When I was a kid, my dad told me three things:
1. If someone fights you, fight back. And if they push you, push back. Don’t worry about getting in trouble and don’t be scared to do it.
2. People who use words that are meant to hurt you are weak. They’re weak.
3. Show your teeth when you smile. You’ve got a nicer set than me so smile.
Then dad, why can’t I get the fucking nerve to get up and fight the ghost of her in my room? Or, why am I having such difficulty pushing against her pushing me away? All she did was tell me three tiny words and my knees were already hitting the tarp before I knew it. Even worse, she’s not talking to me. And you know, there have been far too many nights during dinner where I looked over at you and shamefully admitted to myself that I’d rather hear hurt than hear nothing. But fuck, dad, I did smile though. That I did. Teeth and all, dad. She made me so damn happy and I wanted to make sure she knew that. I smiled when I first met her. I smiled when we stayed up all those nights until sleep didn’t make sense anymore. I smiled when we were driving that morning; my fingers threading through her hair. And even while we kissed, I just smiled so much that I made her laugh. I don’t ever remember one moment where my face wasn’t sore around her. And after a while and down to today, even after everything crashed so fast…at the end, at least I did that, right dad?
"What I Didn’t Tell You" - X.Z. (via xealzine)
The mocker is never taken seriously when he is most serious.
I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us.
You are free and that is why you are lost.
I’m dealing with a lot of scary things. I think you have to react to them. And you either laugh at them or you go insane.
Jim Butcher, Death Masks (via feellng)
And I am bored to death with it. Bored to death with this place, bored to death with my life, bored to death with myself.
Books always had this very powerful effect on me because of some communication, somebody seeming even in a very symbolic or displaced way to understand what I was feeling. And I think that is the miracle of literature, is this private communication between one intelligence and another.
I like to think of you reading my verses (though it took you five years to find them out). When I wrote them I was a strange lonely boy, walking about by myself at night and thinking that some day a girl would love me. But I never could speak to the girls I used to meet at houses. Their false manners checked me at once. Then you came to me. You were not in a sense the girl for whom I had dreamed and written the verses you find now so enchanting. She was perhaps (as I saw her in my imagination) a girl fashioned into a curious grave beauty by the culture of generations before her, the woman for whom I wrote poems like ‘Gentle lady’ or ‘Thou leanest to the shell of night’. But then I saw that the beauty of your soul outshone that of my verses. There was something in you higher than anything I had put into them. And for this reason the book of verses is for you. It holds the desire of my youth and you, darling, were the fulfilment of that desire.