Wow, never thought I would have to make this post but I NEED HELP.
If anybody is in the Olympia, Washington area please house me for a week at most.
I have been kicked out for my life choices i.e. Gender Identification and Sexuality.
If you’re not able to house me, please boost me. I have no where to go and I’m probably going to stay at my current residence for a night since I came to their door step at 11:00 PM a rude, sobbing mess.
(Source: refuse-to-siink)
Engaged. :)
I’ve never been a man of faith, but now I feel like a beggar waiting for the leftovers from God’s graces…
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
If
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with wornout tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on”;
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And - which is more - you’ll be a Man my son!
“The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams. It is alive as dreams are alive, more real than real … for a moment at least … that long magic moment before we wake.
Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?
We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.
They can keep their heaven. When I die, I’d sooner go to middle Earth.”
❞Living with pain is something I’ve learned to handle in recent years… almost as if the ache set deep in my young bones is a reality I cannot escape, chains bound on, and in, and within my wrists. Chains that settled beneath the skin and in the blood, around the bone and chafe into my nerves.
I shift on my seat and my back aches, spine cracks while I’m leaning back. Fingers ache, too, as they dash across the keys and I write. I find the pain awfully distracting sometimes. It tugs at the seams of my patience, screaming for the absolution of a pill. Pain doesn’t leave me alone when I’m at my hobbies, whether it’s reading or playing videogames, it sits with me, besides me, in me. Pain teases me every morning with the promise of its arrival as I embark on a trip down the dorm’s stairs, or down the massive hill to my academic department here in the university. With every step, I hear bones crack like meek thunder in my knees, with every step vibrations reverberate in lower spine.
I find pain when I wear my satchel on my laptop bag, either way, my shoulder screams with every turn, every stretch, every lifted weight. Sometimes, more often than not, pain remains at the rim of my being; threatening to come barging in and interrupt whatever it is I’m doing.
It speaks to me in the language of old bones, cracking bones, bones that ache when it’s cold and bones that titter-tatter with every step, it speaks to me with unstable knees and a horribly depressing tolerance to pain meds. One of these days, no pill will keep pain away, pain will defeat them, it’ll keep threatening me in its guttural speech, with its clicks and it cracks, with its thunder of bones rasping against bones, and lightning in the form of whips crawling up my legs, up my arms, into my chest.
I’ve learned to predict the weather before I’m out of bed. If my knees hurts by the time I woke up, it probably rained by night and the humidity is barely just settling down in my skin.
I’ve learned to miss class simply because I don’t want to walk, or leave work early because I can’t focus on any given task. I’d take a walk to stretch and relax, but that wouldn’t help much.
I tend to laugh, smile, make odd jokes, hug my friends randomly, start weird conversations. I tend to be sullen and quiet, too… or simply absent minded and coy, but I’ve learned not to let the pain affect my mood. It’s been hard, but I’ve worked it out. A practiced smile and a bad excuse always works, y’know? If asked I’d say I didn’t sleep last night, nodding my head and tapping their shoulder, feeling the weight of my arm as my bones stretch, crack, complain.
Some days, some weeks, I’ll be fine… pain only threatens to drop by, but barely does a thing. Other days, other weeks though… pain makes itself an uninvited guest in my house. It stays with me hours, or days, or weeks at a time, as if it were a shadow cast over a shrine, ill omen of what is to come.
He wrapped arms around me like
fuzzy sheets;
mantles of assurance and
safety. He withdrew clouds,
from his pockets, set them
free
above my head as I laid in
what the doctor thought
to be my… deathbed.
He would offer a smile
as deep as his green eyes,
prairies bearing emotions
swaying like grass;
emerald pools swaying
to the current of insecurity
as deep as his faith.
My life could’ve last as long as a cicada,
leaving behind my skin like scars on my
mother’s womb; wounds that would never
heal and instead grow in my absence.
Scars wider than my curious eyes,
obsidian and lithe mirrors
unveiled for first time; carrying
reflections of her smile, head
resting on the hospital bed.
I’m guessing he thought
I couldn’t die then and now
he smiles
holding me, his first grandchild,
in silent embrace and reverie
of the days I could’ve withered
and passed.
