Poets say science takes away from the beauty of the stars — mere globs of gas atoms. Nothing is 'mere'. I too can see the stars on a desert night, and feel them. But do I see less or more? The vastness of the heavens stretches my imagination — stuck on this carousel my little eye can catch one-million-year-old light. A vast pattern — of which I am a part... What is the pattern or the meaning or the why? It does not do harm to the mystery to know a little more about it. For far more marvelous is the truth than any artists of the past imagined it. Why do the poets of the present not speak of it? What men are poets who can speak of Jupiter if he were a man, but if he is an immense spinning sphere of methane and ammonia must be silent?
You haven’t the least or feeblest conception of being here, and now, and alone, and yourself. Why (you ask) should anyone want to be here, when (simply by pressing a button) anyone can be in fifty places at once? How could anyone want to be now, when anyone can go whening all over creation at the twist of a knob? What could induce anyone to desire aloneness, when billions of soi-distant dollars are mercifully squandered by good and great government lest anyone anywhere should ever for a single instant be alone? As for being yourself – why on earth should you be yourself; when instead of being yourself you can be a hundred, or a thousand, or a hundred thousand thousand, other people? The very thought of being oneself in an epoch of interchangeable selves must appear supremely ridiculous. Read more »
Every time we kissed you closed your eyes, and I clamped mine open, just to see those short lived moments that I almost let me love you.
So lie away, I did, so wide awake, trying to give myself a good reason to forget the empty words from this hollow curse. I can’t shake the weight of what we’ve been through, and I won’t justify the way we never really listen to a goddamn word we claim to. Let’s be fair. Let’s take some order. We’re too much like each other, and there’s no chance in hell that you would change for me. Why would I change for you? But the painful truth exposed here, as you grab your autumn jacket and slowly make your way towards the door, is that in this short lived moment my heart is left unfastened, as the single thing I feared the most just happened.
No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun — for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax — This won't hurt.
My name is Gabrielle and I am twenty-eight years old. I began to self-injure at age fifteen -- so nearly thirteen years -- minus a two year period. This website was made to let self-injurers know that they are not alone and to help their friends and family learn more about self-injury and how it affects their loved one.
