Thereâs another name for resurrection and itâs love. Humans forget that and call it sin.
â Hita, âResurrectionâ Someone once asked me what the difference between love and sin was
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âItâs taboo to admit that youâre lonely. You can make jokes about it, of course. You can tell people that you spend most of your time with Netflix or that you havenât left the house today and you might not even go outside tomorrow. Ha ha, funny. But rarely do you ever tell people about the true depths of your loneliness, about how you feel more and more alienated from your friends each passing day and youâre not sure how to fix it. It seems like everyone is just better at living than you are. A part of you knew this was going to happen. Growing up, you just had this feeling that you wouldnât transition well to adult life, that youâd fall right through the cracks. And look at you now. La di da, itâs happening. Your mother, your father, your grandparents: they all look at you like youâre some prized jewel and they tell you over and over again just how lucky you are to be young and have your whole life ahead of you. âGetting old ainât for sissies,â your father tells you wearily. You wish theyâd stop saying these things to you because all it does is fill you with guilt and panic. All it does is remind you of how much youâre not taking advantage of your youth. You want to kiss all kinds of different people, you want to wake up in a strangerâs bed maybe once or twice just to see if it feels good to feel nothing, you want to have a group of friends that feels like a tribe, a bonafide family. You want to go from one place to the next constantly and have your weekends feel like one long epic day. You want to dance to stupid music in your stupid room and have a nice job that doesnât get in the way of living your life too much. You want to be less scared, less anxious, and more willing. Because if youâre closed off now, you can only imagine what youâll be like later. Every day you vow to change some aspect of your life and every day you fail. At this point, youâre starting to question your own power as a human being. As of right now, your fears have you beat. Theyâre the ones that are holding your twenties hostage. Stop thinking that everyone is having more sex than you, that everyone has more friends than you, that everyone out is having more fun than you. Not because itâs not true (it might be!) but because that kind of thinking leaves you frozen. Youâve already spent enough time feeling like youâre stuck, like youâre watching your life fall through you like a fast dissolve and youâre unable to hold on to anything. I donât know if you ever get better. I donât know if a person can just wake up one day and decide to be an active participant in their life. Iâd like to think so. Iâd like to think that people get better each and every day but thatâs not really true. People get worse and itâs their stories that end up getting forgotten because we canât stand an unhappy ending. The sick have to get better. Our normalcy depends upon it. You have to value yourself. You have to want great things for your life. This sort of shit doesnât happen overnight but it can and will happen if you want it. Do you want it bad enough? Does the fear of being filled with regret in your thirties trump your fear of living today? We shall see.â
â Youâre Not Making The Most Of Your 20s by Ryan OâConnellÂ
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âWe donât even ask for happiness, just a little less pain.â
Some days I want to spit me out,
The whole mess of me,
But mostly I am good
and quiet.
Iâve been mistaking feeling less for feeling better.
We forget and call it healing.
âLetter to William Packard,â July 1985, Charles Bukowski// âEmergency Management,â Camille Rankine// Anonymous.
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I canât even hold your hand,
But I love you with a love
That no one can understand.
âCan I tell you a secret?/ sometimes I think Iâll never be able to cry in front of you/ or be able to sing you my favourite song/ or tell you how the stars make me feel/ Iâm afraid of you taking parts of me/ and never returning.â
âSpirit Holdâ, Holly Warburton// i.e.// âCan I tell you a secret?â, Hita.
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âCan I tell you a secret?/ sometimes I think Iâll never be able to cry in front of you/ or be able to sing you my favourite song/ or tell you how the stars make me feel/ Iâm afraid of you taking parts of me/ and never returning.â
-Hita, âCan I tell you a secret?â
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âAll of a sudden two decades have passed and you still have not kissed anyone with tongue, or kissed anyone at all for that matter, or had a 3 AM conversation with someone who would rather look into your eyes for ten minutes straight than talk. You have never worn a loverâs sweater or âforgottenâ it at home in your bedroom just so you would have an excuse to see them again. You have never even stood face-to-face with someone who makes your hands shake so hard it feels like theyâre both having a separate anxiety attack. This causes you much guilt and self-blame and sadness but above all, an overwhelming curiosity. Are you really that ugly, that unwanted, that uninteresting, that boring, that no one, absolutely no one, has ever looked at you like the only thing on earth? The answer is no. The better answer is that someone out there, somewhere in the world, is âwondering what itâs like to meet someone like you,â and they have two decades worth of love stored in their veins like a shoot-âem-up drug, and theyâre just about ready to inject it into someone elseâs bloodstream. All you have to do is roll up your sleeves and wait for it to happen. At times you felt so lonely you could stand at the edge of a cliff with nothing beneath you but air and grass and a long, long way down, and youâd still feel emptier than that canyon itself. Maybe you even danced with yourself alone in your room a few times, arms outstretched around a ghost, pretending someone elseâs hands were on your waist, someone elseâs eyes boring into yours. Or maybe you fell temporarily in love with strangers on public transportation, fell in love with anybody who so much as accidentally brushed your hand on the way past. For you, falling in love with dozens of people a day was a coping mechanism for not having anyone to love you in return. But people are not eggs and falling in love with a dozen of them does not mean your shell will remain uncracked. One day youâre going to hit the point where youâre so desperate for human contact that youâre going to snap in half and all your love will bleed out like egg yolk. But someone out there is eating a bowl of Ramen noodles right now, or putting on slippers, or settling into bed. They are doing all the normal things that youâve done in your own life. They are just like you. They have cellulite and extra fat in all the wrong places and goals and fears and doubts and bad handwriting. The truth is that they are just like you, and being just like you, theyâre looking for a lover too. Theyâre what you might call a soulmate. They think theyâre all alone in feeling the way they do, but youâre really both two halves of a whole. And one day youâll meet them, bump into them on the street, and your two halves will be put together, and youâll make one.â
â Writings For Winter - For Twenty Year-Olds who have never been lovedÂ
(via beepboopboopbeep)
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i have read his poetry. he's doing really well on instagram. he writes about her hips and her in the shower and her in a cat-like stretch, he says feline. he writes about her mouth but he's writing about her throat but he's writing about what he could do to both of those. he writes about her knees but he's writing about bending them. he calls it prayerful. honorbound. how nice to feel her worship.
he has a post with something like ten thousand likes that says how hard it was for him to be a man dating a powerful woman - he says, i was threatened by her success and took it out on her in violent ways, but now i recognize men can have feelings too. he doesn't apologize to her at any point. he just says - women, see that your man wants to be cared for. the toprated comment is - exactly! men can feel insecure, too. women, let your men win.
he writes about her like a dead wife. he writes about her like a virgin. he dresses her in white a lot. he says her neck is slim. he keeps marrying her in all his fiction; she's always bearing his children. sometimes she has superpowers, but she always comes home to him. he promises all his readers - there's so much power in being a housewife, and we need to let people celebrate motherhood. he says he isn't a traditionalist, he's a feminist, too. we need to "come back" to celebrating that women are just different. you're different too.
he writes about her with her hair down her back. he writes about her with her hands around his laundry. he writes about her like - ah, when i look at you, all i feel is hungry.
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Iâve been telling myself the reason I canât write anymore is because Iâm not sad. Because thereâs no pain inside me to flow out of my trembling hands onto paper, there are no sorrows clouding my vision to make my poetry hazy. I can see straight and sometimes I feel poetry needs to be twirly and zigzagg-y.
But, Iâve been trying to be sad lately. Trying to find wretchedness among the mists, among the nights I stay up laughing, trying to feel what I felt before, trying to pour poetry back into my veins. Maybe this is some stupid excuse.
But hereâs how it really is. I keep finding myself beaming at unfamiliar faces and sipping hot chocolate over brunch dates with new friends, or falling back into rhythm with old ones.
Or that one time I snuck out to my best friendâs house and we danced to alcohol in our bodies but were sober enough to remember one of the best nights of our lives. So maybe thereâs nothing poetic about this. Or maybe there is.
-I know poetry is more beautiful than sad and thereâs something really very beautiful about loving life
-Hita Shah
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I want to take every bad memory and wrap it in tranquility. I want to go back in time and undo everything terrible that happened. I want to sit down with food and not feel guilty. I want to find myself at 16 between recovery and relapse and take away all the self harm. I want to stand in front of the mirror and not scream. I want to repair every broken piece of furniture I slammed my fists on. I want to be able to sleep without having having to clench fistfuls of my sheets. I want to smile at people without feeling remorseful. I want to look at myself and not cower. I want to take a deep breath and be okay.
-H.S.
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