At what point should one give up? At what point do I stop telling myself this isn’t martyrdom, that I should keep waiting for him to come around because I just know he never will.
And I KNOW that. I know it with every fibre of my being that his heart will never belong with mine. But as wretchedly stupid it is, he is still the first thought I have in the morning, and the last I see at night.
I wish this distance would take me away—from what might have been, what I’ve always dreamed we could be. How many more nights of endless solitude and loneliness, how many more days of longing must I endure to get away from all the dreams and memories? How many more pointless silent screams, bitter tears, and unanswered prayers?
How many more times will I have to reach out and try, only to fail and give up, and come back anyway? I don’t even know if you can still call this hope. I call it stupidity.
I want to fall in love again. With someone new, with someone who would reciprocate the feeling. Someone who wouldn’t inspire such words of desolation.
Federico García Lorca, Blood Wedding and Yerma (via observando)
Reading can be such a solitary, lonely activity, but sometimes, when a book strikes me at the right moment, in the right place, I feel more connected to humanity than at any other time in my life.
It’s like someone’s smiling over my shoulder, or holding my hand, or kissing my forehead. The comfort in gesture, in love and affection. In community. In hope.
That’s what reading feels like, and it makes me less afraid.
be careful washing dishes in the dark
is this fall out boy lyrics
Oh. I thought it was like a pun towards “my songs know what you did in the dark”
just trying to warn people about the dangers of trying to clean their good china when they can’t see
She said I might be his anchor, the only constant thing in his life, the only thing he can come back to when the dust settles and the bruises from the battles are uncovered, the last one standing when no one else will stand up for him. It’s a romantic thought that slips under my skin, like the feeling of hearing his voice on the line, the false warmth I cling so tightly to. I’m tired of missing his voice. I’m tired of carrying the weight of the world when I’m not even part of his. She said maybe he never left. Maybe he is there and I’m just thinking he’s not. But that doesn’t explain the silence. The indifference. The cold. The unanswered questions. It’s overwhelming, how he keeps me questioning everything. There is no end to this. He will always be a mystery to me, a sweet, painful mystery that I’ll always write about until I get the answers I need. Til then, I’ll keep my head in the books and escape this trap, this cage of questions he created that night. I wish I could forget, I wish I could carry on like nothing happened, like I never met him. But then again I keep praying. I keep declaring unto the universe that it will end somehow. Someday. Either way, I’ll survive. I just wish I would survive, holding your hand. I would survive, with you.
The truth is, unless you let go, unless you forgive yourself, unless you forgive the situation, unless you realize that the situation is over, you cannot move forward.
Steve Maraboli (via observando)