on all of us, they said.
The numbers dropped lower and lower until I was the only one left. This man was bleeding profusely and crying and cursing me for giving a damn about his fucking worthless life, and why does a complete stranger care so much about whether or not I live or die even when my own family is so irritated that they’re encouraging me to just jump and end all this dramatic, attention-seeking behaviour?
I got as close as I could to him, reaching vainly towards him with my hands to try and touch this man, to just feel what his skin feels like before his inevitable jump. I was sobbing and begging please, please don’t jump because I love you so much and I just want you to be alive.
—
And then I woke up.
Stoya™: Touch.
What do you think about when you’re having an orgasm?
Nothing.
Maybe you’re thinking, but I know I’m not thinking. My mind is clear. My mouth goes on autopilot, the sounds coming out of it may occasionally be words but they have no intellectual thought behind them. The “oh god”s and “fuck”s are almost a mantra…
Stoya is wonderful in so many ways.
Source: stoya
There is a strange sort of elegance in my inability to translate thoughts into words.
I have in my mind pages and pages of thoughts that I have deciphered for my own personal enjoyment and gain. But to transcribe these exact words to another would be unwise; so much feeling would be lost, and I’m afraid that no one could ever fully comprehend my words. Not through any fault of their own, nor of mine. It is the inevitability of language and of sentiment.
Can we just talk about how much of adolescence is devoted to the heart? Adolescence is so hard because we’re trying to do all these grown-up things while working madly to fall in love and get our hearts broken. Our entire lives revolve around trying to have first kisses and find loves like the movies and then trying to have the greatest orgasms while finding the person who makes us the happiest all the while attempting to apply to college, and study for finals, and get a good job, and find the perfect apartment in a great location with rent that includes utilities and has laundry on the premise. Fuck, dude. No one should make this time any harder for us by turning our friends against each other and making us sleepless at night by encouraging people to ruin our reputations and making us think we have to be “good kids” when we already are good kids. Good kids who like to get fucked and fucked up. We still turn out okay. We turn out great.
I heard recently that researchers and professionals who determine this sort of thing have decided that adolescence has changed and now lasts until a person is into their 30s. I heard that and felt a sense of relief. As if it was giving me permission to not have it all figured out yet. An expert, somewhere, has decreed that it’s okay for me to still be fucking and fucking up, which I appreciate. I just hope that by the time I turn 30, some other expert has moved that age of acceptable adolescence up to, I don’t know, 63? I’ll still be good: a good woman who fucks up and is madly devoted to the heart.
Source: therealkatiewest
an expression of fear triggered by a life lived
i want to lean in close to my little baby niece and tell her she can be anyone she wants to be. she doesn’t even have to be anybody, if she thinks that’s what’s best for her.
i want to tell her that she can wear anything she wants and say anything she wants and i’ll hold the boys at bay for her. i’ll teach the boys not to take what isn’t theirs. she doesn’t ever have to worry.
when she grows up, i’ll tell her not to be ashamed for kissing her best friend that one night as they both giggled under the covers, making stars with their hands against the darkness.
when she wears barely-there skirts and low-cut shirts i’ll tell her how good her brain looks from here. and i’ll encourage her to read more books. in public. in her short skirts and tight shirts. i’ll punch the boys who whistle at her, and kick the boys who holler at her. my niece can worry about something else.
when she shaves her head, i’ll cry with her until she’s tough again. when her girlfriend leaves her for a man, i’ll cry with her until she’s sure again. when her boyfriend leaves her for India, i’ll cry with her until she’s over it.
when she’s the smartest woman I’ve ever known and the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, i’ll make sure she knows it. the men will come with a will to get it done, but she will give no fucks. and I’ll make sure the men do not take what isn’t theirs.
i will teach the sons not to touch, what the meaning of consent is. i will teach what she means when she says no. (she means no.) they will understand that my baby niece is not an object, here for their enjoyment. i will show the sons how to appreciate my niece, and respect her, and love her. i will show them exactly what will happen to wandering hands, and pushy tongues.
my little baby niece will never have to worry.
Katie West is amazing.
Source: therealkatiewest
Sometimes I am sitting at home and watching people I know suffer, and I think I need to suffer too. I sit in front of my computer very quietly and very still and try not to enjoy anything too much. I try not to get anything done; if they can’t, then I won’t. I try to share the suffering. I want to be sad with them as if that was a type of empathy they would appreciate, or even know about. As if they could feel a bit of their suffering alleviated as I take it on.
This, of course, is an act of futility. The best way I can help those people I know who are suffering is to let them know I’m here for them, or, if that wouldn’t be quite right, then I should continue doing whatever it was that drew us together in the first place.
Stop sitting quietly. Stop being still.
Katie West never ceases to take the words right out of my mouth.
Source: therealkatiewest
I buried my grief
under a pile of burning ash
that once lit the sage
of my ill-conceived past,
slight up a hill
in a rotten-cabin wood
where every hope and tear
muddled into soot.
Once the spine that arched
this aching upright head,
holster thoughts
that bore my prolonged dread,
and when I stretch,
I fret bending low,
for my back can’t carry
what these thoughts do sow.
My babe is so amazing.
Source: jerrodellis
Squeeze me harder now
and let your hands show my back
how much you missed me.
Source: tylerknott.com
I cried last night.
I cried as my eyes poured over the words, page after page. I must have re-read those few paragraphs at least a dozen times. If my eyes could have worn out those words, the ink would have been long gone by now.
I sat on the couch and cried. I tried to keep quiet as I cried. I tried to stop the tears as I cried. I cried.
“You okay?”
“Kind of. I shouldn’t read so late, books give me too many feels. Not conducive to a good night’s rest.”
“My baby looks so cute when she has feels.”
—
I tried to lay still and not think as I waited for you to finish brushing your teeth. I heard the click and buzz of your razor and knew you’d be just a little while longer. I picked the book up again.
I cried as my eyes poured over the words, page after page. I must have re-read those few paragraphs at least a dozen times. If my eyes could have worn out those words, the ink would have been long gone by now.
I laid on the bed and cried. I tried to keep quiet as I cried. I tried to stop the tears as I cried. I cried.
“You read some more, didn’t you.”
“Couldn’t help myself.”
—
I laid in your arms and cried. I tried to keep quiet as I cried. I tried to stop the tears as I cried. I cried.
Jack Scoresby: Thoughts while at the Narita Airport
It is the 8th of February 2012 as I write this, sitting at terminal 47 of the Narita Airport in Tokyo, Japan. It is 2:23pm and my flight back to the United States leaves in about four and a half hours. I have been to the Narita Airport more than I have any other airport in the world. The first time I was here it was June 16th, 2008…
I cried after reading this. Coming from the childhood I had, I don’t think I’ll ever know what it’s like to not feel as though the concept of “home” is completely fragmented.
Source: jackscoresby
