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Melancholia
I woke up frightened this morning. Ten times out of nine my heart rate jumps just as I open my eyes. I didnât want to leave the bed, the lights were off, and the window was closed behind curtains, It was as dark in my room as my deep melancholia. I love darkness for we share a story in common, a story of not knowing where life took direction. Confused as my emotions I wanted to cry for Itâs another day and lord knows I canât abide but my tears failed me, my day has started with a failure.
Earlier in the morning I hear nothing, Iâm already caught up in my permanent emotions, I laid my hands on my chest and asked: âGod, when is the curse going to be broken? Is it until Iâm broken?â
Lord, I was brought to this world with no options and as far as I went on, I have always tried to make sense of my life and couldnât, what have I done wrong? I prayed to you the longest nights to comfort my inner agony and melancholia is still my companion. Iâm hurt, are you immune to my burden?
I started writing my note, who am I to ask for forgiveness dear God, I believe you understand, my art mannequin?
My art mannequin has devoted his life for me, spent his life between a box and me telling him stories, he knows about me now more than I know about myself, he watched me in my worst days, he listened and considered himself just like me, undeserving of love.
I consider my self to be a hermit, I never leave the sanctuary of my emotions, in this temple everyone I knew has lighted a candle, some candles burnt me and some lighted a portion of the way. Am I going to heaven? Ă´ lord show me I want to believe that heaven is for people like me, people who were forced to abstain from life, people who grew up not living but submitting while life happened.
I have a class, in an hour, I have to go, I donât want to fail my father -who pays me rent and my basic life needs-, So I will burry everything inside of me and attend.
My breakfast consists of my anxiety pills, a glass of water and anger, I took my breakfast pretending to be alive or because a classmate would ask me If did, so if I didnât, weâll take a breakfast together. My classmates are way to far from understanding that everybody has their own breakfast.
I wore my clothes, the same clothes from yesterday, not considering whether it is going to be hot or cold this morning. I love storms.
Melancholia
I woke up frightened this morning. Ten times out of nine my heart rate jumps just as I open my eyes. I didnât want to leave the bed, the lights were off, and the window was closed behind curtains, It was as dark in my room as my deep melancholia. I love darkness for we share a story in common, a story of not knowing where life took direction. Confused as my emotions I wanted to cry for Itâs another day and lord knows I canât abide but my tears failed me, my day has started with a failure.
Earlier in the morning I hear nothing, Iâm already caught up in my permanent emotions, I laid my hands on my chest and asked: âGod, when is the curse going to be broken? Is it until Iâm broken?â
Lord, I was brought to this world with no options and as far as I went on, I have always tried to make sense of my life and couldnât, what have I done wrong? I prayed to you the longest nights to comfort my inner agony and melancholia is still my companion. Iâm hurt, are you immune to my burden?
I started writing my note, who am I to ask for forgiveness dear God, I believe you understand, my art mannequin?
My art mannequin has devoted his life for me, spent his life between a box and me telling him stories, he knows about me now more than I know about myself, he watched me in my worst days, he listened and considered himself just like me, undeserving of love.
I consider my self to be a hermit, I never leave the sanctuary of my emotions, in this temple everyone I knew has lighted a candle, some candles burnt me and some lighted a portion of the way. Am I going to heaven? Ă´ lord show me I want to believe that heaven is for people like me, people who were forced to abstain from life, people who grew up not living but submitting while life happened.
I have a class, in an hour, I have to go, I donât want to fail my father -who pays me rent and my basic life needs-, So I will burry everything inside of me and attend.
My breakfast consists of my anxiety pills, a glass of water and anger, I took my breakfast pretending to be alive or because a classmate would ask me If did, so if I didnât, weâll take a breakfast together. My classmates are way to far from understanding that everybody has their own breakfast.
I wore my clothes, the same clothes from yesterday, not considering whether it is going to be hot or cold this morning. I love storms.
I couldn't sleep, so I wrote this.
I am very random; I hate summer nights for theyâre too long and heated, too long means too much time for my paranoid brain to go wandering, what are some possibilities to think of so that I can dive deeper in melancholia. I took a pill: normally it takes 20 to 30 minutes for the desired effects, decreasing the rate of my heart beats. I donât understand why my heart releases adrenaline I donât need. Iâm very energetic tonight, the pain I feel in my back during the day while Iâm sleepy and while wanting the world to just go away eases. I can play a presto sonata, I want my heart to beat to the moonlight sonata, not the first movement of course.
I am very fond of people who play such music, and worship those who write it, my heart can compose such. O did I talk a little bit too much about my heart? Iâm profoundly sorry.
Music is a space, piano keys, violin chords are characters in order for the sounds to make sense and express loveliness, there should be a story. I like pieces with a bridge and a plot; the plot usually makes a story exciting but Iâm at a point of my life where everything seems to be a plot and none of it is exciting. Iâm a character, in fact I act a lot, I am a student in the morning and something at night, I really donât put too much effort into living, imagine having to do something that ends with a gerund; it is weighty and at least people sleep but I donât.
I wanted to scream, but I canât; the window is open and Iâm too lazy to move from my bed to close it so I decided not to, and If I did, how would people I Could have woke up from sleep interpret it, part of me thinks they wonât, theyâll just get angry about it, insult me and get back to sleep. Iâm reminded of the painting by Van Gogh: the hands under the cheeks inspire a feeling of shock like a drag queen whoâs not ready for her sleep.
Itâs 4.00 am and I still canât sleep so Iâm staring at the table in front of me, a square table: it has a teapot on it, the teapot is half open with a spoon inside barely showing, beside there is a glass I was offered for free at a restaurant, also I have my laptop on it with itâs charger above it, does it mean the charger is more important than the laptop itself ? beside there is an empty Pepsi cola bottle, a chunk of bread and a 2 liters bottle of water, there was also a ruler and some coins, most importantly on the table were my anxiety pills !
I ate the chunk of bread, drank some water and then stretched my tongue for hope there are still some cola drops in the empty bottle. I took my anxiety pills, opened my laptop and wrote this.
Do you perchance want to discover whatâs on my table tomorrow ?

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These glass words will spin out something fragile about ribcages and bones, because everything is rot and dying. Youâre always more dead, never more alive, but we act like we donât hear the patter pitter of time around the corner, hiding in doorways and in stoops. The artisty is stripped bare at the wake, the artist is mute except for the ringing in your ears. Itâs an open casket with the gunshot residue still on the forehead, but her mother only talks about where she bought the dress. We pity her, but sheâs better off than we. Sheâs accepted the shallow, the dank, the dark, the deep. The mother and the artist. The poles, separated by only 6 feet of dirt, and now the whole world crashed into the ocean, to stand trial at the mercy of whales.
The pitter patter of death is loudest on hardwood floors. We all have carpet now. We all crave the silence.
-the inspiration is transparent (via lonelyscibbles)
Very insightful !
âYour writing voice is the deepest possible reflection of who you are. The job of your voice is not to seduce or flatter or make well-shaped sentences. In your voice, your readers should be able to hear the contents of your mind, your heart, your soul.â
â Meg Rosoff
Azzi & Osta âPromises of Dawnâ Fall 2017 Haute Couture Collection
Maisie Williams and Sophie Turner Š Photographed by Nicole Nodland for Rolling Stone (April 2019)
Summary of the power of habits
You canât possibly call yourself a habit junkie and not know this book. Itâs THE book about habits. Published in 2012 by Pulitzer-prize winning author Charles Duhigg, this gem has spent over 120 weeks on the various New York Times bestseller lists.

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The three metamorphoses of the spirit
âThree metamorphoses of the spirit have I designated to you: how the spirit became a camel, the camel a lion, and the lion at last a child.â Friedrich Nietzsche.
Does What I Say Mean Anything To You ?
In the age of social media, being wrong is almost a fatal disease, is it a change of perspective or just a common need of validation?
The Definition Of The Soul According To Gary Zukav
Why Canât You See Me ?
Just few moments before waking up the morning, a shadow wandered the room; I donât believe in ghosts, so I thought It could be just a fairytale Iâve read that turned out to be a lucid dream.
The shadow wandering before me had no form and no gender; I almost assumed they had no identity, just some random thought -to which I was subject of real influence- manifesting itself to me.

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Why Canât You see me? Deep insights Emotional chaos Vulnerability Perspective Childhood memorie And so onâŚ.