I know that with every failure I’ll get, it’s your tears that’ll be floating the most; with every heartbreak i’ll get, it’s your heart that’ll be bleeding the most; with every success i’ll achieve, it’s your legs that’ll jump the highest; with every pierce and tattoo i’ll get, it’s your body that’ll be shivering; with every drunken nights i wont remember, it’s your head that gets the hangover. Everything I do and everything I feel, is twice with you. I lie, I hide, I let myself be angry because I love you so much. I try my best to keep you from crying over/because of me. I know it’s wrong but it’s the least I can do. One day, you might see how messed up your kid was, but this I also assure you… Mothers - mama and mami - i’ll make you proud. I promise.
Humankind cannot gain anything without first giving something in return. To obtain, something of equal value must be lost. That is alchemy’s first Law of Equivalent Exchange.
Source: potassiumism
Today, I was in line at a grocery store behind an adorable five-or-so-year-old boy and his mother. http://bit.ly/KONLRX
Source: givesmehope
Luck
It’s always easier to blame somebody.
It’s always a lot easier on you, as a person, to look at something, and find somebody who you can blame, who you can hold responsible, who you can direct your anger and your feeling of being wronged towards.
But sometimes that’s not the case.
I met a guy today. I’ve known him for years, but today, in his intoxicated stupor he spilled all of his secrets, his abuse stories, his suicide attempts, all of that. And he blames his father, who beat him around from an early age, who cheated on his wife, who beat his wife and kids. And towards him, he has all this anger.
I think he has PTSD and Depression, and he holds his dad entirely culpable (for good reason).
I have the same thing.My trauma was because of my mother’s manic episodes from when she went off of her meds, and my parents constant and fairly violent fighting, and all that.
But unlike my friend, I can’t blame my parents. My mom went off her meds, and it was the bipolar. And when my parents fought, they were just trying their hardest to keep the family together and not divorce. When they hit me, it was to discipline me. It’s just that with anger issues, it sometimes went overboard. But at the end of the day, they do love me.
I don’t hate my parents.
And unlike my friend, I don’t really have anybody to blame.
And that means that nobody is responsible. That whatever happened to me, was just the hand I was dealt, and that lack of cause is simply what I have to blame.
It’s simple probability. There is a one in X chance that this would happen, and i happened to be that person. And you can try to draw all the meaning out of it, but it’s like trying to draw meaning out of a poker hand. It’s just the cards you get, and it’s random, and that’s about it.
There’s a chance I would have been born a crack baby.
There’s a chance I would have been Bill Gates’s son.
There’s a chance I would have had a near-perfect childhood in some quiet suburb and my life would have been entirely unremarkable.It’s random.
And trying to draw meaning out of it is pointless.
I don’t have anybody to blame for my actions.
But why should it matter.
It is as much the cards you’re dealt that define you as it is what you choose to do with them.
And only one of those do you have any control over.- Akash Jain
Source: arjain
in other words, women are aliens.
(via psych-facts)
Source: onlinecounsellingcollege
Date a guy who smokes.
Date a guy who smokes. For he craves for your warmth like he craves for that next, deadly stick. He likes silence and darkness for he broods like a philosopher. His ideas are impeccable and more often misjudged. He would think about the deepest but simplest things in life as nicotine enters his system. Smoke, for example, is something that amazes him — it strikes his curiosity entirely in waves. You see, the pure, white smoke has been with him since forever, he sees it as a friend, as a companion, as a lover, as death. He watches the smoke rise like an ethereal entity, graceful yet ephemeral. Sometimes he wishes to be like it —here now, gone in seconds.
He would lie down in bed with you, naked in the silence, spilling out his ideas and life experiences. It may not show but he likes intellectual talks — he would never say no to a debate for he likes to exercise his mind. He is like a broken down doll — a disturbed and stressful person who would rather smoke a stick than talk to people. Heed not though, for if you keep on pestering him, he’ll get easily attached to you like he is with his sticks. In no time, his world would revolve around you.
Date a guy who smokes, because he is stubborn. He’s sometimes immature and will do whatever he wants. He’ll hurt you. He hurts people for fun. But if he loves you, he’ll treat you different from the others. You’d be like a queen with his embrace — a special entity. He’d give you everything. He’d even drink with you in times of distress.
Date a guy who smokes in public without any inhibition. He likes to blow smoke in front of rude people who looks at him with disgust. That way, you know that he is brave. He would fight for you and be there for you when things go bad. He won’t hesitate to enter a bar-room brawl if he thinks that you were misjudged or your ego was stepped on. He will be your knight in shining armor.
Date a guy who smokes. You see? Most smokers are intelligent and creative. They are brooders, readers, artists or painters — sometimes all. He would serenade you with the deepest thoughts and musings in life. He’d not hesitate to listen to your nonsensical ramblings and rants for he too, has a lot in mind. Date a guy who smokes because like everyone else, he is not perfect. He would think that he’s a useless piece of shit that nobody likes.
Date a guy who smokes because he’s notcareless, more like carefree. People would say that he is irresponsible for his actions. But no — he perfectly knows the consequences of his actions. He need not to be reminded about the health risks because he knows… Believe me, he knows. He googled every ‘smoking risks’ after he had that first coughing fit. He does not care about what happens — he just want to live life! We’ll all die anyways and that’s his way to carpe diem. Seize the day! With that, he’d take you to different places and spoil you with the sweetest things in life because he knows that life is too short.
Date a guy who smokes because he needs help.He needs you in his life — to change him and to make him a better person. Date a guy who smokes because he’s looking for that spark — that special someone who would change his nasty ways, who’d tell him to:‘Stop. Drop that cigarette now.’Date a guy who smokes because he’s willing to change for you and drop all his vices because he’s madly in love with you that he’d do anything —everything— just to make you happy.
Date a guy who smokes because like everybody else, he’s not perfect.
Date a guy who smokes because he wants to change — not for you but for himself.
hm. cute. this may be true. although this also goes out to the girls who smokes. dont judge them. but what happens if the two of them are smokers? then no need to change. they’ll just die together. will be the sweetest thing ever.
Holding hands may seem like an innocent gesture, but they show more than a simple interlocking of fingers. Your hands are one of the most essential parts of your body: you build with them, feed with them, hold with them, touch with them, fight with them; they are the tools of the human body. To take a hold of another’s hand is to break from living individually. It is to link yourself to another being, to momentarily entwine your life with another’s, to promise, for a moment, that you need not face the world alone. More simple, more aesthetically naive than other forms of affection, i.e kissing, hugging, sexing.., the act of holding hands is often trivialized in its true implications.
cass-sid.
(via psych-quotes)
Source: staypozitive
Maybe some people should learn how to think positively. So they wouldn’t hate the world so much. Try believing that things happen for a reason and a purpose. It’s up to you what those are. Things didn’t happen just because it happened. Negative things would just make you hard to accept things. Help yourself.
Source: iintoxicatedstarr
sober.
No matter where you go, who you’re with, what you do, how you do it etc. etc. life will continue full force. Every moment, every breath, every detail is as magnified as you make it. It all goes back to you, the control, the sensation, the feeling, the everything. You are the everything to everything around you.
When people in general start to ask why, thats when things in your life dont make sense. You’re trying to figure why this happened, why that happened, why that didn’t happen; its a just a hole you’re digging. You’re digging without a shovel because you have no idea that you’re digging.
Time goes by and all you feel is this emptiness because you still can’t figure out why to so many things around you. You start to feel like there is no space, no emotion, an endless amount of nothingness.
Later comes that moment, comes that thought, that instant feeling of why am I asking why? You’re building yourself this web, web of unanswered questions. Questios that definitely have an answer, but how much is it really worth putting yourself through the endless pool of emotions you have created? Stop asking, stop.
GO, just go.
Source: dennispov
There's a fucking twig in my eye
by Haruki Murakami
One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo’s fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.
Tell you the truth, she’s not that good-looking. She doesn’t stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn’t young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a “girl,” properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She’s the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there’s a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.
Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you’re drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I’ll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.
But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can’t recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It’s weird.
“Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl,” I tell someone.
“Yeah?” he says. “Good-looking?”
“Not really.”
“Your favorite type, then?”
“I don’t know. I can’t seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts.”
“Strange.”
“Yeah. Strange.”
“So anyhow,” he says, already bored, “what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?”
“Nah. Just passed her on the street.”
She’s walking east to west, and I west to east. It’s a really nice April morning.
Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I’d really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.
After talking, we’d have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.
Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.
Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.
How can I approach her? What should I say?
“Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?”
Ridiculous. I’d sound like an insurance salesman.
“Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?”
No, this is just as ridiculous. I’m not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who’s going to buy a line like that?
Maybe the simple truth would do. “Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me.”
No, she wouldn’t believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you’re not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I’d probably go to pieces. I’d never recover from the shock. I’m thirty-two, and that’s what growing older is all about.
We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can’t bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She’s written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she’s ever had.
I take a few more strides and turn: She’s lost in the crowd.
Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.
Oh, well. It would have started “Once upon a time” and ended “A sad story, don’t you think?”
Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.
One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.
“This is amazing,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you’re the 100% perfect girl for me.”
“And you,” she said to him, “are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I’d pictured you in every detail. It’s like a dream.”
They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It’s a miracle, a cosmic miracle.
As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one’s dreams to come true so easily?
And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, “Let’s test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other’s 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we’ll marry then and there. What do you think?”
“Yes,” she said, “that is exactly what we should do.”
And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.
The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other’s 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.
One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season’s terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence’s piggy bank.
They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.
Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.
One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:
She is the 100% perfect girl for me.
He is the 100% perfect boy for me.
But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.
A sad story, don’t you think?
Yes, that’s it, that is what I should have said to her.
(via rohjmariano)
Source: youmightfindyourself
The name is