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If you have been brutally broken, but still have the courage to be gentle to others then you deserve a love deeper than the ocean itself.

Nikita Gill (via wordsnquotes)

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Me last night, and I still regret life decisions after finishing the chapter

Expectation vs reality

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December 29th 2017

So here we are again. I must say it has become a pleasure, venting like this in letters I’m sure you will never see. Instead of sending them to you, I’ve taken to posting them online, in places you don’t know exists; although they are unlikely to have anyone seeing them, I’m still curious to see what happens if someone does.

You’re set on hurting my mother again. I can tell now by the way you walk; it’s faster than usual and if we had floorboards, you would definitely be stomping. I would love to inform you that you can no longer hurt her. The little war you started today, she won. You tried to take her down, using me against her, yet again, but she saw through your tactical ‘brilliance’ and came out on top, her laughter becoming intoxicating.

And now that she’s gone, you’re on to nibbling at me, expecting me to run and tell her the second I have the chance, but you forget I’m a writer by heart. I have these letters to vent into, and every slight against me is simply inspiration for the character based off you. There’s never really anything to say about you anymore. I summed it up in that last letter that you are horrible and toxic. But I can certainly say that my odds of getting out of here are looking better.

I have an acceptance into university, something I’ve aimed for since I was twelve, with the potential to study the course of my dreams; with the small amount of pay I received over Christmas, I got myself a very good bag that will fit my equipment for university as well as spare clothes and toiletries so that I can use the on-campus showers to avoid coming home. If I’m lucky, I may receive government funds and a scholarship, allowing me to move into a house with a friend who isn’t too far away from the campus, somewhere away from you. You do not know the address, or the suburb. I will be safe from you, but leaving my mother and brother at the hands of your callousness. This fact alone causes my hesitation. My mother is medicated and they work well enough even with you, but my brother is only four and can barely understand why nanny only plays with the other kids and not him.

That’s right. My four-year-old brother is able to see how much you hate our mother and by extension us; and I see it clear as day as well. You favour your granddaughter over your grandson, taking her to places despite her misbehaviour, that you conveniently overlook, and when we draw it to attention you divert ours and make it seem as though we villainise the little devil, blaming it all on my brother. He hates you, have you noticed? He does everything he can to not talk to you while our parents aren’t present. If there’s something he wants, I hear a little tap at my door, and even when you walk past you think nothing of it. He can’t articulate it, but I can: he hates you because of what he sees you do to him and our mother.

I’m enraged when you harm my mother, yet saddened that you could stoop so low as to harm a child who cannot process the actions nor the feelings. You do not listen to him, causing him to sulk off in tears because he can’t share something with his sister like he was so excited to do. That lack of listening also leads you to not see his side of the story when he and his cousin fight; you only see that he has hit her once, not that she had been punching and kicking him nonstop for that last 20 minutes because he doesn’t want to play the game she wants to play. And if I were to step in, you would scream that it’s not my place, leaving me powerless to defend my only sibling, the most joyous child in the world with the most caring heart. You are destroying a very kind and empathetic child because you refuse to listen. You hurt him near daily, yet my mother and I are powerless to prevent the hurt; we are unable to even explain it to him without causing a bias from our words.

How can I leave that behind? And you know that, don’t you? You know of my ‘bleeding heart’ and you use it to maintain control over how far and long I go from this place. Or perhaps that’s my paranoia. When it involves my brother, I don’t know anymore. When it involves him, I lose all rationality and articulation, my heart constricts and I struggle to breathe. I see him suffering similar to how I did as a child and I remain as powerless now as I was then.

I guess I would stay for him.

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December 13th 2017

I did not expect to not send another letter to you so quickly; perhaps this will become a tradition. It only took another day for you to throw another tantrum, O Lord. To be honest I haven’t had the time to gather everything I must say, so do forgive the poor structure of my sentences and paragraphs.

You are indeed an entertaining specimen. To go so fast from joyful and polite to callous and cruel, it honestly makes me think you’re constantly so bitter beneath the surface; as though what is beneath your skin isn’t flesh of a human but the hardened bile and poison of a bitter witch. It’s something that is foul in sight and odour, and must seep through every now and again. Quite frankly, most humans are like this, but never have I met one so foul. You keep your skin immaculate, lest one should discover even a hint of that grimy, disgusting sap you emit with every breath.

You sicken me to my stomach on a daily basis with your hyperbolic lies and joyful demeanour. You   feign interest in others habitually to maintain your ‘stature’ in life. You believe that the respect and love from someone comes with lavish objects, implying your own empty and disjointed existence. Are you empty? A rhetorical question, of course, but it’s there to ensure you understand my meaning. You have no value of a deep, connected relationship, forged from respect, attention, and unyielding, unconditional love.

Do you know how I know that? Because yesterday, after I finished writing my letter, you asked me to do you a favour, which I said yes to because I am a good person and I know deep down I can never refuse to help a person even if they don’t deserve it. It was only after you asked that favour did you apologise for your actions that morning, of course not knowing what truly had me on edge were your actions the night before; you asked a favour and offer apology after I agreed to that favour. You are no saint and you have no concept of the word unconditional. You apologised because I did something for you. How cruel and heartless you must be; how empty and self-centred you are to maintain your attitude of do-for-me-and-I-will-do-for-you.

Somehow, in my eighteen years, I understand more of human interaction, common understanding, negotiation, honestly, and commitment than you at such an old age. You live in a bubble only consisting of yourself and if no one else is on board with your mindset they may as well be nothing to you. You keep trying with me. You keep trying to get me to see your mindset, to understand your selfishness, and I don’t think you realise it backfires constantly. I’m old enough to know right from wrong; I’m not a naïve child, despite your ardent desire for such a thing to become true. Perhaps one day I will elaborate why I understand so much, why I am beyond my years in many aspects, but I doubt there’d be any care from you, as most of it has to do with my mother’s experiences.

Speaking of her, you have harmed her, which in turn has made me quite livid, something which is the catalyst of this letter. You treat her horrifically, as though nothing more than your sorely hated flies that you spray with poison so casually. You spray her with the poison that drips from your mouth; every word you utter is a knife that runs through her core. You treat her as nothing more than a slave; a person there to care for your husband and provide food in your household so that you may lavishly spend your money on needless items that cannot come close to filling up the emptiness within. Material items mean nothing unless sentiment is attached, and I don’t think you know this because all you do is waste your money, forcing my mother to dive into her already small pocket to keep everything afloat.

You’re a horrible person. I cannot think of any other way to say. You are a horrible person; the filth that you hate so much.

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December 12th 2017

I barely recall the contents of the last letter I did not send to you; however I do recall the anger behind it. I do recall feelings of insignificance and hatred, and perhaps a small amount of pleasure in the fantasies of your suffering.

I will congratulate you. Only a handful of people have ever managed to succeed in making me utterly despise them, and so you have joined that list. Over six long, agonising months and I have reached my limit. I have been patient, polite; the model of perfection that I seem to be expected to be, and each day you nibble through my skin, crawling there as I let the wounds fester. I bite my tongue out of respect; I smile out of habit; I bestow favours that get taken for granted if ever there is the smallest of mistakes or you are enraged for whatever reason.

I’m not blood of yours, but only a pebble in your shoe; the daughter of the woman whom you declare the bane of your existence; the young woman who can so easily put your own daughter to shame without even trying. Because of this, you have tried to mould me, turn me into your daughter, against my mother so that you may feel better about yourself and all your shortcomings. You have overstepped the lines that are placed there by pretty much all of society and have acted as though you are my mother. You have nit-picked at everything; you’ve chiselled your way down to a core you may wish you never saw.

I hold no care for you; no respect will fall to you from me even if you grovel at my feet in your darkest hour. Because of you, I’ve grown tired of being a submissive person, saying yes to anything and everything, trying to make everyone else happy. I have created that rod for myself, I do understand that, however that rod can easily be broke if ever the need arise. I’m tired of submission, of timidness; tired of biting my tongue to keep an image of peace.

Everyone else may revere you as a god, I however, will not. You are nothing but an inconvenient gust of wind. Sooner or later you will pass and my life can proceed unhindered by you. I require nothing of you, not your advice, nor the gifts you will no doubt try to give me in attempts to ‘win back my love’. Such a notion, in fact, would sicken me more that you already do. I will ensure to be out of your life as fast as my situation allows; contemplation for a bag to remained packed has be brought to fruition so throw me out for all I care; I have places to go, friends I can rely on if ever there is a need.

There is nothing you can say or do which will sway my mind; I hate you, pure and simple, and I live for the day I get to witness your suffering.  

All my best wishes for you. I do hope you awaken from your disgraceful ways before you regret them.

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November 1st 2017

    Tell me something please…     Tell me about your day again? Perhaps, this time when I haven’t asked, would allow me to better understand how your life is so hard.     Tell me about these horrible people in your life whose baggage you hold onto for dear life. Pray, tell me why you do it? Or even how you’ve told me not to, despite you doing it?     Tell me why you cannot practice what you preach. Tell me how you live with your own hypocrisy.     Are you blind to it? Are your glasses not strong enough for you to see the truth before your eyes; the emptiness that is obviously the life you’ve chosen? Do you regret it all?     I hope so…

    Let me tell you something now. In my eighteen years of life, I have been through a lot, and I know some who have had worse than me. I know pain, felt and seen clear as day, and I know how to release issues that do not concern me. I’ve learned a lot in my short life. I know how to laugh and love, empathise and give everything I have to those who have earned it. In my short life I have come to the conclusion that I was put on this earth to save it, or at least as many as I possibly can, because I know pain is a horrible friend to have, but still so many befriend it.     You sit there, in your chair, with your shrill voice echoing your issues in my mind. Always so screechy, as you constantly speak of nothing but the ‘pain’ in your life. Tell me more about your sore feet, and about why you had to do your job for your money’s worth, and then again about how stressed you are despite that stress clearly being self-inflicted. Ignore me as I try to scream my agony, my worry, the pain you throw my mother into with your poor communication and hypocrisy. Ignore all logic when someone dishes you exactly what you have given to the world.

    Ignore thy flaws for thou art perfect! Ignore the world for thou art its centre! Forgive us all for not kneeling to thy every whim, O ‘benevolent’ Lord.     Does God see the tears staining the faces of its children? Does the Lord bat an eyelash for those of us suffering in its wake?

    You are no lord to me. I consider those that abandoned me more a family than you could ever be. I take pleasure alone in imagining your death, even more so when it is dealt by my hand. I can never begin to fathom what was so bad in your life that made you so careless, bitter and cold, because I have walked in hell, and only just now am emerging, and here I stand, wanting to cleanse this world of all issues. Here I stand begging for a peaceful utopia whereupon there is no pain or senseless hurt. You are no god, but only a devil intent on spreading its poisoned seed to the world because you couldn’t have your paradise.

    I hope to all things good and kind that you live a long life, forced to reflect upon your actions and wallow further into your own regret to the point of your merciful death.

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reblog and make a wish! this was removed from tumbrl due to “violating one or more of Tumblr’s Community Guidelines”, but since my wish came true the first time, I’m putting it back. :)

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I am a discarded unfinished book. Looking for someone to create chaotic memories with to help write the climax to my story.

anthonydefaz (via wnq-writers)

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I write because you exist.

Michael Faudet (via wordsnquotes)

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So, I’m scrolling casually through Wattpad while I’m doing my best to get into the mood to write. I shit people not, every book, every single popular book was the exact same as the one two spaces before it. Someone, ANYONE, please explain to me how people are so simple minded. How can books with the exact same content of mind-numbing fanfictions about zodiac signs become so well loved that everyone copies each other? Does no one see this? Or do people just not care because it’s easier to go with the flow?

I mean, honestly, what happened to the day when books were for either education or to make you think and wonder and dream? What happened to books like Harry Potter? I wanna know why people decided books were to be used as a device to show people mundane things they encounter everyday. What happened to the magic, the mystery? The greatest adventure of a lifetime? What happened to the wonder that made kids stay up ‘till midnight being unable to put away the torch and book?

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Perfectionist Writer

Reviewer: It’s a great story, strong plot, and minimal spelling and grammar errors.

Me: MINIMAL?!? Where? Where is the spelling error???

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Trevor breaks down the presidential race between Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump.

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A possibly failed attempt to get reads to a story or two. They aren’t all that bad honestly.