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themindsjournalposts · a month ago
You are beautiful and I know it because of the way you treat other people.
Shreya Maurya
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chirsty-sera248 · 4 months ago
So I like this one a little better than the previous one, thus I'm positing this as well 😂 This edit came out better than the previous one in my opinion.💕 You can share your thoughts about it! 😃☺️ © Sneha Das (ChristySeraSwiftcc) #wattpadbooks #wattpadauthor #wattpad #wattpadindia #tumblr #wordpress #blogger #blog #author #authorsofinstagram #authorlife #authors #authorssupportingauthors #writingcommunity #writersofinstagram #writer #writing #writingtips #writerintroduction #wordblog #novel #novelwriting #wip
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yahiya-tt · 4 months ago
If you’re not where you want to be in life, keep going. Treat yourself like you’re the closest friend you’ve got. Celebrate the magnificent creature thatyou are. Don’t let anyone mess with youand your dreams, least of all yourself. Your life is happening right now. Donot snooze and lose.
#quotes blog
#positive thoughts
#spilled thoughts
#inspiring quotes
#self care
#self care reminder
#self love
#self help
#self improvement
#note to self
#self esteem
#self healing
#motivational quotes
#think positive
#think postive thoughts
#positive mental attitude
#positive quotes
#love poem
#original post
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blookmallow · a year ago
incdrop replied to your post “holy SHIT sorry about the momentary disappearance tumblr terminated my...”
what the fuck lmao did they give a reason?
nothing whatsoever! :) i was working on my wordblog queue and kept getting an upload error, refreshed the page and got logged out, tried to log back in and got hit with “this account has been terminated” l m a o 
thankfully they fixed it pretty fast but like, i Did Not Need That,
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savell063 · 3 years ago
Creémos nuestro propio mundo, donde solo tus ojos encuentren con los mios en la oscuridad.
Savell Drame.
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orsoiveheard · 3 years ago
She was the kind of girl god gave you young, so you would learn from the loss for the rest of your life
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themorningerrand · 4 years ago
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Always. Everyday.
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reflectionsofrealism · 4 years ago
She’s sitting in front of a mirror, scared to lay eyes upon her own reflection. Tears are streaming down her cheeks, eyes burning, not a whimper escapes her red lips.
His hands were everywhere, even now the ghosting touch remains. She tries so hard to forget the feeling, but the voices echo, all she feels is pain. Afraid to be alone, or even in another’s company, flinching every time someone shares the same air. 
Abused her, for his selfish pleasure. Tore every fragment apart. No screaming or shouting helped her then, her voice was drowned out by his laugh. 
The paintings he creating upon her skin were nothing that should be admired. It was not art, only violence, abuse inflicted on every part. 
The bruises littered over her body, from her cheeks, to collar bones, wrists and waist. They will heal with time, from red to blue and purple, they will disappear leaving no trace. 
But the bruises on her heart will never leave her, they are now embedded within, branded forcefully forever. 
 A.J/ abused
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reflectionsofrealism · 4 years ago
Synonyms Of Love
When I entered the four letter word into the thesaurus, I got multiple results. A noun, defined as; adoration, very strong liking.
As I was going through each synonym mentioned on the screen in front of me, I began to wonder whether anything I saw was even relevant? People spend their entire lives trying to define this abstract, popular but completely alien emotion. They spend their hours and days and years just thinking and trying to discover it’s true meaning. Someone had done that so simply, as if the four letters were just as trivial as any other that merely existed.
Maybe that is the accurate representation. Not of the emotion itself, but of what it has been reduced to today. Just a string of letters, casually thrown around every and anywhere. Love, to most people, hasn’t remained that sacred, passionate, and honest emotion that it was. Somewhere between long handwritten letters of profession, transitioning into a circulation of text messages, abbreviation and comments, the meaning has been completely lost.
A.J/ synonyms of love
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reflectionsofrealism · 4 years ago
There is no better camera than that of our eyes. As I looked out of the little window from my airplane seat, I could see multiple hues in the dark sky. A dark orange merging in yellow lime green and then finally an ultramarine blue, all over the jet black horizon.
Over head Amsterdam, it seemed as if we were gliding though the land of ice and snow. As if the aircraft was out ship, and we ourselves were the Mariners. Except we didn’t need a bird to guide our way at vespers nine. The clouds seemed to continue for miles. The sky tinted with a shade of aquamarine blue, almost like the inside of the ocean. Even the sun, shined blue, like a light bulb somewhere above. 
No matter how many pictures I took of it, the digital image did not satisfy me even one bit. I took it from all angles, different phone cameras but my heart didn’t think it did justice to what I saw with the lens of my eyes. 
 It was only then that I realised what living in the moment really means. In the rapidly moving world we live in today, we all are so busy and lost in trying to capture the moment, somehow physically retain it so that we can live it over and over again for years to come and pass it on to our children and their children so that it lives to eternity even after we fade, through the gallows of time, that we forget to truly experience it there and then. 
That same sky can never be replicated through any high quality lens. But it lives in my memory forever, hopefully immortalised in the libraries of my mind.
A.J./ airplanes in the night sky
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reflectionsofrealism · 4 years ago
(This piece was written in 10 minutes. The task at hand was to write a piece using 7 words we came up with at the time)
The street was crowded. People thronging the cobbled path, their footsteps sounded in a continuous rhythm, which eventually got lost, amongst all the other ubiquitous sounds.
A man was sat on a bench along the pathway. His eyes remained closed and he seemed to be in complete tranquility, almost in meditation even after the exuberant activity ongoing around him.
His legs were crossed atop the bench, wrinkled hands loosely strung together; it seemed as though he was absorbing something deep within.
 A horse carriage appeared at the scene, almost like a fairytale fantasy come alive. The two white horses galloped across as everyone on the busy street stopped and watched with wide-open eyes showing keen and profound interest.
 The man still sat still.
He could hear the clinking of the hooves, the rolling of the wheels but in his state of oblivion he refused to let any knowledge of his surrounding break his inner state; inspired, unwavered.
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construingsam · 4 years ago
The ramblings of an incoherent frustrated man
Step 1: Procure pleasant looking pre-teens Step 2: Ensure they are prepped on professionalism, acting, and presenting skills. Step 3: Represent all ethnic groups ( no asians, no gingers.) Step 4: Have them sign a work contract (milking rights). Step 5: Get them high. REaLLy hIgH. ON Cocaine. (Ensures perkiness-ness and energy on set) 6: Threaten them with neglect. Dock their pay (they don't need it anyway). 7: Keep producing shows until they grow up, quantity over quality, milk that money cow. Ravage that dead cash horse. RAVAGE IT!! 8 Don't let them kill themselves. 9 DOn't lEt Them Kill theEmseles Don't LEt tHem go they are your chance at salVATion they are your messiah they will get your wife back they will get your youth back they will make you happy you will be happy money money money money money moneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneysavemesavemesavemesavemesavemesavemesavemesavememoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneykillmekillmekillmekillmekillmeeymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoneymon
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reflectionsofrealism · 4 years ago
(Creating a character who represents some form of Dualism. Written from the perspective of an English girl, living in colonial India of he 1900′s)
The streets of Calcutta, were bustling with people. The sound of a train could be heard in the distance, but was too soon drowned out with the ubiquitous chatter, on the first Saturday of the month.
Throngs of men, women and even children were out on the market street, collecting their monthly ration stocks for the upcoming weeks.
 On one end, a man could be seen making 2 cups of hot bubbling tea the clinking of the overused metal spoons against the rinsed glass cups went on creating a rhythmic, but slow tempo.
Across the road from the same street there stood a large fresh-faced mansion.
Its red brick walls were yet to be explored by the trail of ivy and moss.
 A girl sat inside the locked home.
She was almost a woman. 17 years old.
 Her hair was dark, like the feathers of a Raven. Her eyes, a completely contrasting light blue, like the reflection of the afternoon sky upon the ocean. Her skin was porcelain white, fairer than a shinning block of marble.
 In one hand she held a pen, it seemed to be old, the golden inscription upon the rusting nib was fading out.
In the other she held a journal, tan, leather bound, the pages yellowing out and flaky.
 Her face contorted into different expressions, changing rapidly as she thought as scribbled down upon the pages, the nib of the pen scratching against the paper.
 “We make up half the human population, but in all fairness what are women really worth today?
Have you ever wondered how it feels to be tied up in a tangle of heavy metal chains, restricted and confined? The way the smell of the old, rusted iron makes your head feel heavy. No matter how hard you struggle, there is no way out. The shambles dig into your wrists, imprinting them with red.
But with not a tear pricking in your eyes, you still stand up straight, trying to save whatever dignity you may have left with a smile on your face, even though you may as well just collapse in one blow like a delicate house of cards.
 That is how I really feel and no matter how hard anyone tries, it is impossible to understand.
 My family, for generations has been serving to the army. And today as I sit in this foreign land, miles away from home, I seem to identify with it better. I see the people dying, hurting and suffering. Why?
 Why isn’t everyone in this world entitled to peace and happiness? If there really is a greater power, why is he not looking down at this catastrophe and helping them through.
 I heard that hundreds of people died at a massacre in the district of Punjab a few years ago. And it was one an army man, who ordered open fire on them.
When I hear of incidents like this I ask myself why we turn to violence?
 I am a woman, living in a world, which does not accept me for the way I am. I must be docile, gentle like a linnet (A Prayer To My Daughter), naive and beautiful.
But what if I am not. What is im loud, and expressive and adventurous and ambition. But no, ambition is not for my kind, ambition is only for the men.
 So then what is the way out?
We must revolt, against this. We must resist dominance and rise up to fight for our rights. Lets have a strike for women. But how?
A fire, we must come together like sickly looking matches, who can light up an entire forest.”
- Ananya
21st June 2016 
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reflectionsofrealism · 4 years ago
Things had been different once upon a time. Flashes of those distant times played in his mind like the teaser of a film as he stood staring at the dark night. Hazel eyes directed down at his dust covered calloused fingertips; dirty.  They had not always been that way.
He had been a young boy, innocent and carefree.
The wind had too caressed his cheeks, the wind of freedom. He tried hard to remember how it had felt as it had touched him, but no matter what, the feeling didn’t come back to him.
Freedom was all gone now. He had long broken up with the emotion, too late to reconcile. They went from lovers, to friends, acquaintances and now they were strangers. Strangers whose paths would never cross again even by accident of fate.
Trapped, yes he was trapped. His wrists had become accustomed to the rusting iron chains.
Intoxicated, not only by the chemical substances burning in his bloodstream, but also by the echoing voices within of his head. They kept talking to him, the same words repeating over and over again like a stuck record. They plagued each and every corner of his bleeding mind, battered soul, broken being and empty heart.
Yes, he had a heart. It was beating all right for now, alive but not really living; thick walls around its exterior rising higher and higher. The architecture had been created to let no one in, and he himself was the architect.
The garden inside once had flowers growing in it. It had been beautiful, colors hues all merging together to create something so pure, so bright that it could blind anyone looking. The flowers were fresh, childlike innocent the dew slid off them playfully.
Until one night.
Their fingers had felt like knifes, dug deep inside of his chest. And with the blink of an eye the garden had been destroyed. Each root violently pulled out, the flowers all stamped over; crying, struggling, dying, dead.
Dead. They had been killed. And he was bleeding. Bleeding crimson, dark crimson. The bleeding wouldn’t stop, but no one ever noticed.
He didn’t even realize when his crimson blood became darker, purple, indigo, and ultramarine.
Now it was black.
The darkest it could ever be.
Nothing but black remained inside now.
Eternal darkness.
29th July 2016
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