I cannot live with myself any longer.” This was the thought that kept repeating itself in my mind. Then suddenly I became aware of what a peculiar thought it was. `Am I one or two? If I cannot live with myself, there must be two of me: the `I’ and the `self’ that `I’ cannot live with.“ "Maybe,” I thought, “only one of them is real.
‘Never, never, be afraid to do what’s right, especially if the well-being of a person or animal is at stake. Society’s punishments are small compared to the wounds we inflict on our soul when we look the other way!’
a/n: I asked @aph-blue what they wanted for their birthday and then wrote them the polar opposite of what they asked for, but that’s actually their fault? Because, I had the opportunity to not see a set of pictures and they took that from me, and my mind, haunted by those aforementioned pictures that are now burned into my skull, couldn’t write anything but this, and it is probably bad because I was the one who wrote it.
Beached, but not bloated, and a fuckboy Alfred because why not. Happy birthday, blue!
Alfred caught his first boyfriend when he was seventeen.
The tide had been turbulent that evening and Alfred had seen a guy thrashing in the waters, head bobbing above the waves before going back under, screaming all the way through.
Never mind that he was on the shallow end of the ocean. Alfred was there to save him, jumping off his stand to sprint across the beach and throw himself into the water, dragging the gasping man back onto the sand. After he’d coughed up the ocean, he’d given Alfred his number, and it was then he swore to himself being a lifeguard was the best thing that would ever happen to him.
The pay was less than ideal, yes, but the worship made up for it. Half the beach would congregate around his chair, flaunting themselves for a chance to be his next treat. It was mostly perks, to say the least.
Which is why Alfred rolled out of bed today when he could’ve been sleeping his summer away. It was his turn to claim the afternoon shift, and he did so with a sigh, falling into the familiar routine of lathering on sunscreen, slipping into his shorts and spending ten minutes in front of the mirror to pick which sunglasses he was in the mood for that day.
I have several homes. Not homes I can live in but homes that help me live. One being a home for happiness another for sadness one for comfort anger…
Home to me is the grip on my pencil or my pen either loose or tight and the seemingly endless blankness openness of a white sheet of paper before me hungrily waiting to be touched intimately by the emotions dripping seeping from every inch of my body. It’s the place I can shout without straining my vocal chords cry without always having tears drip on the paper laugh without even so much as a flurry of carbon dioxide flying up my throat and escaping my lips. A place I can open up without having to feel exposed but then I realize as I dress the paper in the intricacies of my being I myself become empty yet fulfilled how ironic it is. The lead and ink whisper my loud thoughts. It almost feels like love to me in a sense. Or maybe it is love. Love is accepting love is free love is honest - maybe it is love.
Home to me is bursting through the front door soaked from the rain tearing off my coat kicking off my exhausted shoes and slipping off my worries - did I say worries? I mean wet socks - tossing everything aside to make way for the soon plop on my comfy bed. The burying enveloping of myself under the covers in the warmth in solitude. A place I can take a breath without worrying what will be caught in my next one where I can ball up because I’m lonely sad angry or simply because I am cold but under those thick covers no one can tell which one I truly am confiding in… Sometimes even I can’t tell. Sometimes I lay there not knowing why but I’m accepted anyway. I always am.
Home to me are the familiar faces I see each day. Home is family. I’m not an externally emotional person.
I’m not someone who can pour my feelings into your ready or not cup. I concede before I even start fearing there are holes or the cup might overfill
become too heavy then
fall and shatter. What if my sentimentalism becomes a constituent in colossal displacement causing your waters to unsettle and form a tsunami? But one may ask what are the chances? Substantial? Minute? Still that possibility exists. But even if I can’t find felicitous comfort in their responses I’m still an owner of the opulent hospitality I find in just their facial expressions.
A house was my home before I came to realize that only I live in it and not it in me. A house is a temporary physical structure that can be blown away by a tornado but the structure of my homes never falter.
The evidence is clear: The more creative a person is, the more he reveals an openness to his own feelings and emotions, a sensitive intellect and understanding, self-awareness, and wide ranging interests, including many in which the American culture thought to be feminine.