chandramellon

[chandramellon]

Anyone who’s experienced unconditional love? I’ve always assumed it was an exaggeration or a myth, but I thought the same thing about bed bugs and they turned out to be real. What’s it like? The love-thing, not the bed bugs, I know what those are like…

[chandramellon]

Does anyone else just wake up in the middle of the day at work and feel like yourself for like 10 min before slipping back into autopilot because you can’t do anything with that awareness right then but then it’s gone for another six weeks?

Why are we living like this?

Help

[chandramellon]

I couldn’t love her because I knew her.

I knew what made her laugh

I knew how often that she cried

And I knew when she was angry by the crinkle of her eyes

Her anger was a vicious thing that prowled within her mind

And it gave way to rage as fast as you could drop a dime

She has a mind for art, a delicate hand, and soft brown almond eyes

She also had a habit of manipulative lies

She often dreamed of violence. It was vivid. She’d describe.

And eventually she did something by which I can’t abide.

But I knew her as a child and although there were some signs

I cannot reconcile the girl I knew with the monster behind those eyes.

[chandramellon]

I never learned to be

So I pretend

But it’s missing

All of it

These things that others just get

But I don’t understand

And never seem to learn

Can’t even fake it long term

Too soft

Too anxious

Obnoxious

Too much

But they don’t tell me what exactly I’ve done

How can I learn how to be when it’s ever so much simpler not to be?

[chandramellon]

When it’s over we lie

Though we often try not to

Remembering can hurt

So we forget what we knew

His eyes were always cold

Obsidian on troubled sea

Yet, his hands were always warm

Flushed garnet when he’d come for me

His words were venom, but

His lips were soft

He’d play the sinner

Though, he’d born his cross

He was captious, caustic, cynical

But he’d willingly pay the cost

And though he’d find no absolution in it

He loved me absolutely

His standards were insurmountable

Always wearing at his health

And he held us all accountable

For this war with himself

He was cruel, but dear god he loved

He could be unforgiving as the sea

he was often misjudged

But never by me.

[chandramellon]

I am utterly convinced that there is a scenario in which anyone could conceivably be with anyone if the writer has the necessary drive and skill. I love the paradigm-shift I get when I read a outstanding fanfic about a questionable couple. It feels awkward at first and then you can kind see it and it’s still weird but soon you’re having to stop and breathe in the middle of the sentence because the bad is turning good and you want to scream. Is it the adrenaline? I don’t know, but it is a rush. Anyone else get that? I broke a phone once.

[chandramellon]

The Basement

Menacing shadows dance across the ragged wallpaper of

moist cellar walls cast by the glow of a solitary,

uncovered lightbulb, hanging in the center of the room.

With the overt enthusiasm of a deranged puppeteer,

the light flickers artificial, harsh, and swinging ever-so-slightly

creating a haunting display of gyrating shadow puppets,

shaped by a terrain of unaccomplished laundry

composed of articles of fabric, crusty, putrid, and glued together

in odd configurations by aged sweat and dried cat piss.

This structure completely obscures the grimy tile floor below it,

as well as two once-white machines, now coated in a thick splattering

of blue detergent dried in parts by layer upon layer of stuck on

dust, dirt, and patches of lint; resembling wary soldiers of the losing-side

standing shell-shocked among the aftermath of a long fought war.

[chandramellon]

I think we view the world through a mirror.

I mean this in an almost literal sense. Anything we see beyond our own reflection is observed as a backdrop with ourselves as the focal point. There is me and there is my world. The way a protagonist would tell their story. And doesn’t that just color everything?

If the world is the setting of my story then everything around me is a tool to move the story forward and draw my character arch. The weather represents my emotional state and the color of each of my outfits symbolizes my spiritual growth. Every event only matters in how it has impacted my life and every person exists to support my character growth in some way. If we look at the world though a mirror, such thoughts not only make sense, they are to be expected.

I think men might suffer the most from this aspect of our nature.

What makes a man? People have been asking this question for as long as people have asked questions. While the answer truly depends on who you ask, there is an answer that’s been around for a long time and through such longitivtiy, has developed the feel of an internalized truth. To be a man is to “avoid weakness, to seek respect/admiration, to project confidence and self-reliance, and to be stead-fast/perseverante/resolute.”

Such rules were made by the suffering of men who had to be those things, who were molded by blood, unwilling tears, and insurmountable trama. Men who then taught their sons, hoping desperately that if they started out tougher, they could be spared such pain.

Men who learned this way look in the mirror and see a world of absolutes. They see an immovable object of harsh criticism, unyielding structure, strict rules, and a sprinkle of praise distributed sparsely, which is to be chased like water in a drought. They recognize power and dominance and view compromise and understanding as weakness. They believe that to be worthy, they must exceed these standards that have been set for them by men who couldn’t imagine a world where it wasn’t necessary to become stone.

The men of old molded a God in this image. A father like their own, whom demands perfection, drives it with fear, and instills in them self-righteous fury at all who don’t hold themselves to these standards. All of creation confined to the image of a disapproving father. The rigidity of the image absurd in its own right.

I think women suffer the most from this development of society.

What makes a woman? This question is most commonly answered by men, at least, in any recorded capacity. “Traits such as nurturance, sensitivity, sweetness, supportiveness, gentleness, warmth, passivity, cooperativeness, expressiveness, modesty, humility, empathy, affection, tenderness, and being emotional, kind, helpful, devoted, and understanding have been cited as stereotypically feminine.”

Such rules were decided by suffering men, who decided women were everything that they could never be. Men who taught their daughters that they were to be protected and their sons to protect them.

Women who learned this way look in the mirror and see a world of limitation. Denied access to passion, ambition, and proper education. Denied the resources to take care of themselves and forced to be dependent. They believe to be worthy they have to be perfect, to achieve these standards set by men who couldn’t imagine a woman in their own place.

The men of old molded a mother in this image. A virgin, who demands nothing, but gives everything for their lord. Eve, born from Adam, seeks autonomy and damns humanity. All women reduced to what they can offer, and condemned for daring to want more. The rigidity in this image is absurd in its own right.

I think our children suffer the most from this ideology.

I mean this in the most literal sense. Because there is a world beyond the mirror that doesn’t care what we think. A world that has never run on absolutes. Ever-changing and infinite, and no matter how hard we try undefinable in the truest of senses. Like a volando, a storm, the ocean. It’s neither good nor bad, honesty nor lies, kind nor cruel, man nor woman, it simply is.

A reflection of all.

[chandramellon]

EDIT: holy shit 19k notes in 24 hours on an original post never happened before in my 10 years on here I love you all

[chandramellon]

Sink or Swim

I lost myself in him

Because I couldn’t stand to be.

It’s not his fault. I am

To blame for my uncertainty.

I held us both against

The tide and further out to sea.

Adrift- we lost our sense of ground,

Languishing in futility.

I trust myself enough

By now to know I could be free,

And yet I feel ashamed

Because he’s gone too far to see;

It will be him who’ll lose

The most when I discover me.

[chandramellon]

I can’t love myself.

So I love him.

He is me, only

worthy of love.

Yet, I feel so un-

worthy of him.

[chandramellon]

he’s doing what our government should be doing.. 

his foundation

[chandramellon]

[chandramellon]

The love I feel in places incapable of such devotion, moves me in ways that even I struggle to understand.

I walk along the shoreline at night, numb feet sinking into the slurried sand. And I feel treasured.

I climb the oldest tree in the wood, rough bark callousing soft hands. And I feel adored.

I bury my face in the fresh fallen snow, until I can no longer feel my ears. And all I feel is devotion.

I fall into the sea and allow myself to be taken. And I surrender.

Because I am the ocean.

And the snow

The ancient trees

And the slushy sand.

I am precious

And I am loved.

[chandramellon]

This is a really good point. I don’t think libraries have ever been more important to protect and support. As a very popular post out there somewhere once pointed out, can you imagine if libraries were proposed today? They’d be tossed away as “social garbage.”

So yeah, support them and actually USE your card too. Most library systems have apps for ebook borrowing so you don’t even have to go in.

[chandramellon]

I want love from men who don’t know how.

I want understanding from women who never will.

I want the freedom that I can’t seem to give myself.

I need to forgive and be forgiven.

I need to hear the words and allow mine to be spoken.

I need to let go

And let something new, begin.

[chandramellon]