For what I write is only my veins speaking, my heart pounding. Foolish and sometimes wise, I live on my words and my tunes, the air I breathe. My soul will be bared, but only as I know it, and I will write, sing and say much, but nothing more.
P.S. Half of the stuff on this blog is mine, created by me. But for the things I reblog/quote, I take no credit.
Catching Elephant is a theme by Andy Taylor
Trust me, when people say that they write books like eating cake, go ahead and kick them in the balls. You don’t just write a book as if you are strolling through a garden. You stare at a bright screen, at a blank page, or sometimes at a dirty napkin, until something inside of you says, “yes, here comes the flood”. This natural disaster takes you over and you’re tossed in the waves—sometimes you can’t sleep, sometimes you can’t eat. All you know is that at the end of this terribly good storm, you might have something worth reading. That’s how I write my books.
E. Chizuyi (via underthedarkmoon)
(Source: st4ins)
Love and Sincerely,
I.R.Unnammed.
*Insert Laughter*
I suppose that nobody gives a damn about me. You know, I have no friends. I really don’t. The friends I have were had, and the only person I talk to now, is myself. I’m pretty damn angry. Most of the time I can feel this tingling in my hands, like they’re about to throw a punch. And most of the time, I’m too goddamn polite to do anything. But it’s always in the back of my mind. I always think that if I’d just hurt someone else, I’d feel better—a million times better. But it doesn’t work though. You see, I only get so depressed when I feel like no one loves me, and maybe no one does. My friend just told me, “I’m sorry you were my friend”, and I just added, “Please and thank you”. Now days, you don’t have to give a damn about what people think. If they’re going to hate you for something, let them. They probably have some valid reason anyway. I hate myself. I have lots of reasons, and mainly these reasons are complete bullshit. You kind of fall in love with hating yourself, you fall in love with a broken image you had created years ago, and you simply can’t tell the difference anymore. I love myself too much.
I suppose I just lied to you, but what’s a lie if I think it’s true? A truth to one is a lie to another, and there isn’t a difference. Perhaps I’m crazy, like the old ladies yelling after non-existent robbers that you see on the street. I’m not a heroin addict, I don’t dress in rags, and I’m not homeless, but I think I am. I just remembered that I got kicked out of my home a few hours ago. My home doesn’t love me anymore. She said we were through, and I don’t even know if I can visit my home once in a while. I hope it stays empty. I wonder if anyone will love me the way I love myself. I think that’s what people really look for. More than just those feeling of nausea or overpowering hormones, people want to be loved exactly how they want, exactly how they would want to love themselves. Anyways, enough of that, back to my original point. I’m angry and I hate you so much that I can’t help but love you.
Love and Sincerely,
I.R.Unnamed.
Love and Sincerely,
I.R.Unnamed.
Love and Sincerely,
I.R.Unnamed.
I Wonder…
When we’re sitting in silence, what are you thinking about? Stealing glances at you, I wish I knew. I wish I was on your mind, the way you never leave mine. There are nights where I cannot sleep—thinking about you, and wishing that I was holding you close. Please, if I’m ever on your mind, let me know…
P.S. You’re beautiful.
Love and Sincerely,
I.R.Unnamed.
Love and Sincerely,
I.R.Unnamed
