Elaeyn

minuty:

“Will you love me in December as you do in May?”

—

When things were simple, words flowed like rivers cascading fervent feeling through my veins. Feelings thorough, identifiable, and justifiable. Chronicles of chaos, igniting all corners of me, shattered all literary perception. With scarceness of time to adapt between each catastrophic cataclysm, all free throughs have been buried, and all feelings unidentifiably dipped into thick fogs of grey.

Wailing out incessantly into the perilous fog only for nothing to hear. All else now seems amplified into utter contempt mutating itself into a ghost only I can see. Seeping into my pores and violating the sanctity and confines of my subconscious. Withering in a corrupt crown is an insufferable intolerance. When raped of all resources, connections, and love by every last longing soul that has orbited to you, you too will long for elements of your soul which was lost to love.

Though even when wading through an eternally haunting smog, all lost to love is never regretted. Despite dulled senses, the only thing truly identifiable as authentic and immortal is this love. This constant variable offers the question, “if not me, then who?” Those who are convinced the conviction of my kindness has been wrung fry also notion the self-sabatoge of an already tattered soul. But to create sunshine and starlight from these ashes of self is the beckoning of the fulfillment to my being; summoning the justification to this pain with a reason to persist. The manifestation of what this turmoil becomes is solely of my desire, rather than a reaction inflicted upon me. I am not cursed; I am not consumed by what has happened to me. That which ensued me did not create me. As a people, we have allowed the vines and barbs of selfishness and cynicism to envelop around us and dig themselves in; hollowing our souls and hearts.

If you’ve found yourself deserving of a superior hand somewhere along existence, the ascendency and competence lies within to aid fellow man in halting equivalent travesties in that which you have surpassed. Be unto others of that which oneself once yearned for. Looking into a being’s windows of the soul when that soul has shared a similar suffering connects the two. The feeling will become familiar to you again as empathy enriches your spirit. Just a single hand ascending outward can parallel a thousand suns in another’s core. Suffering is only truly understood through having it imposed upon oneself. Mere momentary flashes of compassion, some being even seemingly insignificant, potentially will some to move forward on a path they thought could no longer be treaded. A loving soul may unknowingly be wandering while saving the world.

Even still, love conveyed is never definitively love returned. Yet if not relayed to I, that compassion lingers still into the universe awaiting to be redistributed. The smallest of ripples may build just as easily into the largest of waves. For the everlasting yearning for compassion as well as empathy to not be acknowledged is to be condemned to bitterness and isolation. Being born into this existence bred and conditioned me to chisel and polish all the coarse and unrefined edges of my being into enough starlight to illuminate the eyes and souls of all who are deafened by the screams of the abyss lurking individually in their lives that, too, has ahold of their essence.

A shining soul which arose from dust to eternally remold suffering into empathy and togetherness may one day even find peace.

gracebabcockwrites:

“I want to be held like a sunbeam: illuminating, warming, healing, never contained.”

—

Sunbeam

Grace Babcock © 2017

(via gracebabcockwrites)

(via gracebriarwoodwrites)

quotemadness:

“I am too full of life to be half-loved.”

— Ijeoma Umebinyuo

(Source: quotemadness.com)

Who I Was, Who I Wish To Be, And Who I May Become.

Shattered mirrors outcasted me at the brink of adulthood. Of all things beautiful, I was this. A forsaken Salem witch. A once gleaming soul corroding in dismay and animosity for oneself and others; choking relentlessly on the word “sorry.” Enemies are most lethal when disguised as loved ones. Abhorrence from those held dearest thrust one destined for sin and self-destruction further into demise. I’m in a constant time-spiral of dwelling, craving, and striving for a past self; the admiration, the title of “peacemaker,” the freedom of spirit, and heart as red as wine. How can I wish to revert back to something that then I despised? Did I lose sight of where I was going or am I finding the ultimate destination? Yet I wish to be all of these places at once. So vain, I seek extenuated figures in the mirror, the elegance and smoothness so finely chiseled of marble statues, hair like autumn leaves, hair that gleams with the aptitude of the sun, hair as silken as a ravens plume, or perhaps collating to that of the elderly; aged but nonetheless beautiful. Sun-kissed skin or an Irish delicacy; nowhere in between. Frail and soft as rose petals, nevertheless as sharp and protecting as the thorns. A body as winding as the rivers and as full as the ocean. Heart as pure as the sky; nothing ever than truly itself. A mind that doesn’t fold unto its self and trips into thoughts. A sort of keen genius that is duly recognized in those who degrade, as well as worship, my being. A me where the trees still whisper sweet nothings into my ears, and the wind still sings my name, as the sun calls me out into the world once more. When the flowers bring me peace and the earth grips my feet, feeding me inspiration and tranquility. Where the rain that falls upon my tired skin revives me and I look up into the dreary clouds knowing who I am above all else. These days my fear of self has rustled me like the leaves in a storm. ‪In this isolation I find neither peace nor solace, just empty questions and‬ darkness disguised as love. In fact, the more time I spend alone with myself, the more parts of myself I find that I did not want to know existed. I am trying to come to terms with myself, so that I am able to move forward. Life seems to have dealt me an unlucky hand. Loss after loss can only fabricate so many fantasies of would could have been. You become accustomed eventually, but it never hurts any less. I lie to myself saying I’m doing the best that I can, but my self deprivation has rattled and cracked my being so much so that my soul aches to be rebuilt like a phoenix from its ashes. The vile, living dead parading and masquerading as those around me. Preaching love and all things built from light, yet behind closed doors, engulfed with pessimism and thoughts pulled from the innermost corners of hell. I’ve ran worlds away from all the people who’ve hurt me, but how can I run away from myself?

quotemadness:

“The Greek word for return is nostos. Algos means suffering. So nostalgia is the suffering caused by an unappeased yearning to return.”

— Milan Kundera

(Source: quotemadness.com, via quotemadness)

Call me sugar, call me honey, pretend I am sweet enough to satisfy your hunger, to be what sustains you each night.

— The girl as sweet as her eyes

This story is a rose garden, hair running wild, hands brushing dampened Earth, I would look so at home. But these days I wear a mask. Sweet-girl, forgiving-girl, hungry-girl, helpless-girl. Behind the veil I am not so sweet. Violent-girl, vengeful-girl, Russian-roulette-girl, kiss-me-and-we’ll-find-the-bullet-girl. I like to think that I have snowflake wisdom; silent, delicate, gentle, unique. Informing the song of pristine winter, but I can’t ever seem to make sense of it all.