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#excerpt from a book i'll never write
aceofthesunset · 10 minutes ago
Everything I’m doing I’m doing it for her. I want to be the best version of myself for her. I want to be the romantic girl for her like opening the car door, pulling her chair before she sits, walking closest to the road and buying her romantic gifts and roses going above and beyond for her. I want to love her in ways everyone else failed... I want to give her security and love... I’m so soft for her
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alittle-honey · 42 minutes ago
Forever + 1
“It’s inevitable,” she says. “We’re never going to work out.”
And you want to leave it at that. You want to nod your head and agree and walk away. It’s inevitable, you know that she’s right. There are a thousand reasons why: you’re too young, too dumb, too broke – and a million more that you could say at the snap of her fingers.
But you don’t want to.
You want to yell at her, you want to scream and shout until you’re blue in the face and your throat is raw. You want to grab her hands and never let her go, you want to tell her that even though she’s always right, she’s wrong this time. She wrong and you’re right, she’s so wrong that you want to cry. You want to bawl your eyes out and sob. Cry until there’s nothing left.
You can feel the words bubbling up in the back of your throat, like a volcano that’s about to explode and wipe out everything it ins way. It’s inevitable.
“But what if we do?” Your voice starts off as a soft whisper, the same one you use when you hold her close at night. “What if we do wrong out and the stars sing, and the moon shines and the waves rise – what if we stay in love. What if we just ignore what everyone says about us. That we’re too young and dumb, and broke, and all the other ones too. What if I listened to your heart and you listened to mine, I already have the sound of your heartbeat memorized and nights when I’m not with you I play it over and over in my head to fall asleep. What if you said no to the inevitable and yes to us?”
But the words never come.
Instead, you stand there staring at her as she walks away. You listen to her feet on the wood floor and count the moments you loved her – but you don’t know what number comes after forever.
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camtrouvaille · an hour ago
And I hope you don’t view me as the one who got a way, because I was never really meant to stay, I was never really yours anyway. I loved you though, so much that it destroyed me. You could’ve asked me to light myself on fire and I would have with a smile and shaking fingers. You could have asked me to stay and I would have, with a smile and tears in my eyes. But you never did though and I am forever thankful for it. Because you could have returned and I would have been far to weak to stop you.
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writtenspacedust · 3 hours ago
I do not remember how this poem begins, but I do remember that it begins with a Sunday morning.
It is a Sunday morning with wilting petals from picked roses in a shimmering vase and the steam from my mother’s iron that I think of you.
It is a Sunday morning, chimes murmuring softly to one another in hushed tones, bumblebees buzzing along the marrow of my bones and grasshoppers clicking and chirping in brisk mourning whilst my thoughts place the spotlight on you.
It is a Sunday morning with my pink-tinged knuckles and scabbing scratches flush against the wooden surface of my dinged up table that I realize I hated you.
It is a Sunday morning that green fills my lungs and specks of light dances behind my eyes that I dip a toe into the flinching current of coming to terms with hating you.
It is also a Sunday morning that a warm cloak of wool memories of loving you wraps about me tightly.
It is a Sunday morning with vines snaking across my liver and intestines tightening in curiosity when I peel away the tape that burns my chapped lips, my unused tongue wetting the poor skin as I taste honesty once more.
It is a Sunday afternoon with my body swimming against the crippled clean sheets of my bed and my room humming around me that I allow myself to remember you.
It is a Sunday afternoon when I am alone with my bare, dry skin speckled pink and brown and stomach rolls and spring air sighing against my blinds and screen that I remember how judgmental you were.
I remember how stern and firm and professional you were, so like my own mother whose tongue only knows how to mold her opinions into the format of fact.
I remember how you were always so insecure about your broad shoulders and your sagging stomach and how eating disorders were a trigger to you.
I remember how we only had to talk for a few months to become close as could be, sharing a cocoon but separated by a thin wall with us smiling down and giggling at the secret only we knew.
I remember your glasses and how the sun glinted against your dark eyes, making them gleam a brilliant gold and I remember the slope of your nose and how I wanted to pepper it with soft kisses.
I remember your obsession with Dan and Phil as well as the color yellow and sunflowers so now I cannot look at a field without thriving to dedicate it to your being.
I remember that you are a Ravenclaw and you are the rarest personality type in the world and your liking to the word, “euphoria”.
I remember that you had three to four panic attacks a week and that shaving felt like cleanliness to you and how makeup was your only key to the confidence you so craved.
I also remember the thrumming doom that sinked and bubbled under my skin as my own homemade tumor when I realized a few weeks after confessing to you that I did not see you as a lover, as a partner, or as someone to romance.
I remember how you made me cry for the first time and how it was the last time you made me cry because I never again let you have the chance to make me cry.
And oh, do I remember how you always remained professional with those you were distant from and the chill that dripped down from my eyes to my toes when you became professional to me.
It is a Sunday afternoon that I shrink away from the entangled cotton of my dreamcatcher when I dare let myself whisper the fact that yes, I did agree with that person you didn’t but only silently and in my head because they were someone you did not like and I could not afford becoming that.
But I did indeed, in my head.
It was a Sunday afternoon that I bow my head to my lap with my palms slick with my saliva and snot and tears with only the creaking walls and maybe, the inquiring lamp to the side, as witness to my confession that I hated you.
That I hated you and dislike you and love you.
It is a Sunday night that I take the artwork that I had drawn and dutifully colored in with the paint made from the colors of my veins and neurons and threw it away.
It is a Sunday night that I give into the temptation that itches and cackles in my ear to look at your profile again, looking through your activity before shutting my phone off in disappointment in myself. It is a drug, one I indulge and inject into myself to free myself of your insomnia.
It is a Sunday night that I wonder freely to myself and only to myself because I had checked my closet and behind my doors and under every nook and cranny before doing so if you also think of me on a Sunday night just like this.
It is also a Sunday night that I shove my way towards the kitchen and slam the clay pot with you in it to the ground, kneeling down to grasp at the shards that dig under the skin of my palms when I slit myself with one.
It is a Sunday night that I plant a seed with trembling fingers under my skin in that slit and here it is, I can see and feel the leaves of that sunflower in me brushing underneath my skin and ready to burst again.
It is on a Monday morning, at the silent tick of 12:01 a.m that I admit to myself that I had gone through the stages of grief when it came to losing you.
It is on a Monday morning at 12:03 a.m that I know I am still struggling to overcome denial and acceptance. I had already checked the boxes for bargaining and depression and anger and checked them again and again until they were covered in ticks but even then, I probably missed a few because I am forgetful.
But it is today, on this Sunday afternoon with a poem that I wrote at 3:58 p.m to 5:13 p.m with my battery at 17% that I begin to accept a little more and grieve a little more and say goodbye a little more sincerely with this rewritten copy of a well-torn up poem in my hands.
In seven years, the sunflower I plowed under my skin will be the only evidence left of you, the scar healing wonderfully and the plant doing well as I water it as I do the other plants because I care for myself.
In seven years, all my cells will have been replaced with ones anew and my body will no longer know the smears of tears you caused or the craving for your long paragraphs of compliments and little laughing emojis.
It is also in seven years that my body will finally be mine again and you will be gone and dead and I have accepted that and even been grateful for that and all that you were and I would like to tell you that yes, I hated you and dislike you and love you. And yes, I will still think you, that is true.
But no, sunflower, I will not miss you.
- the sunday morning i kissed your purple hues before spitting on your boots.
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sassyshoulderangel319 · 4 hours ago
Character A: Come on, babydoll…
Character B: Call me babydoll again and I’ll slit your throat.
Character A: I’ll like it. 😉
Character B: Not how I’m going to do it.
Character A: And how are you going to do it?
Character B: If I told you it would take all the fun out of when it happens later.
Character A: You mean “if” it happens.
Character B: Well your luck hasn’t been too stellar of late.
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satbytheriver · 4 hours ago
I cannot look at you without longing for god. I fall softly and terribly clinging on to your bottom rib. I’m thinking if I could be more silent about wanting this unbearable love? Sometimes I think, even if I stopped touching the wound, I’ll still come to love you in the most understandable kind of pain. Your shadow has become the footbridge between my bad and good days. Your name, the only language I can remember from my eyes. I cannot look at you without thinking about sunsets and sonnets. I cannot write a single word without thinking about all the stars that takes you home. In this misery of breathing your echoing laughter, I wished that time would keep a place for me by the moon. A little closer to god, and he will see my lungs swelling with the ghost of you. I will howl about the bruised longing of my soul, searching for you. Painting your fingerprints in each passing cloud and seeing them disappear like blues of the mornings. And when I hear your voice singing at the edge of the woods, I will weep at the house of god. I look at you and only long for god, because I can only cry to him about you.
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manyasaxenawrites · 4 hours ago
19. Questions unanswered
In the quest of knowing and not
knowing, the remembering is
what baffles me profusely.
For I shall never know
what it holds for me
and what it holds
my solemn
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itsokaytodreamincolor · 5 hours ago
My love,
I associate you with the color yellow.
If people had colors, that’s what I think you would be.
You are the golden hour.
Where the sun is beginning to set and bathes everything
in this stunning golden glow and people
just want to take pictures because it’s so beautiful.
You have this glow about you.
You’re radiant. And warm.
Being around you feels like when you are outside
and it is not hot but the sun is out and everything is peaceful.
You make me feel safe, you feel like home.
You would be a darker yellow, because while you
do have darkness inside you it does not
diminish how truly stunning you are.
You are a living reminder that just because something
is dark, does not mean it cannot also be radiant.
- [i.r.]
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artisticmind · 5 hours ago
He makes me cry every sunday
tears run down my face
why I wonder why I am not enough
I can’t not keep you in my life anymore
if that means I’ll get hurt by you
but just the thought of you leaving
hurts and scares me more
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trendingzone · 8 hours ago
this is Classic.
“Go and stand in the economy class queue. This line is for business class travellers,” a well-heeled lady told Sudha Murty at the International Heathrow airport in London.
Sudha Murty, as you probably must be knowing is a well known writer and also, The chairman of Infosys Foundation.
She has written in her book, “Three Thousand Stitches”.
The excerpt is indeed an interesting read.
Last year, I was at the Heathrow International Airport in London about to board a flight. Usually, I wear a sari even when I am abroad, but I prefer wearing a salwar kameez while travelling. So there I was—a senior citizen dressed in typical Indian apparel at the terminal gate.
Since the boarding hadn’t started, I sat down and began to observe my surroundings. The flight was bound for Bengaluru and so I could hear people around me chatting in Kannada. I saw many old married couples of my age—they were most likely coming back from the US or UK after helping their children either through childbirth or a new home. I saw some British business executives talking to each other about India’s progress. Some teenagers were busy with the gadgets in their hands while the younger children were crying or running about the gate.
After a few minutes, the boarding announcement was made and I joined the queue. The woman in front of me was a well-groomed lady in an Indo-Western silk outfit, a Gucci handbag and high heels. Every single strand of her hair was in place and a friend stood next to her in an expensive silk sari, pearl necklace, matching earrings and delicate diamond bangles.
I looked at the vending machine nearby and wondered if I should leave the queue to get some water.
Suddenly, the woman in front of me turned sideways and looked at me with what seemed like pity in her eyes. Extending her hand, she asked, ‘May I see your boarding pass, please?’ I was about to hand over my pass to her, but since she didn’t seem like an airline employee, I asked, ‘Why?’
‘Well, this line is meant for business class travellers only,’ she said confidently and pointed her finger towards the economy class queue. ‘You should go and stand there,’ she said.
I was about to tell her that I had a business class ticket but on second thoughts, held back. I wanted to know why she had thought that I wasn’t worthy of being in the business class. So I repeated, ‘Why should I stand there?’
She sighed. ‘Let me explain. There is a big difference in the price of an economy and a business class ticket. The latter costs almost two and a half times more than . . .’
‘Exactly,’ said the woman. ‘So there are certain privileges that are associated with a business class ticket.’
‘Really?’ I decided to be mischievous and pretended not to know.
‘What kind of privileges are you talking about?’
She seemed annoyed. ‘We are allowed to bring two bags but you can only take one. We can board the flight from another, less-crowded queue. We are given better meals and seats. We can extend the seats and lie down flat on them. We always have television screens and there are four washrooms for a small number of passengers.’
Her friend added, ‘A priority check-in facility is available for our bags, which means they will come first upon arrival and we get more frequent flyer miles for the same flight.’
‘Now that you know the difference, you can go to the economy line,’ insisted the woman.
‘But I don’t want to go there.’ I was firm.
The lady turned to her friend. ‘It is hard to argue with these cattle-class people. Let the staff come and instruct her where to go. She isn’t going to listen to us.’
I didn’t get angry. The word ‘cattle class’ was like a blast from the past and reminded me of another incident.
One day, I had gone to an upscale dinner party in my home city of Bengaluru. Plenty of local celebrities and socialites were in attendance. I was speaking to some guests in Kannada, when a man came to me and said very slowly and clearly in English, ‘May I introduce myself ? I am . . .’
It was obvious that he thought that I might have a problem understanding the language.
I smiled. ‘You can speak to me in English.’
‘Oh,’ he said, slightly flabbergasted. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you weren’t comfortable with English because I heard you speaking in Kannada.’
‘There’s nothing shameful in knowing one’s native language. It is, in fact, my right and my privilege. I only speak in English when somebody can’t understand Kannada.’
The line in front of me at the airport began moving forward and I came out of my reverie. The two women ahead were whispering among themselves, ‘Now she will be sent to the other line. It is so long now! We tried to tell her but she refused to listen to us.’
When it was my turn to show my boarding pass to the attendant, I saw them stop and wait a short distance away, waiting to see what would happen. The attendant took my boarding pass and said brightly, ‘Welcome back! We met last week, didn’t we?’
‘Yes,’ I replied.
She smiled and moved on to the next traveller.
I walked a few steps ahead of the women intending to let this go, but then I changed my mind and came back.
‘Please tell me—what made you think that I couldn’t afford a business class ticket? Even if I didn’t have one, was it really your prerogative to tell me where I should stand? Did I ask you for help?’
The women stared at me in silence.
‘You refer to the term “cattle class”. Class does not mean possession of a huge amount of money,’ I continued, unable to stop myself from giving them a piece of my mind.
‘There are plenty of wrong ways to earn money in this world. You may be rich enough to buy comfort and luxuries, but the same money doesn’t define class or give you the ability to purchase it. Mother Teresa was a classy woman. So is Manjul Bhargava, a great mathematician of Indian origin. The concept that you automatically gain class by acquiring money is an outdated thought process.’
I left without waiting for a reply.
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“Class does not mean huge possession of money. ”
‘There’s nothing shameful in knowing one’s native language. It is, in fact, my right and my privilege. I only speak in English when somebody can’t understand Kannada.’
Humility shines on her face.
Source: “Three thousand Stitches” by Sudha Murty.
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lazy-sugar · 8 hours ago
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I have so many unfinished thoughts, the 2am thoughts, the thoughts before doing something, the thoughts that arrive and go away as soon as they arrive, the thoughts that i dont want to finish.
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iwishtoloveeveryone · 10 hours ago
When would your love, lodged in my heart like a knife be taken out? When would it cease to cause me pain?
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teenagef3ver · 11 hours ago
to me, love feels like religion - not in the sort of way where i’m not scared to die and i know where to put all my faith, but more like being nailed to a cross upside down
in the name of the father, the son, and my broken heart
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manyasaxenawrites · 16 hours ago
18. Yugen
Can you hear the music
echoing in the streets?
There are voices too doleful
to take no notice of.
Can you hear them scream
and crying in the streets?
The voices now deafening
destroying the credence.
Can you feel their voices
calling out for help?
The agony, the distress
still calling, but now it's too late.
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pulmunduk · 17 hours ago
Dear Finn,
Everything I liked, I labelled it as love. And so, the meaning grew shallower than it already was. Then I met you. Now I know what love is. Now I know why Rumi said, "Love is an ocean without any shores". Love is a being. It lives among us. It travels through us and with us. It defies time. It defies the nature of this love. Why? Because we didn't create love. Love was bestowed upon us. And that's why Love shall never fade from the face of Earth.
Yours lovingly,
Pulmunduk //- Letters to Finn
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ugh-tsumu · 19 hours ago
You hated being the leader. God knows how much you cursed your teacher for assigning you as the leader for a class project on 7th grade.
Reminiscing the past made you heave a sigh. You shook your head as you placed the blueprint on the long table. You inhaled, "All right. As the acting leader, I will lead the assassination of the President, and this is the plan."
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