honestly if you look at most happy people, you will notice something. they’re not always financially stable. they’re not always fully healthy. they’re not even always “together” or “with it”. but they are full of gratitude. they find joy in life not because of the things they do not or cannot have, but because of the things they do. it’s easy to look at a sliver of someone’s life and say “oh well they’re happy because they’re pretty” or “they’re happy because they don’t have other problems going on” or “they’re definitely happy because they’re rich”. there is a difference between actually recognizing other peoples’ privilege and making assumptions about other people’s lives.
“so many fortunate days passed by without being noticed at all. one unfortunate one was all it took to overshadow any sliver of excitement life had to offer. wasn’t everything always just that way—a terrific tragedy.” // this is my usual set up for writing. over the summer i went to starbucks (my town really has nothing better) about four times a week for several hour long sittings and finished writing the novel i’ve been mulling over for about four years. a few weeks ago i decided to start a second one. here’s to hoping it doesn’t take four years to finish & here’s to hoping that it’s not total shit.
The tragedy of Tupac is that his untimely passing is representative of too many young black men in this country. If we had lost Oprah Winfrey at 25, we would have lost a relatively unknown, local market TV anchorwoman. If we had lost Malcolm X at 25, we would have lost a hustler nicknamed Detroit Red. And if I had left the world at 25, we would have lost a big-band trumpet player and aspiring composer — just a sliver of my eventual life potential.
Requested by: @musicalpersonayy Character/Pairing: Dean x Reader Line from song/book: "Make believe worlds make us all feel alive.“
At first the pain was nearly unbearable. At first Dean couldn’t eat or sleep or think or hunt… All he could do was lie in the dark with his headphones on, not even really listening to the same songs as they played over and over.
But slowly he came to the realization that this was not a life–this especially not a way you would want him to live the sliver of life he had left.
He made himself eat. He made himself grow strong again and day by day, with help from Sam, he was able to function.
The pain was still there; a burnt feeling around the edges of a gaping void in his chest. Sometimes the cold would seep outward and he would clutch a hand to his chest and have to brace himself for a moment.
But layers of strength began to grow around the void and instead of being unable to think beyond the loss of you, Dean began to have moments of clarity so vivid they almost seemed to be happening in that instant, like he was transported back into the past or watching something new somehow unfold on its own–and you were a fixture in every one of these visions.
He didn’t care if they were old memories, or the crystallization of his desperate hope and longing that he would someday see you again in this world or the next, they were the only thing that keep him feeling alive, giving him the will to fight, and putting down layers of hope and love over that emptiness in his chest.
I think most people are just trying to be happy, and that most of their actions, however misguided, are in line with that goal. Most people just want to feel they belong somewhere, want to be loved, and want to feel they’re important to someone.
In the spring I was a soft golden girl with daisy petals crushed between my toes and a close mouthed rosebud smile. I was my mother’s daughter and I was the sky’s sister, a slip of an unchristened idea. When the ground opened up underneath my feet to take me, I fell in silence, with the air murmuring my old name all around me.
I hit the ground and broke all my teeth in, I was spitting out broken bits of enamel and he had hands that were cracked and lined with coal and he gave me a mouthful of diamonds to wear in the absence of incisors.
Mother I was so cold and I spent months sweating out the memory of sunlight, he was patient with me and hand fed me berries and seeds that I would spit out when he wasn’t looking, mother, I wasted away to mirror the skeletons around me.
Mother he was patient, but I was even more so.
I found a sliver of life to hang onto, I gave my emptiness reason, and I gorged myself on seeds and fattened myself up to a sleekness that could no longer be called girlish. I smile now, with my teeth, a mouth full of diamonds, and when he asks me if I miss the sun, I gently kiss his coal dust fingertips. Behind his back, I still eat pomegranates, and I do not linger on an outside world I can no longer remember.
She felt like the flowers left behind on Vince’s grave at first, half dead and falling apart by the time she manages to make her way there. Child soldiers on the wrong side don’t get remembered as more than a statistic, but she’s given too much of herself to this war to leave behind any sliver of life for her dead friend.
By the time she moved to Paris, she felt like the shards of her mother’s good china that cut into her bare feet the summer she was 13 and her parents stopped loving each other. She was well past broken.
After a year of learning the history, the art, the fashion of the Muggle world, learning to live among those she once despised for their birth, Pansy still felt the weight of her past beating down on her. But now, she felt strong enough to push back.