What is on my mind...
- Thread starter Mystique
- Data e fillimit
“I know what it’s like. When you lose someone who is your home, you know, your only home in the world. When that happens, you think, oh fuck! I should’ve had a backup home. Another person, a place a thing, something to make me feel safe and I don’t have that… and now I’m lost.”
Aki
Paint It Black
Wow e bukur kjo, me perkujtoi nje serial qe shikoja, njerez qe vijne nga ardhmeria, per shkak te shkaterrimit te planetit zgjedhin te vijne pas ne kohe per te jetuar e shijuar planetin dhe si qenie te evoluara e superiore qe ishin kishin pushtuar tere njerezimin nen diktaturen e tyre me nje tirani totale duke eliminuar cdo njeri qe kishte nje mendim kunder tyre, pasi qe ishin.....telepat dhe lexonin mendimet e njerezve, domethene paramendo te merret freedom of speech, por sa e frikshme do ishte te te merrej dhe freedom of thought.....:|
Mirabel
Locus omnem
Kur ndonjëherë lëndohesh shumë e ndihesh i tradhtuar dhe i braktisur në ditë të vështira, edhe nga njerëzit më të afërt, mos u dëshpëro! E rëndësishme nuk është thjesht të fitosh! E rendësishme është të durosh! E rendësishme në jetë është të gjesh forcë të buzëqeshësh…për të fshehur hidhërimin pas cdo zhgënjimi dhe humbje! E rendësishme është të jesh ende në këmbë!
Aki
Paint It Black
Nje shkrim i bukur qe posa lexova nga Meggie Royer me nje ilustrim te Adam Tan
The morning after I killed myself, I woke up. I made myself breakfast in bed. I added salt and pepper to my eggs and used my toast for a cheese and bacon sandwich. I squeezed a grapefruit into a juice glass. I scraped the ashes from the frying pan and rinsed the butter off the counter. I washed the dishes and folded the towels. The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love. Not with the boy down the street or the middle school principal. Not with the everyday jogger or the grocer who always left the avocados out of the bag. I fell in love with my mother and the way she sat on the floor of my room holding each rock from my collection in her palms until they grew dark with sweat. I fell in love with my father down at the river as he placed my note into a bottle and sent it into the current. With my brother who once believed in unicorns but who now sat in his desk at school trying desperately to believe I still existed. The morning after I killed myself, I walked the dog. I watched the way her tail twitched when a bird flew by or how her pace quickened at the sight of a cat. I saw the empty space in her eyes when she reached a stick and turned around to greet me so we could play catch but saw nothing but sky in my place. I stood by as strangers stroked her muzzle and she wilted beneath their touch like she did once for mine. The morning after I killed myself, I went back to the neighbors’ yard where I left my footprints in concrete as a two year old and examined how they were already fading. I picked a few daylilies and pulled a few weeds and watched the elderly woman through her window as she read the paper with the news of my death. I saw her husband spit tobacco into the kitchen sink and bring her her daily medication. The morning after I killed myself, I watched the sun come up. Each orange tree opened like a hand and the kid down the street pointed out a single red cloud to his mother. The morning after I killed myself, I went back to that body in the morgue and tried to talk some sense into her. I told her about the avocados and the stepping stones, the river and her parents. I told her about the sunsets and the dog and the beach. The morning after I killed myself, I tried to unkill myself, but couldn’t finish what I started.
The morning after I killed myself, I woke up. I made myself breakfast in bed. I added salt and pepper to my eggs and used my toast for a cheese and bacon sandwich. I squeezed a grapefruit into a juice glass. I scraped the ashes from the frying pan and rinsed the butter off the counter. I washed the dishes and folded the towels. The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love. Not with the boy down the street or the middle school principal. Not with the everyday jogger or the grocer who always left the avocados out of the bag. I fell in love with my mother and the way she sat on the floor of my room holding each rock from my collection in her palms until they grew dark with sweat. I fell in love with my father down at the river as he placed my note into a bottle and sent it into the current. With my brother who once believed in unicorns but who now sat in his desk at school trying desperately to believe I still existed. The morning after I killed myself, I walked the dog. I watched the way her tail twitched when a bird flew by or how her pace quickened at the sight of a cat. I saw the empty space in her eyes when she reached a stick and turned around to greet me so we could play catch but saw nothing but sky in my place. I stood by as strangers stroked her muzzle and she wilted beneath their touch like she did once for mine. The morning after I killed myself, I went back to the neighbors’ yard where I left my footprints in concrete as a two year old and examined how they were already fading. I picked a few daylilies and pulled a few weeds and watched the elderly woman through her window as she read the paper with the news of my death. I saw her husband spit tobacco into the kitchen sink and bring her her daily medication. The morning after I killed myself, I watched the sun come up. Each orange tree opened like a hand and the kid down the street pointed out a single red cloud to his mother. The morning after I killed myself, I went back to that body in the morgue and tried to talk some sense into her. I told her about the avocados and the stepping stones, the river and her parents. I told her about the sunsets and the dog and the beach. The morning after I killed myself, I tried to unkill myself, but couldn’t finish what I started.
Raimundo Arruda Sobrinho is a 77-year-old Brazilian poet and philosopher. Raimundo became homeless in the late 70s. He spent the next 35 years writing poems and stories on the streets, but his beautiful work remained unknown.
Raimundo sat in the same spot, writing, every single day. To the locals who walked by, he was just a dirty, unkempt, unworthy old man.
But he never stopped writing, and he never stopped dreaming of the day his work would be published.
In 2011, a young woman named Shalla Monteiro befriended the old homeless man. She'd stop to talk with him on a daily basis, and Raimundo gave her one of his poems.
Shalla was blown away by his poetry -- so much so that she created a Facebook Page to feature Raimundo’s poems and stories.
As soon as Raimundo's work hit the internet, he was received with an outpouring of support. Locals sought him out, brought him gifts, and offered him words of praise. To date, his Facebook page has over 100,000 fans.
But out of Raimundo's newfound notoriety emerged one very unexpected person: his long-lost brother. After connecting via Facebook, his brother asked Raimundo to live with him.
Raimundo not only cleaned himself up for the first time in 35 years, but he had a home and he was loved. He and Shalla remain best friends to this day.
Raimundo is now working on publishing his poetry.
