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Perhaps that is when I became afraid of needing anything beyond myself.
do you know what it means for your existence to be defined by someone else’s intentions?
poor ain’t poor unless you name it so
Because isn’t this the problem? That we must write the most exaggerated versions of ourselves to show them something they have already chosen not to see? How can they think us more human if we don’t write ourselves as such?
But what are these words but an empty lyric? What then is anything, beyond the language we give it? What else do we have to describe the carnage we see but all that is woefully inadequate?
This isn’t for them. This is for you, for us. This here is catharsis.
for our boys to know they’re not alone in feeling it. This is a protest against isolation, against loneliness, against thinking you’re the only one experiencing the trauma that leaves a man full of cracks.
I read somewhere that meteor showers are almost always named after the constellation from which they originate. It’s funny, I think, how even the universe is telling us that we can never get too far from the place that created us.
conjecture
it would be nice to be something in a museum one day because that’s what I’ve been told means you’ve lived a meaningful life but I think instead I might like to be in a garden where even after I die the residue of me can help grow something more beautiful than I ever was
How many bullets can one see before nostalgia no longer covers the wounds?
What is existence really if its definition is so ephemeral—if all that history can be snatched away?
maybe that’s what waking up each morning is. A reminder that we are born of the same atoms as every plant and bird and mountain and ocean around us.
Maybe I was meant to understand that darkness magnifies the sight of joy.
all we got is what we name ourselves otherwise I am just a room you are just body & we know how wrong that is