Architect without a Design
I'm an architect without a design; a singer without a song ... a scorpio chosen by chaos and abandoned by continuity.
a friend posted this on fb …[photo trigger warning]
“A teacher in New York was teaching her class about bullying and gave them the following exercise to perform:
She had the children take a piece of paper and told them to crumple it up, stomp on it and really mess it up, but do not rip it. Then she had them unfold the paper, smooth it out and look at how scarred and dirty is was. She then told them to tell it they’re sorry.
Now even though they said they were sorry and tried to fix the paper, she pointed out all the scars they left behind. And that those scars will never go away no matter how hard they tried to fix it. That is what happens when a child bullys another child, they may say they’re sorry but the scars are there forever. The looks on the faces of the children in the classroom told her the message hit home.”
As a person who was bullied extensively as a kid, I can genuinely say that there is almost no lesson as important as this. If you’re not convinced, ask me to show you my scars.
This was someone's person. You have one too.
catchmeblondy wrote “You cant break… When you’re already broken.: Im a casualty of love.”
“Well, Im tired of life really. Its so hard, Im sorry, I cant take it anymore.”
These are not just stories for you to learn from. This is not just a warning for you who chose to hide in fear of those who are different from you. This was a fucking person. This was someone’s little boy. He had friends. This will be someone you cared about, if things don’t change.
I spent so many years feeling this way, thinking every one of these pain-filled words to myself. When I was younger, I never put them on the internet, never shared them with any friends. Now I see so many kids laying bare all of their own doubts, only to have no response until it’s too late.
The only reason I am alive, is because someone took the time to see what I was hiding. They knew it was important to hear what I wasn’t saying. They made it a priority to tell me that they understood.
Don’t be content just to reblog or like this post, or the original.
Go talk to the people in your life that you believe are feeling this way. Let them know that you are there for them. Tell them that they’re loved. Show them that they are not alone.
hahareally asked: For the longest time I've wanted to tell you that I think you're so awesome. But I'm really shy and I can't go anon.
That’s, um…cool? It’s really strange/awesome to have a stranger tell you that.
These people, they want to place some parts of me into neat little boxes.They keep making labels for each piece, with words meant to explain me. / Words that give them comfort. Words that give me knowledge of how to gnaw myself free.
Like a mouse in a maze, I’m on a mission that I don’t fully understand. I sculpt my skin; spread it open with lines and letters and watch as new cells grow in the open space. / Open and free in explanation of my thoughts, rapid and sauntering in it’s pace.
Each centimeter, etched in expression. Each inch, a methodical savior. / They call it a disease. They say it’s ‘emotional avoidance behavior’.
I hear these words and know… / …that they don’t know shit.
The world tells us that we have to keep it together, that we can’t set up camp in the unknown territories of self-expression through self-destruction.
The world will see my scars as a threat. They will see me and wait for an explanation of lies. / They will want to feel the comfort that an issue that lies in my inability to contain deep emotions, as if I ever work so hard to drown them.
People can willingly accept that I’m crazy if only I’ll play along. They can make excuses for my artwork with a moral code, if only I’ll pretend to sing their Shame U. fight song.
Just don’t ask them to understand how someone sane and intelligent can be the predecessor of a Self-Distortion Movement with the worst of intentions and the purest of beliefs.
I am not a fan of pain. I dread the hours after each new transit. / I know that I will be sad and angry for days, because ‘pain’ is not why I do it.
I tremble at the sight of blood. I do not like the smell of burning flesh. / I don’t enjoy the attention of those few who know of my medium or lay claim as a disciple of Gilgamesh.
He also was only human, after all. / I am merely an artist with an obvious expected downfall.
I know no other passion as strong as this: my nature is compelled to destroy and create from within. / Don’t bother trying to tell those people, yet. They’ll be too busy trying to find the right label for the box they think I’m in.
“It was October, and one of the unforgettable features of this stage of my disorder [depression] was the…” http://t.co/lmffeDju