I think maybe the most frustrating feeling in the world is to have something to say buy not know how to ut it into words. To have lived through something but not be able to get it out of you before it festers.
“I think maybe the most frustrating feeling in the world is to have something to say but not know how to put it into words. To have lived through something but not be able to get it out of you before it festers.”
eight otps: [7/8] ruby daly x liam stewart //the darkest minds
“The you that you were then, who you are now, who you’ll be,” he began quietly, as if sensing my thoughts, “I love you. With my whole heart. My whole life, however long I’m lucky enough to get, nothing will change for me.”
Finally surfaced above doubts Feeling above this, she came around Cause she’s a goddess, finally saw this And now you’re back, trying to claim her Cause she’s gone and now without her You’re all alone, cause she’s a goddess You shoulda saw this
The lives you had before, that we all had before, we can never get them back. But there’s a beginning in an end, you know? It’s true that you can’t reclaim what you had, but you can lock it up behind you. Start fresh.
Black is the color of a child’s still, empty bedroom. The heaviest hour of night-the one that traps you in your bunk, suffocating in another nightmare. It is a uniform stretched over the broad shoulders of an angry young man. Black is the mud, the lidless eye watching your every breath, the low vibrations of the fence that stretches up to tear at the sky. It is a road. A forgotten night sky broken up by faded stars. It is the barrel of a new gun, leveled at your heart. The color of Chubs’s hair, Liam’s bruises, Zu’s eyes. Black is a promise of tomorrow, bled dry from lies and hate. Betrayal. I see it in the face of a broken compass, feel it in the numbing grip of grief. I run, but it is my shadow. Chasing, devouring, polluting. It is the button that should never have been pushed, the door that shouldn’t have opened, the dried blood that couldn’t be washed away. It is the charred remains of buildings. The car hidden in the forest, waiting. It is the smoke. It is the fire. The spark. Black is the color of memory.
“It feels like we should do something,” he said. “Like, send her off on a barge out to sea and set her on fire. Let her go out in a blaze of glory.” Chubs raised an eyebrow. “It’s a minivan, not a Viking.”