a-place-to-be-sad - Tumblr blog

[a-place-to-be-sad]

tadpoles die

green remembers green in the garden hyacinth and squirrel trees, foxes and elderberry little cobble paths twisting through the underbrush baby bunnies under oak roots deer drink at the edge of the pond next to the wolves newts slurp up tadpoles, fish swallow newts with a flicking ear, a mother scarfs the berries and the fox eats the hare the cemetery is full of flowers

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No, you know what? Yes, I’m tired of being nice. Yes, I wanna go apeshit. I want to cry and scream and tear everything apart. I want to give in to cruelty and hurt everyone around me.

And every time the world hurts me a little more I want nothing else than to hurt it back.

But I won’t.

Because kindness is an active choice, and as exhausting as it is, it’s my choice. As tired as I get, as angry and as embittered as I become, as paranoid and distrusting, I’m choosing love.

And yeah, it’s fucking hard. Sometimes even the smallest act of kindness requires tremendous effort. It’s exhausting and unrewarding and no matter how good we are, it never ends.

But we do it anyway, because there is nothing more human than the conscious extension of compassion.

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The sea levels rise and rise. Ice melts where it should freeze and clings in places it should not exist. Deserts have become floodlands and rivers have turned to dusty canyons.

Animal genera disappear every hour. Pollinators are kept in reinforced glass houses to keep food alive.

Pets are kept until they aren’t. Streets are littered with domesticated animals left to fend for themselves, pushed out of makeshift shelters by the desperate and needy.

More and more people become desperate by the day. Chain stores are guarded by police forces and family businesses are ransacked by the dying. People turn to the wilderness to hide only to find the forests aflame.

Some people band together. Many do not.

This all, of course, does not apply to those eating off of gilded platters. No one has to worry about food and homes when they have held control over every disaster since these nations began.

They look to the needy and helpless, them with their diamond wine glasses and reinforced homes, and they laugh. Even after the death of everyone else, these people will survive.

The death of humanity is coming. Not as a species, but humanity as a meaning of compassion.

“We’re living in the final age of humanity.”

“People have said that for all of history, and here we still are.”

“This time it’s true, and I can prove it.”

[a-place-to-be-sad]

The Linguistics of Loneliness

Prompt: A girl who likes cats and books

"The difference between cats and dogs is this:

A dog will say its piece and be done, forgetting the matter entirely.

A cat will take you with its claws and make you listen,

and God help you if you don't."

-

Cats speak the language of books:

receiving the message is not optional.

-

You get it like a claw to the face

or a nuzzle against your shin.

-

You get it, or you don't.

You learn to read or you throw the book away.

-

Cat-loving girls are often book-living ones,

those who hid in fiction long enough they learned

to live through-second hand annotations.

-

They are awkward, sometimes angry, and always hurt.

There is an aching wound inside of them.

-

A dog-lover needs affection like they need air.

A cat-lover just doesn't want to be alone.

[a-place-to-be-sad]

is there kindness in breathing

My professor writes cruelty like she's a separate monster from human desire. She is malicious intention a self-made evil that festers inside the dead and the rotting. I ask him for butterflies and he doesn't know where they land because pretty does not mean kind. I ask him for cannibalism of the dead he tells me wickedness is in intention so it could be, if it wanted. Pain is a miserable beast that doesn’t care for stopping and eats when it is full. I ask him about mercy killing and he tells me that it is kind to take away choice from the hurt. He says he’s on the fence with suicide: is it self-murder if the soul is already dead? He makes me write my thesis not on humanity’s failings but my own. The crux of it is this: it was always about her choice and she chose to be bad. She is self-aware of her morals knowing she is wrong and deciding, yes, choosing to do it still. She is sick and plagued by choice and monstrosity and she eats willingly. I ask him if kindness is antithesis or an extant form to what I am and he does not respond.

[a-place-to-be-sad]

Terraforming Mars

It clicks the teeth of a clock snapping in its mouth like a snarling dog or an angry child. Do you remember the feeling left over that rattled your bones and splintered your teeth? The clock lives on Martian time zones readily sucking up dust and churning out life from the prehistoric era. We called them the Watchers the ones who could heal us but saved space instead and killed the Earth. You are obsessed with a clockmaker order that eats up your people and gives birth to aliens: humanoid, stone age monsters. Don't forget that oil is made from ashes: when they grease their clock they're using our bones.

[a-place-to-be-sad]

Remember Thee

It starts at the end, my dear, the end of everything where we first met our hands together now clasped tightly as the world burns stuck like the teeth of a zipper.

It starts with fires on the mountains where we used to camp with friends trailer parks are depopulated as it reaches the fires that turn fall leaves the wrong kind of red.

Then comes the waves of water jellyfish strangled by their own lappets fish on the shoreline and not the ones for sale until the only ones left are the sharks that inhabit.

Not to mention the rising tides the undergrowth of algae is what's done it released after centuries of ice-freezing after ice sloughed off from the warmth we elicit.

Our children want no children anymore they do not trust themselves to refrain to stop where we kept going to keep the balance we refused to maintain.

The teenage girl who lived outside is dead so says the news, shot through the throat for refusing to comply with our men who say she cannot refuse, look at those rules we wrote.

And nothing changes, really we do not stop as we should have learned we cannot bother to prevent the flame until our home is already burned.

So the end of the world is a quiet affair where the water that meets the shore churns slowly and the fires burn with such veracity and the mountainside quivers for all to see.

Everyone is worried as they die; no one cares a dichotomy only brought through too many disasters and we immortalize our words on a digital platform realizing, my love, that none of it matters.

The dead will die with their scrawled words written in social media profiles and comments like ancient drawings in caves and pottery fragments remaining where we will not.

[a-place-to-be-sad]

writers block is such a bitch, what’s the point in having my heart bursting with emotion if i can’t even put the thoughts into words

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The Ugliest Rocks You Can Find, They're Mine

She says she loves closets and all other tight spaces that groan because they put her in one to keep her quiet.

She says she likes the silence no one ever talks to Closet Girl so she likes it, she does.

They're her favorite things closets and boxes and silence she thinks.

She thinks.

She doesn't know.

But she meanders bounces like a pinball in a box hunts like a frothing tide to shore wanting.

It shifts, is the thing, the thing she's looking for mercurial weathers to townhouse roofs droplets of wet carving the air turning to stone to hail.

The rocks all thud no bounce, too dense gravity dropping like a stone, yes a thwack! to houses and shoreline shops a pain, a nuisance to be rid of.

Pinball Girl fancies problems keeps stones that were dropped on heads goes to pick up shells and gets ugly, discolored rocks Pinball Girl puts them in a box and shakes them she likes the sound.

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Most people think they're above average in something. Whether it be school, work, empathy, art, sex, or anything else, humans are predisposed to see themselves as slightly superior than the collective whole.

That's hard, you know, when everyone already calls you smart, or gifted, or talented. It develops into a sort of baby narcissism, and it's compounded by the fact that you know little kids' brains are wired to be self-centered.

And then, when you're young and bloody and knowing, because you start to expect opportunities to arise because all anyone tells you is that you're good, when the opportunities never show you start to learn.

You're a fast learner, they said.

People lie, or they think they're telling the truth but are wrong. You aren't good, in fact, you aren't sure how you missed it, because looking back at your short and miserable life you realize you're actually bad.

What a thing to discover, the concept you've unearthed. Keeping this realization is painful, but you know that if everyone knows it will be devastating. Everyone still thinks you can be fixed. So maybe you hide it by letting it burn it's way inside your chest.

Maybe it becomes the only part of you that you can trust, the constant in your life. Maybe you like knowing, so when you do bad things (and you've always done these things, over and over again, but now) it makes a certain kind of sense.

Maybe you grow up, and you're not so little anymore. Maybe you don't like being bad, because the knowledge still hurts as much as it did, but it's an inherent part of you. It's all you have left of yourself.

And maybe the shame of it eats you alive and tries to burn it's way out of your throat. Maybe it succeeds. Maybe that's why there's so little of you left.

[a-place-to-be-sad]

Perspective of Proof

I'm sorry, you know? Of an endless sky and colors blooming life curling from my over-bitten fingernails or the split-ends on the hair I have still yet to cut there's more but with a myopic lens, these eyes of mine I only see what I want to.

Little old baby me would be apologetic, wouldn't she? Yes, she'd be sad because she always aims to please and if she's dead it means she wasn't.

Wasn't pleasing wasn't good wasn't.

God, even in the last moments I make everything about me every little thing has to be some revelation or a metaphor some bigger picture because things cannot exist outside of my frame of reference.

There can be no trees without their roots being tied directly to my bloody veins no soil without it caking on my skin and no love unless it comes from me.

Is that why I'm so lonely? Because love cannot exist unless I am the one to give it freely, I say, I give it freely but God, what I'd give to be loved.

Sensation is fleeting and exists in a constant, yet nonexistent state a quantum state, you'd say like the rest of you who are not real until I see you feel you or remember.

I know, objectively that I should know better I've been taught that I am not the only person in this room we call a world I am not the only person. I am not a person.

God, what a manifesto, to say and then unsay to declare, "This is all about me none of you are real, but I myself am unworthy," Fuck!

Have you heard yourself, girl? If no one else is real, are you not the determining factor for worth? Does self-hatred know no bounds?

Stories are meant to be read, not participated in. You idiot.

I hope that when this is over, this is all just someone else's story for them to write and I, myself, am truly not in control of the sway of the world and the people who are not real and the girls who are not people that live inside it.

I am sorry, so, so very sorry not to the world, who I still don't believe in who doesn't exist but to myself, who never knew if she was God or just a child.

You were a person, I think just not in the way you wanted to be.

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Please don't let me — I am picking flowers in the garden if I am to prick a thorn and bleed please don't let me taste of carmine

If my blood should spill where flower limbs have fallen 'round I am watching lest the dewdrop build if my blood should spill across the ground

[a-place-to-be-sad]

I always think

“It can never get worse”

and I am a liar, a trickster fae

jinxing the boundaries of my own home

ruining my own life forever

as we lie in rest

so fortuitously, sand at our feet

at the floor of a vast and empty ocean

and start to sink.

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Oh, to have a moment of respite laying down in a field of wildflowers at dusk, watching the warmth of the sunset give way to the brisk beauty of outer space 

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Ours is a godless house much splendor in the mangey walls upholstery made from hides unloused such bolster in the Brummagem - Silktwined threads of times espoused the contents of an era's galls a kingdom's finest handmade blouse golden shirts, so soft; no hem.

Counterfeit

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You have to be careful when you have the power to slay giants because you might be killing yourself when you become one.

My father, on an introspective car ride

“…For once you kill enough monsters, the only one left is you.”

- “All is Fair in Death and Carnival” unwritten

(via lonelinessisadisease)

[a-place-to-be-sad]

hi, sorry to be a bother, my friend, my dearest friend, just had a quick question, won't take up your time, it's not important but i'm wondering, and you don't have to answer if you don't want to, no pressure, i should probably go, my friend, my dearest friend, but while i'm here, Quick Question--

are you mad at me?

if you're mad at me just say so, only please don't say so, because then my fears become real and i'm used to living with ghosts, no wait, sorry, i'll take responsibility, responsibility for what's real (what is real?), hey it's just that i don't understand reality--that's not your fault, i won't talk about it, sorry, but are you mad at me? are you mad at me?

have i done something wrong?

are you mad at me? i shouldn't search for absolution in someone without a collar, i know, i do so many things wrong, but it's just a question, a quick question, and hey, i can change, i can twist myself around for you, just tell the truth, tell me the truth, tell the truth truth truth

are you mad at me?