Pain makes us real

Paper cuts may bleed and hearts may be broken; walls may have crumbled and trusts may have withered. Egos may be bruised and battle scars may never fade, but it is the hurt that makes us realize what is real and the effort it takes to get back up will carry us to the top of this world.

Happiness is sneaky.

Sadness, at least for me, is something so palpable. It has a definite flavor in my mouth; a definite melody that it sings in my head, and a discouraging weariness that creeps all throughout my body. Depression, at least for me, is something that I fall into and drown in before I can even call for help. It’s revelation is sudden; it’s effects deep and long lasting.

But happiness is sneaky.

It takes me a long time to realize that I’m happy. I notice it, when I step outside after a long day at work. When I walk down air conditioned aisles at the 7-11 for a bottled water. When I coast along on tree lined roads in a bus with my iPod turned up loud. It’s the slow, golden warmth of the sun on my skin. I never actually think to myself “I’m happy,” but I find that I’m smiling when I wake up in the morning, that I’m singing in the shower, that I’m humming as I make my coffee in the morning. And the strange thing is, unlike when I’m sad, I don’t even realize I’m happy, because the reason that I’m happy is because I’ve stopped thinking about myself altogether.

Source: Forgotten Railroad

Where am I going?

I don’t know but somewhere that’s not here. Somewhere where I won’t know that we just forget people and that’s the end of it. Somewhere I’ll think that I’ll hang onto people forever, because they’re worth hanging onto. A place where I can feel my ache and not feel sorry for it. Where I can think that I have it because someone gave it to me, and that means that person is real, and I know them, and I wish that they were with me. Because that feeling means that people exist and are good, and that’s what keeps me alive.

by: strokeofthought

The Others

It is not a matter of who gets there first, or who has the longest history or who is kinder or better. It is a matter of timing, perfect in some ways, imperfect in others; that brings us to where we are today. A million of me pass through this highway at different times of the day, different years too. Sometimes I say I am too late or too early and bemoan about the mistiming of events but then, I wonder just how many deaths that I have avoided just by leaving one minute early or two hours later than I am supposed to.

A girl from Burma and a boy from Missouri met up in Illinois, on the last day of school; what are the odds of that? One semester late or three inches taller for the girl, this chance meeting would never happen. (He helped her put away the flasks and test tubes, pipettes and graduated cylinders to the top shelf in the Organic Chemistry lab.) Two children would not have been born and brought to this world. That is one shade of me, one reflection, one self that passed through time as if it were destined to. On one fateful night in the cold of December, one of me stumbled upon one of you, and you made such an impression to that December me. I was spellbound under the wondrous winter magic and hooked on you ever since.

What about the other ten thousand me, who never took a look at your sweet face, who never bothered to pass through the halls of an old building where we met, who never stepped outside the plane in the morning of that fateful Spring? The other me probably never followed links or went to your site. She probably never caught your eyes for you to be here at this moment. She never thought of writing day after day, never took interest in exploring mindless intricate never ending emotions. She never found you, and you never knew her. And this world will be just as nice or miserable even without my presence. You are probably neither better or worse off either way.

Sometimes, I see the other ten thousand me, and ponder about their lives; maybe, all of us will end up in the same final spot one day but then, maybe not. The other versions of me flies through in space and time, some die young, some grow old, some go through their lives alone, some marry the love of their lives, some have wild passionate affairs with guys half their age (plus seven, perhaps, just to make it “decent”), some are teachers, some are doctors, or researchers, perhaps a couple are great writers, and out of all weaving the web of life, surely, there is at least one who is living her dreams.

Author: awoolham

To all of you who are having any sense of self-doubt

You are beautiful, each and every one of you. don’t let anybody get you down. You deserve to be respected, to be trusted, to be loved. well all have those things that we can pick out about ourselves that we just hate. “My legs are huge” or “my hair is too frizzy”. But for every negative thing you think about yourself, I’m sure you can easily match with something positive. Everybody out there has something special, unique about them that makes them irresistible. Sooner or later, you will learn that you are lucky to be you. Embrace who you are. Be grateful for what you do have. Don’t waste time running from the person you are. Focus on becoming the person you want to be. We all have potential to be somebody great. We can change lives if we want to. All you have to do is believe in yourself. Don’t put up with other people’s negativity, and don’t give in to their put-downs. If somebody doesn’t like you, then that’s their loss. Girls these days are too hung up on looks and weight and the boys that don’t like them. Be who you are. Do what you like to do. Eventually you’ll find somebody who appreciates all of that and will love you. Have faith in yourself. That’s all there is to do…