exists only in my memories

You left your mark on me, and I can’t forget you. Its like no matter what I fucking do, your name is tattooed on my heart and trust me I tried to get rid of it. Tried to cover it with a different name, tried to drink it away, tried to stop feeling you through my veins but nothing ever works. Everything goes back to you.
Its always you. Its you all the damn time. Its you when I’m with him. Its you when I’m alone. Its you no matter what I do or who I’m doing it with and I give up.
I give up on trying to erase you. I give up on trying to replace you with something else, anything else because it only brings me back to the place I was when you decided I was no longer enough for you.
And I don’t understand why its so hard to forget a person who forgot you first. I don’t understand how I can still feel the exact same way we met when I don’t even really know you anymore. You only exist in my memories and the pictures I still have of you.
You are just a ghost of everything that ever was yet I still feel everything so damn clearly, as if we were back 6 months ago in your car when you first told me you loved me.
Everything is so damn clear except your so far away I don’t know how I can still see you so well.
—  You’re in my veins
Water. The floating body in a state of semi-levitation. Lungs expand in deep breaths of salty air. This is where I find you.
   
Water. Parched lips licked by wetted tongue. Coolness lingers in the back of throat. From esophagus to stomach, a wholesome sensation. Invigorating water. This is where I find you.
   
Floral scented shampoo; soap, essence of passion fruit, seeping down feminine pulchritude, taking with it worries of the day. Wet hair. Closed eyes and a smile; face raised up towards gushing streams of water. Rejuvenating water. This is where I find you.
   
Garden sprinkler created rainbows exist only for a moment, but the memories of jumping around them with my first dog will last a lifetime. Bare feet in the soggy grass. Muddy toes. Daddy chases me with a hose; before returning inside there is water. Rinsing water. This is where I find you.
   
Rarely in my life have I seen the whitest of beaches, even rarer have I witnessed the sight of an ocean so blue. My eyes gaze into infinity, and I ponder. Water. Infinite water. This is where I find you.
— 

Sometimes I feel like the majority of me consists of you.” 

by M.A. Tempels © 2017

Coffee on me - chapter two

A Kwon Jiyong/ G-Dragon Fanfiction

Description: She moved to Seoul in search of stardom, but after one year all she has is a douche for a boyfriend, and a job at a cafe that pays minimum wage. after a particularly bad day she starts to wonderif she should pack her bags and head home, but when kwon jiyong strolls into her cafe she begins to wonder if things might start going her way… that is until she spills his coffee on him.

word count: 2.8k

warnings: mentions of alcohol abuse, fluffy fluffy Jiyong

A/N: sorry it took literally forever for chapter two but here it is! and boy does this plot get thicc!

Another week came, and with each ring of the service bell I forgot more and more about the cute customer with a gummy smile. Focusing on making aesthetic latte designs while juggling angry customers makes it almost impossible to dream about a certain sunshine haired boy.

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8

get to know me meme: films [1/?] ♡ titanic (1997)

A woman’s heart is a deep ocean of secrets. But now you know there was a man named Jack Dawson and that he saved me…in every way that a person can be saved. I don’t even have a picture of him. He exists now…only in my memory.

2

i’ve never spoken of him until now, not to anyone, not even your grandfather. a woman’s heart is a deep ocean of secrets. but now you know there was a man named jack dawson and that he saved me. in every way that a person can be saved. i don’t even have a picture of him. he exists now only in my memory. 

It just got me thinking. Stefan/Elena are Jack/Rose from Titanic. Like Jack/Rose, Stelena were the epic love story and two young lovers who fell in love and changed each other’s lives forever. Stelena are star-crossed lovers like Jack/Rose. Like Jack, Stefan died and sacrificed his happiness for Elena (and Damon) to live a long and happy life (to get married, have a career, and have a family). Elena, like Rose, lived out her human life and basically respected Stefan’s wishes to live out her life to the fullest. But every single day of Elena’s human life was a dedication to Stefan. Just like Rose thought of Jack every day that she was alive until she died of old age. 

Rose about Jack at the end: “But now you know there was a man named Jack Dawson. And he saved me, in every way a person can be saved. [….] He exists now, only in my memory.”

Elena about Stefan at the end: “And I owe it all to Stefan. When I met him, I had lost my parents and I was dead inside, but he brought me back to life and I’m going to live it as best I can for as long as I can.”

Elena and Rose dedicated their long human lives to Stefan and Jack because it was what they wanted for them. Because Stefan and Jack saved their lives in every way that someone can be saved. 

Stefan/Elena are Jack/Rose, an epic love story, but also a tragic love story of two star-crossed lovers who never got their happy ending. 

Paper Son: Prologue

    You won’t find me in the history books  The aging records locked away in archives and libraries don’t contain my story. Even in this fancy American musical a company called Disney made, you won’t find my history. Not all of it.
   My tale is one passed down by word of mouth, through my family’s blood, just like the anecdotes of my ancestors. True, there are some photographs, proof of my existence, as well as some documents. Did I mention this account? But the true nuance of my life story exists only in theory, in the memory of those who hear.
   An old man once told me if something wasn’t in the papers, it never happened. By that logic, I did not exist until my seventeenth year, in the New York of 1899, where the streets echoed with the voices of newsies, peddling the newspapers of Joseph Pulitzer, William Randolph Hearst, and other giants of the newspaper world. Poor orphans and runaways; both in my case.
   1899 lives forever in my memory. Ever since, there’s been a Before and After when it comes to the brink of the twentieth century. The end of an old era, the dawn of a new. The time the newsies, myself included, set the business world on fire. We, who once delivered the papers, now made the headlines!
   The newspaper men’s responses towards our disturbance in the normal running of things varied: some admired seeing a David take on Goliath, while others recognized the danger we posed to them as well as their competitors. Eventually they came to the unanimous consensus that they retained the vital power to subdue us if our efforts went unnoticed by the papers. That’s what a certain old man told me, right? A headline crowns the victor in a war.
   I must admit I haven’t been in the papers as much as I like, nor has my type, despite our abundance of material. Nevertheless, my life has been defined by paper.
   Paper erased my true self then gave it back to me years later. It took me far away from home, changing my name along with those of my ancestors- a grave insult, it seemed to me at the time. And in the year of our Lord 1899, paper was my livelihood. Hawking headlines, drawing my fears and dreams on discarded sheets- paper kept me alive.
   And in 1899, three newspapers changed my everything. Three is a lucky number, symbolizing birth (in my case rebirth). One started out as the basis of my world (see the pun?), which I changed for good; the second contained an article written by an extraordinary Snake girl, which illuminated my fight to the rest of New York City; and the third, an old rag secretly (probably illegally) on a cast off printing press brought me to the finish line. A complete triangle.
   Where is this article? I can’t say for certain. Most were thrown away and disintegrated within time. Some folks even wrapped their fishes in it. But our (yes, this was a group effort conducted by the working boys of New York, mainly the newsies, not to brag) moment of stardom shone, even if it lasted only a minute. Many of us kept a copy, framing it for posterity should we maybe live to raise families. I personally kept an edition framed; where I went it came too.
We’re not in the history books. But our article remains, as do the effects of our fights, carried on by later generations. We don’t get much credit, but it stopped mattering to me personally. Much of my individual narrative has been lost, blurred, and distorted, but the basis remains. Besides, I don’t mind being sanitized to an extent by this musical, although I do find it incomplete due its lack of knowledge about the true me (through no one’s fault; history tends to obscure itself while trying to do the exact opposite!).
   So may I offer you this account? It’s humble. I have no musical talents, no wonderful dancing. I don’t resemble the actors portraying me in the least: they are based off the vague insights the papers offered into my personality, but their appearances are closer to those of my comrades. Will you take me as I am: an irritable seventeen year old artist hiding his identity? No parents, no soliloquies, none of the glamour the rose lens of retrospect offer (that I wish had been there in reality)? Am I still your king of New York? I wonder.
   But I know for sure one thing I am. Might I divulge? I beg your pardon: I am a paper son.

This is the actual story, which I am rewriting. More will follow! Reblogs are totally appreciated.

Part 1 is up!

7

We never found anything on Jack. There’s no record of him at all. 

No, and there wouldn’t be would there? And I’ve never spoken of him until now. Not to anyone, not even to your grandfather. A woman’s heart is deep ocean of secrets. But now you know there was man named Jack Dawson, and that he saved me, in every way a person can be saved. I don’t even have a picture of him… he exists now, only in my memory.