Don’t Touch Me If You Don’t Mean It.

Tranquility engulfs me;

to breathe

feels redundantly inadequate.

The sky

urges my meekness

to come forth.

As a sombre feeling

now lays itself on my heart,

a forlorn memory

makes its way

across my walls.

A nurtured wish;

A longing for the unattainable;

A void wishing to be filled.

No more than an instant,

yet unreachable from this well.

And as upon me

the start begin their show,

I have but two choices:

drown,

or rushing into a dead sprint.

Though I am keen

on embracing my wish,

I luck the strenght

to get on my feet.

Sometimes I feel like I am in a bathtub filling up faster than I can drain it. And lately, the drain is clogged and I am drowning and drowning and drowning.

I am losing air faster than I can handle; killing me slowly, suffocating me with black spots filtering over my eyes, decorating my room’s walls.

It’s a strange sensation, that of time running out. Who chained me to the bottom of this bathtub in the first place? Who is turning on the water, was it me?

I am the hand of ruin; the catalyst to my own destruction. Salvation seems beyond reason and unfathomable beneath the water.

Writing was my drain.

It breathes fire into my lungs and ice into veins. It’s the only time I feel in control, powerful… alive.

Now, the doubt, guilt and shame ties me to the silence. It weighs me down and binds my hands below. I don’t think I can tell which way is up anymore.

Words are losing meaning and the space between them is an abyss.

I am told to have hope. To write of the sun after rainy days. But what do you write about when the sun burns you charred and the rain soaks you to the bone?

God, I need five more minutes of peace.

I know it’s too much to ask, I haven’t been your favorite for years.

I am drowning, lost and fearful.

My heart has turned to solid as my body sinks further. Is floating up even worth it at this point? Or should I let the darkness continue its course? After all, who am I but a hollow vessel to tell it to stop.

Relationships are like two temporary lines meeting once and staying still for a given time.

No one expects them to stay still forever,it is almost an obligation that of growing together to better strengthen themselves for future events.

And as for the latter,they might not be practical happenstances or chosen career paths;

they might be no more than the meeting of new lines.

Whether each of them will be remembered or not is up to the mind of said person.

There’s no obligation in this,not even in letting each meeting last till its own time is up,which would be the natural course of life never actually followed through.

We’re all living temporary meetings with others,where there should be no necessity of planning nor of requiring more than is being given.

Let’s live relationships as they come,with no requests or overthinking,as if they were a random object you picked up and kept stored on one of your most precious shelves.

Call this whatever you like, I can’t come up with anything I would be satisfied with

Love is actually truly beautiful…weird, painful, but beautiful. And I think that’s nice. You know, we INTPs aren’t unfeeling robots, we truly feel emotions extremely intensely. It is just more rare for us to feel something than it might be for others. But that’s exactly what makes our emotions maybe a little more special, at least for us. They are the proof of our life, of the fact that we’re breathing and living, the proof that we actually don’t just fake all of what we are. My true emotions, the way they overwhelm me, the way I can’t understand them, they bring me comfort. They are something I cannot understand or grasp, and I absolutely love it. Finally something else takes control over me, and somehow it brings me rest. At those moments I stop thinking. I just stop. And I had no idea I needed it as much as I do. But it’s so peaceful. And so complex. And so depressing, yet uplifting, living in a blue euphoria. Sometimes, emotions become a drug for me. They throw you into a dream, that will never become true, and yet, I think sometimes it is good and important to live in that dream. And it’s okay to feed that dream, to add more moments that meant nothing in reality, but meant the world for you.  Emotions are beautiful. Emotions are something that should be loved, and something that should be feared. They are extremely powerful, and I believe in the strength of emotions more than I believe in the strength of intellect. Emotions are able to show you the truth through the lies they say. And I’m amazed by that.

“Anyone who has actually been that sad can tell you that there’s nothing beautiful or literary or mysterious about depression.”

— Jasmine Warga, My Heart and Other Black Holes (via perfectquote)

“Dogs don’t know what they look like. Dogs don’t even know what size they are. No doubt it’s our fault, for breeding them into such weird shapes and sizes. My brother’s dachshund, standing tall at eight inches, would attack a Great Dane in the full conviction that she could tear it apart. When a little dog is assaulting its ankles the big dog often stands there looking confused — “Should I eat it? Will it eat me? I am bigger than it, aren’t I?” But then the Great Dane will come and try to sit in your lap and mash you flat, under the impression that it is a Peke-a-poo… Cats know exactly where they begin and end. When they walk slowly out the door that you are holding open for them, and pause, leaving their tail just an inch or two inside the door, they know it. They know you have to keep holding the door open. That is why their tail is there. It is a cat’s way of maintaining a relationship. Housecats know that they are small, and that it matters. When a cat meets a threatening dog and can’t make either a horizontal or a vertical escape, it’ll suddenly triple its size, inflating itself into a sort of weird fur blowfish, and it may work, because the dog gets confused again — “I thought that was a cat. Aren’t I bigger than cats? Will it eat me?” … A lot of us humans are like dogs: we really don’t know what size we are, how we’re shaped, what we look like. The most extreme example of this ignorance must be the people who design the seats on airplanes. At the other extreme, the people who have the most accurate, vivid sense of their own appearance may be dancers. What dancers look like is, after all, what they do.”

— Ursula Le Guin, in The Wave in the Mind (via fortooate)

I need to know

"I find talking hard I find explaining impossible And I find trying arduous

It was never easy to talk It was never possible to explain And it was burdensome to try

But I realized that to comprehend I had to write I had to read and I had to know more

And for that I will always love writing for I can finally communicate I shall always love reading for I see and understand myself through the characters And I will keep trying to know for I have to try and need to know"

06/04/2021

How can meaning be found,

When light keeps pouring in and out of you?

 Blinded,

yet everseeing.

 A call for higher purpose,

an eagle’s cry

heard in the distance.

Pain is seared in the follow-up response,

Nothing alike earthly sensation.

It stretches far and wide,

beneath your body,

above your soul,

nowhere in the middle,

for it does not locate

where the mind can get ahold of it,

 Has destiny been set on stone,

or is the latter our own pliable existence?

 “Repond.”

 “How?”

 “Just respond.”

 For longer than an eternity could ever be,

it waited.

What for?

 For oneself,

no sin can be condone,

no doubt can be harbored.

 To build yourself,

You must be destroyed.

By what hands,

Will determine the freedom of your well’s boundaries.

 To be teared up,

And shown bare in your true essence

 Oh how tangible can pure fear be.

 Now drown in yourself.

Now be your fear.

Now,

play in your abyss,

for there is where your meaning resides.

“Sometimes letting go is the only way to find out who you’re meant to hold on to.”

— J. Sterling, The Perfect Game

I'm the kind of person who likes to be by himself. To put a finer point on it, I'm the type of person who doesn't find it painful to be alone.

— Haruki Murakami, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running