Change doesn’t mean that it’ll get better.
There is no almighty prophecy of good times. Maybe there won’t be the light at the end of the tunnel that you’ve been promised over and over. And possibly, you won’t even get a glimpse of what you hoped for.
Change is just a chance. Nothing more, and oh, take this one to heart: certainly no less.
Maybe it was nice while it lasted, but it still hurts once it stopped lasting, and it will hurt more when it’s already a past thing, so how is that fair?
Sure winter will pass someday. But in the meantime, I’d rather learn to bend the snow and its storms than sit and wait for summer.
If any of you have some fucks left to give, keep them. I had one of those once. Awful experience, not for me, thanks and goodbye.
my settings are: books, battle, or brilliance.
I don’t believe in “tea time” because that implies that there was a point in history where tea has not been appropriate or on time and I will not stand for such nonsense.
You should honestly be so grateful for having yourself in your life. Imagine the opposite. How strange! Really, that would just be terrible. Because after all, where would you be without yourself?
And for god’s sake, don’t call me beautiful. I don’t care if you argue and yell and try to screw it deep into my brain, because I am not and I won’t waste time pretending to believe you. Let me be as I am. Let my appearance be that randomization of genes that it is. I am not pretty. I am not gorgeous. My looks don’t light up the world. My skin won’t take your breath.
I am average or below or I don’t care where in that area, and I will not care just because you try to make me.
Don’t call me beautiful. I’m not, haven’t been, won’t be.
If you do want to get your breath stolen, ask about my mind.
The ground won’t get warmer even if you keep lying on it. You’re in the middle of your own path. Get out of the damn way. Move. Your muscles will heat up on their own. They remember how to burn, and so do you.
Don’t fear the winter, little one, her mother whispers, because spring will come back to us one day.
But the girl’s eyes are wide and black as the night above, and her muscles thrum with heat under the fingers that push open the door.
I’m not afraid, she tells her mother, teeth white and tongue wet with crimson hunger. There is no season, she speaks against the howling wind, without something to hunt for.
Moami 