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wedarkacademia · a day ago
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Does anyone else gets a little bit motion sickness riding in an elevator?! :(
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cowpokeprose · a year ago
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When Adam bit the apple he did it because he trusted Eve. Because he loved her. Adam bit into the apple because the woman he loved told him to, no matter what God said. No matter the rules of heaven. What’s heaven to a woman’s love anyway? What’s God to your wife? The first sins of humanity, were trusting others. Eve trusted a snake, Adam trusted Eve, and I trust you. Maybe that’s a sin, just like the first couple. Maybe everyone’s right about us and we’re sinners and we offend God. But like I said, what’s God to a woman’s love anyway? What has heaven got that I can’t find sitting next to you on a cool autumn morning?
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saccharinesadism · 14 days ago
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"you're hot" yeah well i'd look a lot hotter stretching you out with my biggest strap
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thebratzdollguide · 2 months ago
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Although the supermodel, socialite, and video vixen era wasn’t perfect, it needs to make an inclusive and diverse resurgence. I need to see fun, excitement, charm, sensuality, and glamour that this era has been lacking lately due to the many lackluster male and female celebrities that have been relentlessly pushed by the gatekeepers of the entertainment industry.
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manoelt-finisterrae · 4 months ago
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houbo unha vez
Os niños construídos con afán polas aves e onde xamais habería ningún ovo, cando en realidade gustaríanos que se visen paxariños esperando aloucados e co pico aberto, pola súa comida.
Todos desexamos sexa consagrado a nós mesmos o lugar exacto no que se debe de atopar á amada e coñecer por dentro o zume dos nos das caricias, a afectiva divindade dos peixes que nadan nos mosaicos romanos.
© Manoel T, 2021
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guesswhogotaname · 2 months ago
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Éli, Éli, lama sabachthani? (Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, pourquoi m’as-tu abandonné?)
Hier soir sur 6ter (les vrais connaissent les bails) il y avait le dernier épisode du livre VI et évidemment, je ne pouvais pas passer à côté de cette occasion de procrastiner pendant quelques heures et me laisser consumer par tout mes feels concernant Kaamelott. Après, j'ai écris une histoire.
Il y a une femme qui l’embrasse. Elle a le goût du soleil, du miel et des figues.
C’est un baiser échangé dans le secret d’une longue après-midi d’été, la chaleur écrasante d’une ville baignée dans les rayons de l’astre de jour. Les lèvres s’étirent dans un sourire malicieux, complice. Une promesse gravée aux cœurs. C’est la jeunesse insouciante. C’est un rire discret, un regard sombre. La naissance du désir.
Il y a une femme qui l’embrasse. Elle sent le jasmin des jardins d’un château perpétuellement en hiver. Elle sent comme le début du printemps. C’est interdit. C’est le péché ultime, mais aucun des deux n’a pu résister. Chaque baiser est grisant, effroyable. La peur aux bords des lèvres que le ciel ne s’effondre sur leurs têtes. C’est sans retour. C’est dangereux. C’est le poison et le remède. C’est une bouffée d’oxygène. Elle l’embrasse et il y a cette avidité, ce désir intarissable qui gronde.
Il y a une femme.
Elle ne l’embrasse pas.
Elle le regarde, le battement de cils, lent, qui voile à peine ses yeux noisette. Son regard ne vacille pas. Elle le maudit et le haï. Elle l'adore et l'attend.
Elle est droite, immobile, les mains jointes dans une prière silencieuse et secrète. Ses yeux embrumés par des larmes qui refusent d’inonder ses joues.
Elle est de cette beauté qu’on les navires en plein naufrage.
Il aimerait lui parler. Lui dire. Mais ses lèvres sont scellées par le poison gluant du miel, par l’odeur nauséabonde du jasmin.
Il aimerait lui avouer. Confesser l’étendue des mensonges qui ont pourri sur sa langue. Il essaye d’ouvrir la bouche, aucun son ne sort. Des mains, chaudes, d’une douceur familière, emprisonnent sa gorge. Des voix susurrent au creux de son oreille des mots envoutants. Il en oublie son nom, sa destinée… Il s’engouffre dans un rêve perpétuel, il n’y a plus d’échappatoire possible.
Emmitouflé dans son linceul, il n’a plus froid, mais il aimerait la revoir une dernière fois.
Qui ?
Comment s’appelle-t-elle, cette femme aux yeux rieurs ? Cette femme qui a toujours été là, ses cheveux bouclés aux reflets dorés dans la lueur de l’aurore ? Cette image, constamment présence au coin de son œil, qui le guette ?
Le souvenir s’estompe, s’essouffle.
Il doit la retenir avant qu’elle ne disparaisse complètement.
Qui est-elle, cette femme qui attend, éternellement dévouée ?
Elle est si malheureuse. Si seule dans cette forteresse de pierre blanche.
Il aimerait la sauver.
« Ce n’est pas de votre faute… »
Elle est de cette beauté que possède la fin des rêves.
Il n’arrive pas à reconnaître les traits de son visage, les songes et les souvenirs se mélangent.
Il y a une femme. Une femme qui le regarde, tendrement, des larmes ruissellent sur son visage. Elle porte une robe bleu foncé, simple, sans ornements, sans parures d’argent.
Elle vient de loin. Elle vient en deuil.
« Vous dormez. »
« J’ai rêvé de vous. »
Il aimerait lui demander pourquoi. Pourquoi elle a gaspillé toutes les années de sa vie aux côtés d’un homme qui ne la méritait pas. Mais il n’a pas les mots. Il tend la main vers elle, lentement, comme s’il était persuadé que jamais il ne l’atteindrait, comme si elle était faite de la même étoffe que les rêves, comme si elle allait disparaître au bout de ses doigts.
Elle prend sa main, la guide à sa joue.
Il sent sa peau, froide, humide des larmes.
Ses yeux se ferment, il peine à les garder ouverts.
« Pourquoi vous pleurez ? »
Oh, elle aurait été glorieuse s’il avait pu la rendre heureuse. Il aurait dû mettre le monde à genoux devant elle, cette femme, la sienne, qui n’a jamais renoncé, jamais abandonné.
Et peut-être que tout ce-ci n’est qu’un rêve. Peut-être qu’il est entrain de mourir tout simplement. Mais il sent que ça remue en lui, le sang qui bat faiblement dans ses veines, les dernières gouttes que pompe son cœur.
« Je me souviens… »
Il sourit. Sincère. Il aimerait lui dire tellement plus, mais le temps manque, les mots lui échappent.
« J’aurais dû sourire à notre mariage. »
Ça n’a pas de sens, mais dans sa cage thoracique, il sent comme une brûlure douce et réconfortante qui gonfle et gonfle.
Les larmes redoublent sur les joues de sa femme. Une cascade sans fin. Et pourtant, un sourire d’une douceur déchirante se dessine sur ses lèvres. Un sourire brisé par un sanglot réprimer.
Elle est de cette beauté tragique qu’on les espoirs disparu et les amours déchus.
Il revoit la couronne sur sa tête. Sa robe bleu pâle, des fleurs brodées à la main sur sa poitrine. Il aurait dû la porter dans ses bras et l’emmenez loin, aussi loin que possible, comme elle le rêvait étant enfant.
Elle amène sa main à ses lèvres, dépose un baiser dans le creux de sa paume pour y étouffer un pleur.
Pourquoi elle a continué d’attendre ? D’espérer ?
Il connaît déjà la réponse.
Il l’a toujours su.
« Guenièvre. »
Sa respiration devient laborieuse.
C’est épuisant de rester en vie.
« Vous essayerez d’accord ? »
« Comment ? »
Et elle est prête à tout. Sa confiance aveugle et absolue. Il pourrait lui demander une chose impossible, elle le ferait.
Pour lui. Pour son amour.
« D’être heureuse. »
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shoutout to bbelcher and dailymlgifs. bde too strong for apple to handle
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cadmium-ores2 · 6 months ago
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if I had a nickel for every Markiplier ego that has dozens of self inflicted stab wounds to the chest I’d have two nickels
which isn’t a lot but it’s heartbreaking that it’s happened twice
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borderline-monster · 3 months ago
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You know you’re mentally ill and not ok when you’re basically yelling the lyrics to sad songs about hating people
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fabien-euskadi · 6 months ago
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Should a tall girl date a shorter man (how gender roles are more difficult to kill than you may think)?
Imagine a straight couple (this would not work with a same-sex couple, and, soon, you shall understand why).
 Both of them are madly in love with each other. Their personalities are a match made in Heaven, and they are the perfect couple, for they are both the best friends and the greatest lovers. Suddenly, you realize their souls have been searching for each other for aeons, and now, at last, after countless lives (and deaths), they are together.
 Everything is devastatingly flawless, blessed... or not?
 Well, you see...
 There is an elephant in the room. A big one.
 She is a rather tall girl - significantly taller than him, I should mention.
 Oh...
 I know, technically, there is nothing wrong about it... except there is. Everything is wrong, wrong, wrong. Mostly because there is a social convention that says that, in a romantic couple, under any circumstances the girl may be taller than the boy. Forget everything else that I said about hearts and souls and perfect matches - the man must be taller, full stop.
 You may try to ignore this unofficial rule and quote Virgil: “Omnia vincit Amor”. But no, you know that every single person will point out that there is a height difference between the boy and the girl, and no one will have nice words to say about that body discrepancy.
 Your love is doomed. Love conquers all, except height differences.
 Why?
 Answer me honestly, hand in heart:
 If you are a girl, would you date a boy that is smaller than you?
 If you are a boy, would you date a girl that is taller than you?
 That’s exactly the point. Gender roles are far from being extinct. Many steps have been given in order to approach genders, but there is still a lot to be done. And the height difference will be, probably, the last one to fall - I bet that you can accept more easily a man with high heels and lipstick than a girl that is taller than her boyfriend/husband. There is still an ancient ghost that says that the male must be taller, so he can protect his fragile female.
 Gender roles won't fall easily. We are all full of prejudice. Shut up: we are.
 Sadly, height differences are not something that one can correct. Everyone wants to be tall - but no one can control his/her own height. We can decide if we are going to put make-up on, we can decide how we act, we can decide what we are going to be... but we can’t decide how tall we are going to be. However, we can decide if we are prejudiced or not, and that is something we can always change.
 Yours,
 Fabien Euskadi
 #Relationship footnotes #24
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rest-in-diana · 5 months ago
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rest in peace princess diana, you would've loved buzzfeed unsolveds episode on you.
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wedarkacademia · 4 months ago
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I really wish I was a fictional character in an enemies to lovers trope.
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cowpokeprose · a year ago
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You hate yourself so loudly. You hate yourself at the top of your lungs. Your loathing for yourself permeates your speech. “Sorry I’m just rambling.” “Don’t worry about it.” “Just ignore me.” “Sorry if I’m annoying you.” “Sorry I don’t make sense.” “Sorry about that.” Sorry, sorry, sorry. You act as if you have to beat everyone else to the punch. As if the punching bag is you. If you hate yourself first, if you hate yourself loudest, then nobody will hurt you. You clapped your hands over your ears and shut your eyes and balled yourself up so that you’d never have to experience people’s loathing for you. And it meant you never heard their love. You drowned it out. You screamed your hatred over it. And you never got to hear it. 
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saccharinesadism · 25 days ago
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shocked and upset that every day i am forced to wake up and do things besides give my baby an overwhelming number of orgasms
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thebratzdollguide · a month ago
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I aspire to have a life that’s similar to bratz commercials from the early 2000s.
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manoelt-finisterrae · 7 months ago
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...oco...
 Alfombras tan divertidas. O seu pai, un cadro, unha grande fe na súa memoria. Estatuas colgadas do teu brazo mentres agardabas por min, esperando hai veces no parque. Non dous. Unha tarde na cidade frecuentou estes instantes. Xa atravesamos todos meio país, tan tremendo, cun pé ispo e o outro calzado con zapatos de meia lúa. Así. Hai demasiados zapatos.
Chámote.
do meu romance (work in progress)
© Manoel T, 2021
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michael--afton · 4 months ago
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journalofshame · 2 months ago
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My dreams devour me and I remain hungry
filled with a world behind my eyes 
empty of feelings regarding this one
I watch how time passes away
and I remain the same
- poem by me
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cadmium-ores2 · 4 months ago
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"Everything has to end."
On one hand, I want to interpret the title as "oh shit, what if that means he's going to do something in this that finishes off the story of his main characters and doesn't plan to write for them anymore?"
but on the other hand I'm like "but also this is a CYOA so just speaking literally all of the paths will come to an end(ing)"
and on the third hand he might've just chosen that because he knew damn well everybody would instaclick to see what the hell was going on
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light-macadamia · 6 months ago
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safety.
moving my writing pieces from @neblina-a-blin​ to the main blog and carrying on with the july writing challenge! 
__________________
once you've lost everything, you are free to do anything.
or so they said. in the cheap paperback you read in high school, or maybe heard in a movie that was circulating way too much on the tv’s of the mid-2000s. it stuck with you. not on purpose. just the way old gum sticks to shoes. it does not restrict your walking, you can still get places. but it ticks you off that it holds you back for a split of a second.
because that feeling of being an outsider is already too heavy to carry. masks can never become faces. one day everyone will know you are not as smart as they thought. one day, wasting weeks of revision to cram the night before backfires. sooner or later, the days swallowed by the deep hole in your heart will echo. and the months you missed count for more than the ones you lived. 
you started to fall asleep thinking it will eventually all come crashing down on your head. that nightly quivering turned into the daily wanting it to finally happen. to stop the countdown, and set the clock right.
because then you will make that burning wreckage your new home. it will be quiet, it will be peaceful, and, at last, you will feel safe. for the shadow is always scarier than the monster, and every jumpscare is followed by relief. 
and then, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, you will shape this downfall into the ground for a take off. you will take the broken metal and make it into a steady backbone. it will be a clean slate, a sterile-white page, a fresh start. you will build up without looking down, because you’ve already been there.
there is a twist though, i found out. once it came crashing down, raining on my head. my much feared and long awaited cataclysm. no matter how far you fall, where you land will always have a sinking bottom. and that deep breath of liberation is too short to right the wrongs. 
so i will tell you this, my younger self: any metal makes an alright backbone. you take off with one flap of wings at a time. and there is no need for ashes to be a phoenix.
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