He told me I was like an angel, with beaten and battered backstages that glistened in the sunlight, a spokesperson ever-so-soft, and a touch ever-so-pure.
I lit a cigarette with his mention on it and said,” Haven’t you ever noticed the good people go through horrifying things? It’s because we’re the most difficult of them all. We’re the biggest liars and most deceptive people in this place. We lie to ourselves to comfort our souls and trick ourselves into believing we aren’t detriment. At least the sinners can admit defeat and confess that they’re busted. The good ones participate being fucked up as a quality more than a weaknes, and sugar, if you touch my backstages, you might get chipped. They only glisten because they’re was comprised of shards of glass. Not all that is lights is golden. Not everything that glints is meant to be admired; sometimes, things are only beautiful if you keep your length. If you still want to think I’m beautiful, then you need to trust me when I tell you to stay far, far away .”
I was made to understand , not to be considered. Some beings are fated with that existence. To be understood is such a foreign hold to my reputation; my subconsciou is like an ocean with rampage sprays and is as pernicious as it is healing.
He was a unique kind of beautiful; he was like a piece of abstract newspaper mache. He was bumpy around the edges, more so unforgettable on the inside. He was strong but so easy to rend to smidgens. He knew what he demanded in life and didn’t let anything to be stopped. He was a prisoner of his knowledge, “the worlds largest” vivid kind of darkness to exist.
He ranged from my complexity. He never relatively understood how I could feel everything yet good-for-nothing at all. He never realized that he could not be the one to domesticate the hurricane inside of me, that some things merely aren’t meant to be tamed. Sometimes it makes knowing your suspicions firsthand to know what genuine democracy is. I was everything he tried to stay away from his whole life, but humen have a particular savor for hazard and a stimulate that comes from the rush.
” You is not only a perception; you’re an paradox. Enigmas are the art that steps this devastate, gray macrocosm .”
His voice was shaking, and I could never tell if it was me or the doses to blame. Was I is worth being announced colorful? It’s so strange that indeed–a composition of skin and bones can destroy your extremely being. I’ve always wondered why and where we get our motivatings from; my restless imagination ever conducts me to believe that tragedy is the reason behind a person’s activities, the excuse for someone’s unholy ways.
I’m in a ceaseless regime of subconsciousness that ever guides me out of my manager into something much more fulfilling, much more rational. I often ponder restlessly at night, querying myself endless questions that all lead back to the diverse topic of delight. Will I ever feel the hotshot of exuberance throughout my veins like heroin, rather than misery like whiskey burning through my bloodstream? I want to feel what it’s like; I need to feel what it’s like. It’s such a beautiful idea, yet so many are amused with the deception that mistaken prosperity poses.
When he was just telling me I is more glaring thing he was never witnessed, I smiled. He’d been so devoid of color in this black-and-white world that he no longer knew how to define it. He told me he cherished me because I was a flight hazard. He adored that he never knew what I was thinking about; instead, I ever said we were thinking about the same things. We never were, and he knew that all too well.
He told me I induced him feel the same way the pills formed him feel: euphoric, tranquilize, and addicted all in one small-scale plaza. He underestimated the action I would outdistance his psyche and his organization, that sometimes beautiful things hurt when you know you can’t save them.
When he told me he desired me, I told him I didn’t know what that meant.
” I told you, if you wanted to think I was beautiful, you should’ve stayed far away .”
He made out a cigarette that had my reputation written on it and said,” You’re torn at every side, and I have depleted countless hours attempting to put your strata back together to model something remotely cohesive. One morning while staring at the rising sun, I was discovered that beings never understand that they’re prowes; they’re only ever viewed as it .”
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