you
cannot
kill
me
here. Bring your soldiers, your death,
your disease, your collapsed economy because it doesn’t
matter, I have nothing left to lose and you cannot kill me
here. Bring the tears of orphans and the wails of a
mother’s loss, bring your God damn air force and Jesus on
a cross, bring your hate and bitterness and long working hours,
bring your empty wallets and love long since gone but you
cannot kill me here. Bring your sneers, your snide remarks and
friendships never felt, your letters never sent, your kisses
never kissed, cigarettes smoked to the bone and cancer killing
fears but you cannot kill me here. For I may fall and I may
fail but I will stand again each time and you will find no
satisfaction. Because you cannot kill me
here.
If I breathe you in and you breathe me out, I swear we can
breathe forever. I swear I’ll find summer in your winter
and spring in your autumn and always, hands at the ends of your
fingers, arms at the ends of your shoulders and I swear, when
we run out of forever, when we run out of air, your name will
be the last word that my lungs make air for. —I Wrote
This For You
Joan of Arc came back as a little girl in
Japan, and her father told her to stop listening to her imaginary
friends.
Elvis was born again in a small village in Sudan, he died hungry, age 9, never knowing what a guitar was.
Michelangelo was drafted into the military at age 18 in Korea, he painted his face black with shoe polish and learned to kill.
Jackson Pollock got told to stop making a mess, somewhere in Russia.
Hemingway, to this day, writes DVD instruction manuals somewhere in China. He’s an old man on a factory line. You wouldn’t recognize him.
Gandhi was born to a wealthy stockbroker in New York. He never forgave the world after his father threw himself from his office window, on the 21st floor.
And everyone, somewhere, is someone, if we only give them a chance.
Elvis was born again in a small village in Sudan, he died hungry, age 9, never knowing what a guitar was.
Michelangelo was drafted into the military at age 18 in Korea, he painted his face black with shoe polish and learned to kill.
Jackson Pollock got told to stop making a mess, somewhere in Russia.
Hemingway, to this day, writes DVD instruction manuals somewhere in China. He’s an old man on a factory line. You wouldn’t recognize him.
Gandhi was born to a wealthy stockbroker in New York. He never forgave the world after his father threw himself from his office window, on the 21st floor.
And everyone, somewhere, is someone, if we only give them a chance.
“
And
every day, the world will drag you by the hand, yelling,
“This is important! And this is important! And this is
important! You need to worry about this! And this! And
this!” And each day, it’s up to you to yank your hand
back, put it on your heart and say, “No. This is
what’s important.”—Iain Thomas
”
“
The
world is hard because you may wake up today but not tomorrow. And
yet no one will accept "fear of death and a futile
existence" as a reasonable excuse to miss work.The world is hard because you will have to fight for the things you love or worse, fight the things you love.
—Iain Thomas
”
Yet you still value the things you’ve lost the most. Because the
things you’ve lost are still perfect in your head.
They never rusted. They never broke. They are made of the
memories you once
had, which only grow rosier and brighter, day by day. They are
made of the dreams of how wonderful things could have been and must never
suffer the indignity of actually still existing. Of being real. Of
having flaws. Of breaking and deteriorating. Only the things you
no longer have
will always be perfect.
