The feeling of being stuck in a situation you don't like but you feel unable to move forward. The past keeps you crippled. It is not right staying in one place. Throwing a pity party every once in a while might be healthy, you are only human. You have a right to feel sorry for yourself. But being a constant whiner is a suicide. You suck every joy of your life. You remain glued to a desolate situation while you can simply decide to man up! Leave the bad situation behind you, learn from it, embrace life. Look for the silver lining! Life is waiting for you to embrace it. Live it fully, don't let it pass you by. There is so much you can do with your life, so much dreams to fulfill, so much projects to make.
Searing pain dispersed unevenly throughout you, it's like the aftermath of a knocked over tin of paint splattering cold white walls. Toxic fumes force there way into your system causing a pulsing migraine to develops. The paint is thrown onto the people around you, their clothes and skin now ruined like how you dragged them down when you fell. Falling faster and faster with no destination the sound of the sky engulfing your senses until there's nothing, no one because you hit the ground and there's no coming back up this time
No comprehension came from the white eyes before me. But it was not that hard to grasp. It was as simple as a green ghost floating out of the blades of grass as we inhale them, or as the subtle chimes one can listen to as butterflies rise and fall through porcelain pirouettes, and leave the air with the shape and color of a Han masterpiece. Nonetheless, the bears will not sleep until my umbrella can cover them all. But it is so small, the aluminum skeleton of a spider. Dead spider and crying flea, jumping through the cracks of my darkened wall, burnt by incense and cigarettes. Pale blue light remains through my fingers as I try to guess the screams of your figure under these cold, soft silk robes. it will fall and whistle towards the floor. But your body will always stay still, my young marble soul.
An intellectual party must never miss two things. First, communist propoaganda. Second, paintings. Violent paintings, traces that can be seen, like the marks a whale leaves over the water. Night will never fall if we can see the oil of the stars and feel the waves of the dying sea, the blood of the Saint Sebastian in pain, or the skin of the ronin who burns in his armor. The people will laugh for a while, talk about how art is bourgeois an discuss Breton's radical absurdism. They will always miss a few points about color in the middle of their exquisite corpses, and will struggle not to notice how they all have the same baroque and needlessly showy style. That is no style. It is as stylish as the complex tunnels ants build, when they have enough space to live and simply want to keep invaders thinking. The smart ones should fill the holes with silver and copper. Then they would unearth the blazing bush Moses saw when he fled the void within.
No one ever thinks that the guy next to you at work is the monster. Instead, we search under our beds and down dark alleyways, looking over our shoulders at every glance in fear of a monster lurking in the shadows. But who's to say that we are really safe anywhere? I thought I was safe at work. And I was. But poor young girl, she wasn't. She worked in the same building, with the same people, but her safety was stolen away when he thought he could get away with something. He took every bit of her and broke her down. He belittled her and embarrassed her name, all to get what he wanted. A small office, a young helpless girl, and his restless hands. Where does it stop?