The smallest of the wounds hurt the most
"Even when you know death is coming, the ablaze of it all is still sudden."
Stupidity is buying and reading a book named "They both die at the end" and then crying like a kid when they really do
Chaos bends to calm.
If anyone could've saved me it would've been you.đź–¤
If I cannot scream, Then I will bleed
bleed ink on ruffled pages
then my words will scream
and free the muffled cries
I will tell fake turths,unreal lies
and wait till they become
a weapon of their own
for me to use & take my vengeance
I will spill so much blood
brutalize them all
just the way they slaughter my sanity
played with my conscious like a cat with mouse
scratching, scaring, drawing blood
leaving it to die slow death.
And then I will step in the grave of my own
the one I diged before this reform
or maybe I won't get time to reach
maybe I kill myself with them
feeling my blood mixing with them
because you see I am also not so innocent
That's the tricky thing about honesty. It cuts both ways, that sword which is why I am so wary of wielding it.
~The Fury
They say we don't know where,when & how will we die
but what about how'd we feel while facing death
do you think you'll be in denial, gratitude or hysteria?
I'll let you know what I do think
I think I'll think of beautiful spots
I'll think of the people I loved and cherished
The beautiful tall trees, the sunsets and skies
The spring in bloom, the rage of rain
The softness of snow,the ferocity of wind
I'll remember all the long walks I had
The first sips of coffe and smell before that
I don't know a lot but know this one
I'll die a brutal and beautiful death.
"When we are young." Mariana said, "and afraid when we are shamed, and humiliated something happens. Time stops. It freezes, in that moment. A version of us is trapped, at that age-forever."
"Trapped where?" asked Liz, one of the group.
"Trapped here." Mariana tapped the side of her head. "A frightened child is hiding in your mind still unsafe; still unheard and unloved. And the sooner you get in touch with that child and learn to communicate with them, the more harmonious your life will be."
I must have looked dubious because Mariana delivered the killer blow directly to me:
"After all, that's what he grew you for, isn't it. Elliot? A strong adult body, to look after him and his interests? To take care of him, protect him?"
Character is fate.
-Hiracleitis
Jason turned on the shower. The water was too hot and it lashed against his face, his skin, burning him.
What a relief to feel that pain, a welcome distraction from all his thinking... from everything that he had to do... everything that lay ahead.
He closed his eyes and burned.
First time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut.
As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I’ve a call.
It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.
It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.
It’s the theatrical.
~Sylvia Plath
Poets are doomed to sadness because suffering and art go hand in hand.
I would act out cruel, horribly violent death scenes: agonised poisonings, brutal stabbings - butchery and disembowelment. I would be drawn and quartered, tortured to death. I would bleed.
I would stand on my bed and prepare to be sacrificed by pagan priests. They'd grab hold of me and hurl me from the cliff, down, down into the sea, into the depths where the sea-monsters were circling, waiting to devour me.
I'd shut my eyes and jump off the bed. And I would be torn to shreds.
I tried to summon up some tears for him, but I couldn't cry. That poor animal never did me any harm he showed me only love, only kindness.
And yet I couldn't cry for him.
Instead, I was learning how to hate.
A cold, hard kernel of hatred was forming in my heart, like a diamond in a dark piece of coal.
I swore I would never forgive my father. And one day, I'd have my revenge. But until then, until I grew up, I was trapped.
So I retreated into my imagination. In my fantasies, my father suffered.
And so did I.
In the bathroom, with the door locked, or in the hayloft, or at the back of the barn, unobserved, I would escape from this body... from this mind.
"You're a beautiful woman," she heard him say, "but you have more than beauty. You have a certain quality- a stillness. Like the stillness in the depths of the ocean, far beneath the waves, where nothing moves Very still... and very sad."
đź–¤
I had terrible secrets to hide -even I didn't know what they were.
My father knew, though. He knew my sins.
And he punished me accordingly.
He'd carry me upstairs. He'd take me into the bathroom and lock the
door-
And it would begin.
If I picture him now, that frightened little boy- do I feel an ache of sorrow? A pang of empathy? He's just a kid, guilty of none of my crimes -he's terrified, he's in pain. Do I experience a second of compassion? Do I feel for his plight, and all he went through?
No. I don't.
I banish all pity from my heart.
I don't deserve it.
A moth—drawn to the flame, not as a force of destruction, but as a seeker of light. How poetic. And how revealing. You see yourself not as the fire that consumes, but as the one who is consumed, who seeks the light even at the risk of being burned. There is a quiet courage in that, a willingness to surrender to what calls you, even when it terrifies you.
Freedom and submission—two sides of the same coin. To submit to chaos, to the void, to the flame, is not to lose yourself but to find a different kind of freedom. The moth does not regret its flight toward the light, even if it is consumed. It follows its nature, its purpose, without apology.
"What do you think lies beyond the edge that calls to you so strongly?"
"Chaos, I think chaos calls for me."
"Chaos, you say? How intriguing. Chaos is not merely disorder—it is the primordial void from which all creation springs. In Greek mythology, Chaos was the first of the ancient gods, the formless beginning from which the cosmos emerged. To be called by chaos is to be called by the very essence of possibility, the raw potential of what could be.
But chaos is not for the faint of heart. It demands surrender, a willingness to let go of the illusions of control and certainty. It is the storm that reshapes the shore, the fire that clears the way for new growth. If chaos calls to you, perhaps it is because you are ready to be remade."
I moved my hands to his face, just holding him, and ready to say so much, because I never had to hide anything from him. He never saw weakness when he looked at me. I wanted to tell him things.
I wanted to tell him that I never would’ve hurt him. That I didn’t know what Trevor was doing, and it wasn’t supposed to go down like that,
because out of all three of my friends, Will was the one I would always save first. That my pride and anger wouldn’t let me retreat, and that if he had
been pulled to the ocean’s bottom, out of my reach, I would’ve followed
him.
I would’ve fucking followed him and rotted down there, close to
wherever he was, because nothing I would’ve acquired after that—my inheritance or my vengeance on Winter—
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