Monday, December 14, 2015

hmm

"Because real love, once blossomed, never disappears. It may get lost with a piece of paper, or transform into art, books or children, or trigger another couple’s union while failing to cement your own. But it’s always there, lying in wait for a ray of sun, pushing through thawing soil, insisting upon its rightful existence in our hearts and on earth." 

via http://www.nytimes.com/2015/11/29/fashion/when-cupid-is-a-prying-journalist.html

Sunday, December 13, 2015

so precious

burn, burn, burn

thank you for confirming my worst fears, you fat insincere glob of horseshit.
i dont normally wish people bad, but i finally know what it feels like now.
i hope you implode and burn inside and shrivel to pieces that then get stamped on... till finally you are   no more than powder that gets sweeped up, discarded in a black thrash bad and then incinerated again. you fucking pompous, materialistic, hypocritical, filthy, diseased, obese rat. hope your arteries clog up and heart stops tomorrow. i sincerely wish that.

Wednesday, December 9, 2015

愛相隨

"if she is not very intelligent, clear-sighted, or courageous, a man does not hold her responsible: she is the victim, he thinks—and often with reason—of her situation. He dreams of what she might have been, of what she perhaps will be: she can be credited with any possibilities, because she is nothing in particular. This vacancy is what makes the lover weary of her quickly; but it is the source of the mystery, the charm, that seduces him and makes him inclined to feel an easy affection in the first place."

via http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2005/09/26/stand-by-your-man

hate = love

hate can't be hate without having loved, or experienced love intensely.
the next time you feel repulsed by a hater or the word "hate", know that it exists purely because love exists.

hate is conceived out of love.

love to hate, hate to love. one and the same thing.

Tuesday, December 8, 2015

egos for faces

it's time your ego took a beating.

Monday, December 7, 2015

as above, so below

the only consolation one can seek at moments like this is: whatever will be, will be. whatever is meant to be, is meant to be.

is it resignation? is it passive acceptance of the status quo? 

i'd like to think not. because you have tried, and you believe your intuition because it has proved steadfast. so every passing moment that proves your intuition right, you die a little. the distaste in your mouth grows—like a little caterpillar turning into a moth—trapped in the carvernous cavity that is your oral cave—its walls smeared with wing powder and saliva—its bitterness overpowering your senses—your heart wrenching with a faint, almost indistinguishable pain—your heart feeling like it might also just stop any time. any time now.

what can you do? what can you do?

you're paralysed. gutted. torn. beaten. soured. ridiculed. invested. 

yes, you're still invested. you know you'd turn the other way with just a nudge. a nudge—and you'd budge. but you can't do anything. so you just shrug your shoulders and leave—walk away. and so slowly, this, like all others, will be distant memories you can only wish to return to—can only think about fondly and feverishly and pathetically in the cold and still of the night, where the quietude is so deafening you could cry. and wait. and hope. and cry somemore.