hyperion*

Status: i miss witty's glory days
Joined: April 10, 2013
Last Seen: 3 years
user id: 356389
Location: new jersey
Gender: F


i wrote these things when i was 14 and lonely, they are weird and cringy but i am glad they are preserved here. this is my time capsule. (04/11/20 check-in).


hyperion*'s Favorite Quotes

Rip out my throat, tear into my chest with savage hands until you grasp my beating heart. Hold and watch as, always, it beats for no one else but you.
And maybe I should love you more, because you're just as sad as I am but you don't go around crying and cutting yourself in the bathtub. Maybe I should love you more, because you never cry in front of me even when your eyes are so f.ucking sad I want to pull mine out. Maybe I should love you more, because I'm horrible and nasty and the things I say to you would make me want to die but still you're here caring for something as awful as I am. Maybe I should love you more.

I don't want to need you. God I don't, but I am spiraling down and I'm threatening to crash into the ground. I can't breathe, and waking up in the morning is a struggle with every part of me not wanting to go.
Poor little Amelie dances through meadowed snow and calm, soft lavender. She laughs as diamond dust floats above her hair, and catches snowflakes on her tongue. Little Amelie plays games by herself, as other children are scarce in such a village. Perhaps Father will play? Ponders Amelie, prior to dismissing such a silly notion. No, Father would not play - not now, not ever again. Father is often sad - has a face made of stony concrete - and does not speak. He does not have time for silly little games. He does not have time for silly little girls either.

Sometimes, when the night is vast and Amelie is restless, she will wait outside of Father's door. And she will hear him crying before he dresses for the day - although, in the eyes of Amelie, the day has not yet even begun. Amelie worries that this is the average life of an adult - fearful and upsetting, with short days and cold, long nights.

One day, Amelie decides to try and live the life of an adult. She rises at six, as the sun begins to paint the horizon in streaks of pale silver, and she pulls on her boots.

She does not come back for hours, and Father is livid when she returns - hours past sunset - and for some time she is worried he may strike her like Sister Abigail. Instead, he falls to his knees and grasps her face - so hard it would hurt if not for the look upon his face, which is cracking like plaster and becoming rather wet. He pulls her to his chest, runs a hand down her back, and whispers soft words into her hair. Amelie is confused, because she had just tried to be an adult - had succeeded rather well, she thinks - and yet Father is still sad? She does not know how to make him not-sad. But still, Father kisses her face all over, looks at her for some time - he seems tired - and then he smiles, small and crooked. Amelie startles, because...

Well, because Father is smiling. And Amelie has forgotten this face...

Such a lovely gift, this is, because suddenly Father has pulled Amelie onto his shoulders, and then they are amongst fields of virgin snow and poignant lavender. The sky breaks open and blesses them with frozen rain, and Father smiles again. He falls into the snow, makes angels with Amelie and catches snowflakes on his tongue. What a day! They build snowmen, and Father lends his scarf to a small snowman with a large carrot for a nose. They retire as the day brightens, from black to blue, and Sandman sprinkles stardust into their eyes. She is gone, to Dreamland - with snow and lavenders, and, best of all, Father smiling. When Amelie wakes, Father is still asleep, and he does not look quite so sad.

No, but my voice cracked and how embarrassing is that? I, a fully grown man, have resorted to acting like a prepubescent boy just looking at your smile, and how the sun is reflected against the sheen of your auburn hair. My palms are slick with sweat and I hope you don't know it but you do, I can tell. Because you look so smug and you keep trying to hold my hand, which I don't understand at all. God, I'm so gross why are you still looking at me. I hate you so much I want to wipe that smug look of your face with my face but not violently, no. Tenderly and lovingly and all those good words. You must know what I'm thinking because you're smart and I'm not. So naturally, you start mocking me in Portuguese and you know I don't even understand Spanish but still, you continue and I'm so confused. Are you asking me to leave? Because I can go if you want me to, I'll understand. And then you're really close and I'm really uncomfortable because I'm pretty sure if I can see your freckles than you can see I have really deep worry lines in my forehead. But now you're a breath away and suddenly you blow into my face, Like I'm a dog, before whispering "eu te amo" and I may be bad at languages but I took a (failed) course in Latin and so I'm pretty sure I know what that means.
The flower is the poetry of reproduction. It is an example of the eternal seductiveness of life.

And this girl, she has a face straight outta f.ucking magazine. With smudged freckles and mercurial eyes, she cannot be compared to anything else in existence. I took the same bus everyday, for two months, before I even spoke to her - and God, was it worth it. She spoke real loud, and her teeth were weird in the best kind of way - all gappy at the sides and crammed in the front. Every day, I took that bus, and every day I talked to her - about the weather, the news, and eventually myself. She had six brothers and two sisters - all older - and she didn't really like her home; it was boring, nothing ever happened and no one ever cared. I told her I did, and something went of like a rocket, I know, because she smiled so bright the sun cried in envy. Fast forward two months and I'm walking her home, getting off that bus 10 miles from where I live. Still, i'll say it was worth the while.
People need to understand that mental health is much more important than academic or financial wealth. I cannot gloat that my family is rich, or that i am sheer brilliance in the eyes of scholars. I am not rich, probably never will be, and I am average at just about everything I do. But I didn't particularly mind, because I was happy with who I was. And then suddenly school became much harder, with stricter teachers and shorter deadlines. Teachers suddenly took my innocent misunderstandings as incompetence, and revelled in pubicaly humiliating me to the point of tears. I was branded as "dramatic" or "too sensitive" because I cried whilst being called a "revolting liar". Suddenly I couldn't afford text books and was laughed at for being "the poor kid", children openly asking "why are you poor?" even though i didn't know I was - I was clothed and fed, but soon I learnt that in school "poor" meant you couldn't buy yourself gifts whenever you liked. it became too much; I started crying between classes, hiding in deserted bathrooms to throw up until I was fifteen minutes late for French; was told I was "quelle perte de temps idiote" by a man who was meant to encourage, simply because I had forgotten the difference between "de dessous" and "de dessus". I was no longer happy. I started to self destruct; would rip the skin of my knuckles to distract myself from the oncoming slaughter of not knowing the right answer. I started to become angry at my supposed poverty, and all the taunts I received just because I didn't have a phone. I visibly shook in crowded hallways, and then one day I refused to go. My mother tried to force me, and I cried with snot running down my chin, begging "Please, I can't go. I want to but I can't". This lasted for an hour, until she noticed I had started to subconsciously tear the skin of my forearms, creating large red welts that distracted me from the tightness of my chest. I didn't go that day. A week later I had to see a doctor who would stare at my face and ask dumb questions - she told me I had all of these problems before writing a list of prescriptions eight pages long - fluoxetine, diazepam, ferrous sulfate, all these drugs - just so I could function. None of them particularly help, and Now I'm nothing. I'm not rich, or smart, and I'm definitely not happy.
RIVERS IN YOUR MOUTH
I once knew a girl - Elizabeth - and she had auburn hair and insipid eyes. She and I would play by the river, but one day she did not show. I waited - for seven weeks - until one day she washed up, with mottled skin and hair that smelt of freshwater.

I was invited to the funeral; the only child there. I did not want to go. I did not want to see Elizabeth dead; I did not want to acknowledge a dead Elizabeth at all. But still I went, and kept my head low, as townspeople came forth to pray for a little girl they had never met. I ignored her open casket, and did not once glance at her falsely tanned face. When they lowered her into the ground, I promptly vomited into the wilting grass.

It has been twelve weeks, and Elizabeth is still in the ground. I visit her everyday, and tuck baby's breath into the grass (although how I wish I could tuck it into her hair).

I once knew a girl, and she will never grow old, or grey. My mother tells me this is life.


Why is the term “friend zone” so popular when the term “unrequited love” already exists and is more accurate?
I suspect it’s because it shifts the locus of responsibility. “Unrequited love” focuses on the person who has the crush. The feelings being discussed are the crushing person’s, thus the responsibility in on them to get over their crush and move on. “Friend zone”, on the other hand, focuses on the crush object’s choices. The phrase erases the agency of the crushing person. All blame for their pain is put on the crush object. “Unrequited love” is something that can happen to both sexes, but “friend zone” is a sexist concept that implies that women are solely responsible for men’s happiness, and not men themselves.
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