Latest Posts by jolieflows - Page 3

Angelina Jolie photographed by Victoria Brynner, 1990

Furthermore, it lingers like a razor at the tip of my tongue all the time. I start to feel dangerous as my skin starts to warm up.

Angry without being asked, sparked, and ignited. To disregard prudence for no reason. Every chuckle that finds me does me harm.

I may destroy my sense of realization, production, and functional consciousness and never get over its loss. And why should I? Because I want to taste the blood of a thousand years on the tip of my tongue. I want to develop a conscious phobia of my own sinister secrets. But I am unable. Thus, I won't.

—Solo—

VI

Angelina's body was pummeled by a tremendous surge of in and out surroundings. It wasn't always like this, and she didn't expect it to stay that way. Angelina had returned to work mode after celebrating her birthday with an outpouring of love from people she held dear to her heart. Not only was she working, but she also had that itch, that niche—almost a need for something more. Perhaps it was the return of her Mother that spurred her on to more self-discovery. Angelina may have been pushed further than she ever dreamed she could go by her new lease on love and life.

Angie's first film, Original Sin, was the first of many. Despite the fact that filming had not yet begun, she was ecstatic. The writing spoke to her, almost in ways that represented everything she disliked about a character as well as everything she might adore. She was out today. A walk through nature by herself, to cleanse her head of the congestion. In no sense of sickness— but to cleanse any self-inflicted doubts.

No doubt, everything, life, and times had changed. Angelina was satisfied at the moment. She walked on the trail, pressing her feet into the crooked gravel. That she was in love seemed surreal. She had no idea that love would suddenly descend upon her like a sack of bricks. As she did with many other things, she received it with faith and understanding. The trail led to the area of the woods that was the deepest and darkest. The actress knelt down and searched her bag for her camera. Maybe, just maybe, she'd really grow interested in photography and perhaps start directing films.

Angelina had several opportunities as a result of her acting career. That's something, she never took for granted. She thought that travel, amnesty, and philanthropic events were all extraordinarily wonderful. But, she had every desire to be more, though. Do more. The smallest part of her life was and is Hollywood. Glamorous dresses, makeup, and parties barely scratched the surface of who Angelina was in reality. Her brother James, made the proposal that she write an op-ed piece to TIME magazine. Angelina initially believed he was yanking her chain. He wasn't, though. When Antonio Banderas and the cast of Original Sin first met, they spent the most of their conversation discussing global issues.

As Angelina silently approached a bird's nest, the camera's shutter flickered repeatedly. Angelina had opinions on everything, including societal issues, literary works, and historical events. Why not? Why not have courage and contribute to TIME magazine? However, Angelina knew she would get harsh criticism. As she had always been subjected to. She smiled as she recalled the gasping outrage caused by her numerous tattoos. She would ruminate on the idea of writing something, much as she had done with her own collection of poetry. She found it strange that something she had always done in her free time or with her mother could now be bought by others. Angelina hiked the remaining distance in silence after one more shutter click.

In time with the foggy breeze, her chest rose and sank. The raw scents of nature entered her lungs. The path grew narrower as it led to her final goal; hanging plants and flowers adorned the route. A prosperous and magnificent river was created from the still water. Nature was hushed. However, it matched the constant cacophony of sounds that thrilled Angelina's head and emotions. Her eyes were squinted into the distant as she clenched the camera in her palm. It was amazing. Her arms had scratches and scuffs from prickly bushes, her hair was clinging to the back of her neck, and her boots were covered in dirt and gravel. Never before had she felt more lovely, alive, and open to new experiences than she did now.

With her camera, Angelina captured the water, the flowers, and the little insects. She located a spot a downed tree limb. She had placed her journal on her lap while sitting with her legs outstretched and her back resting against the wood. Naturally, there were scribbles and indents on every page from previous works. Many of them were sappy odes to her love. High-pitched, almost sickeningly girlie declarations of love were also something Angelina enjoyed. To have complete freedom. She wouldn't limit her feelings, not even in her own mind. Her attention was now on the present situation. She wrote while slightly leaned over and focused on putting all she was feeling into words.

Frequently on shoots, there would be after-party festivities, and just like now, Angelina discovered herself mumbling ideas, to herself. As she continued to write, she would exhale, bite the corner of her lip, and nod to herself. Her inspirations came and went, ebbing and flowing with each penstroke. The woman breathed a ragged laugh when she reached the final line on the page. Above her, in the clouds, she could hear the approaching thunder. She looked up at the somewhat cloudy sky with its touches of blue and sunshine. She grinned because it appeared as though the sky represented two halves of something. Could it be that Angelina was also inspired by that? Yeah, maybe she was.

To check the time, she flipped her wrist and glanced at her watch. She would have to return. Even while Angelina was positive she would return to this route, she also knew she wouldn't. That was the allure of hiking—observing nature and locating trails. Each one stood for a specific moment and emotion. The freedom came from finding it. There were other freedoms and paths to explore that might be found. She took a few more photos, being careful to catch the most charming and tranquil effect of the sun shining on the peak of the river.

In the case of anything implies more, it will be less in years to come. How life is significant but then... useless.

Genuine worth, unadulterated expectations of life; the terrible days and great. Those low and highs, of surprising good fortune.

So presently, here is the new day. The new life, the new implications, all things considered,

In the event that anytime, it will blur. Those recollections of joy and in the middle between are great forever.

@yung_pueblo

Every day is unique. Nothing will ever be the same again. Even the similarities will never be identical. Both tragedies and joys will never fall on the same plain again. And why are we so adamant about refusing something we've written and are familiar with?

When we had a very lovely day. When something excites us. When the day welcomes us with its silkiness and softness. We grow fixated on the idea that each day will be identical to the previous one. All of the fortune cookie wisdom vanishes.

As a result, each day is unique. Why is it so difficult for us to live each day in this manner?

—Solo—

V.

“What qualities do you look for in a film?”

Angelina's mind was circling around that question. The interview with The Rolling Stones Magazine had been going on for approximately an hour. She was, however, unsure whether her response was sufficiently clear. What was it that she was looking for? Her choice of characters and films was clearly made with the help of her agent and herself. What, on the other hand, lured her to Lisa Rowe? Was it the same as Amelia? Gia?

Her elbow leaned against the wooden seat; it made a tranquil squeak as her lips pressed together a delicate sigh. The inquiries proceeded — before Angelina knew it, she had finished the interview.

Where to next? Her trailer sat between two incredible celebrities. ‘A dropped in on party’ is the way Angelina felt. She was vigorously moving into the major leagues with her movies. It resembled a bleary eyed dream nearly. However, the main thing that she was amped up for was the arrival of her mom.

Her mom, had gotten back to the States. Subsequent to spending, God knows how long on her profound excursion in Cambodia. Missing her mom was an extraordinary misrepresentation of reality. Angelina felt nearly lost without her mother close by. Yet, she understood the reason why she had taken the risk to move away and explore.

The way to Angelina's trailer opened. Her brother James showed up; a grin from one ear to another crept along his face. Was now the time? Had her mom, Marcheline arrived? Jumping up from her seat, the actress clamored around the room snatching just the essentials.

“Plane landed two hous ago,” James talked as he got two of Angelina's duffle bags.

Her blonde hair covered a portion of her face as she hung over, getting the scattered magazines she left on the floor. On each set, Angelina dealt with — she ensured each trailer felt like home. Peruser's summary magazines, in style magazines, and scrapbooks loaded with blossom fields and nature. “Two hours? Has Mom just been sitting in the terminal?”

She and James conversed as they walked to the car. For himself and for her, he outlined the future events. Angelina was entirely oblivious to what was going on around her. To see her mother, she was ecstatic! It was imperative that she see her mother and be near her. James tipped his head at the driver as he climbed into the SUV before turning to his younger sister.

She appeared to be drained. Angelina was also restless. As the car drew away, her eyes faded from the low light. She suppressed a yawn, mentally preparing to hug her mother. Their interactions on the phone had always been hasty.

Marcheline— was too preoccupied with expanding her spirit, getting one with nature, and letting go of whatever had been bothering her.

Angelina wouldn't hide her swells of jealousy. She, too, needed to flee her home and travel to Cambodia. Moreover, she would — though it was most likely a future arrangement, it was still an arrangement.

James raised his eyes from the magazine he was reading. “Is Dad on his way?”

That, among the many things to say, may have brought the silence to an end; James had brought up their father. Respected, Mr. Voight. Angelina and her father were not in the best condition. Consistent tension, quarrels, and the overtly passive hostile ways he handled her. It was terrifying. Angelina had spent the majority of her childhood seeking to form a caring relationship with her father. In some ways, they were the closest partners in the beginning, and then came the distance.

“Has he returned from...?”

“Texas. He was in Texas at the time. Don't act as if you don't know—” James mockingly chastised her.

Angelina shrugged callousedly. Was she faking it? Or had she simply had enough of her father's emotional whirlwind? Angelina sighed huffily, her arms folded across her chest. It would be yet another showboating move if her father came to welcome their mother.

;

Angelina and James were able to locate their mother after a few hours of back and forth, deception, and worry. How did she wind up on the other side of the city? It remained a perplexing riddle. Marcheline's belongings were being unpacked upstairs in the rental property by the mother and daughter duo. Angelina, not one for unpacking, rummaged through her mother's pictures and personal essentials tote bag while she played along the bed.

Her mother wore little to no makeup, but she wore a lot of buttons, bracelets, charms, and perfume.

“Is this following the rebirth ceremony?” Angelina inquired, her face lit up with wonder.

The photo appeared to have been taken in the midst of a frenzy of action. The photo's boarders were crinkled, and there were a few pieces of charred residue on the upper corner that had been dog-eared. That just contributed to Angelina's admiration for her mother's photograph. She was joyful and carefree, with the most beautiful smile she had ever seen. Her finely manicured fingernails stroked the photo as her gaze glanced upward to her Marcheline, who returned her nod.

“It was satisfying and refreshing.”

They swapped stories, laughed, and debated about the placement of specific vases and mirrors. Angelina, had never been a fan of interior design. She'd given it her all at home. Angelina's thinking was too jumbled to pay attention to such details. She'd open the windows and doors and let nature take its course if she had her way. Her mother took one hand and stroked Angelina's hair.

“I want to hear everything now that I'm back.”

Angelina snuggled next to her mother. Nothing in the world compared to how complete Angelina felt— it was ecstasy.

“I'm not sure what to say."

“In the last postcard you mentioned, you were getting into photography. Did you bring any pictures?”

Angelina put down whatever she was focusing on and gave it some serious thought. Did she bring any of her pictures with her? If she had, they were in her purse, which had been flung downstairs. Angelina sat up from the bed with a lighthearted shrug, still clutching a few of her mother's bracelets.

The mother and daughter sat silently. They always linked and bonded in this way. Sometimes through laughing or the soothing sounds of quiet. Angelina didn't believe they needed to converse; she was content just being with her mother.

When Marcheline cleared her throat, the quiet reached its pinnacle. Angelina's caresses had faded.

“Have you and Jon spoken it?”

“No.” Angelina's response was succinct. "Do you plan on going to the set tomorrow? If you're as excited as I am, we'll have—”

Marcheline could see why it was necessary to change the subject. In any of the postcards she had sent to her mother, Angelina had not held back. With each postcard, Angelina dug deeper and scribbled her feelings more forcefully about why she thought she and her father couldn't get along right now. Marcheline was well aware that she and Jon would never be the same, but she continually urged Angelina to give her father a second chance.

Angelina hesitated before facing her mother. She did so after mentally preparing herself, laying her elbows in the mattress and offering her mother a blank expression.

Marcheline tried to grin after biting her lower lip. “He's a lot of things, Angie. however, cares about you and Jamie."

Angelina was certain of it. She was, however, fed up with her and her father's combative arguments. It always led to a selection of her choices. In terms of both personal and professional development. Angelina shook her head, her eyes downcast.

“I'm not him.” Angelina licked her lips as she paused. “If he'd understand that, we might, stop trying to kill each other.”

“He would say that.” Marcheline burst out laughing, an attempt to lighten the mood.

Angelina Jolie, too, busted out laughing. She and her mother laughed for the next five minutes, wiping their tears as if it were the funniest thing they'd thought possible. Angelina let out a ragged breath once their laughing faded down. She might, just might, let it go. And she might ask her father to the dinner she and James were throwing to celebrate their moms' return.

Marcheline sifted through the strewn pictures on the bed. Several of Angelina's numerous postcards were among the pile.

“I've seen you through several stages now. You seem a little happier at this point.” Based on the writing, Marcheline made a comment.

Angelina sat up straight and blushed shyly. Her mother had a knack for seeing right through her.

“...In a different mindset.”

Her mother eyed her, in a proud way before reaching out, and bringing Angelina into hug. The hug had more implications. And the tone was deeper and more meaningful. It was a proud hug, not just a "I've missed you" hug. Angelina had always known that her mother was proud of her. Her mother was the most reliable source of support during every stage of her life. They both sniffled and giggled shyly as they rubbed each other's backs at the same moment.

After breaking up their embrace, the two went downstairs to try to unpack and arrange her belongings. Marcheline spoke again as she gently nudged her daughter.

“Did James bring you a dog? He informed me.”

“Mhm! A chocolate Labrador. Almost like our old Tonto.”

“Now you'll think twice about feeding tacos to a dog, right?”

Angelina quickly elbowed her mother back in a fun manner, as if she were 14 all over again. This turned into a game of chase and tag, which she and her mother enjoy doing together.

“You could always higher professionals, to hang up your things. Komm hierher zurück!” Angelina chuckled as she chased her mother.

—Today.

I am as my mind perceives me to be. I am as incomprehensible to the rest of the world. I am, as one would expect.

Uncharted territory, judging myself based on previous decisions—leaving little to no margin for error. However, I am not worried by such things today.

I'll discover or have discovered what it means to be at peace. I'll learn about peace's inorganic methods. You'll have no trouble beginning over.

Have no reason to cry, but may all tears be joyful. My palms, eyes, tongue, and mind will all ring loud and clear.

5/5;

Persistent on the insignificant considerations of some time recently. Some time recently what? Some time recently me, some time recently it, some time recently whom? Caught in it. Caught in what? You're not making any sense. Sense. Does that qualify for rational soundness? Or is that a classic problem. Prepare for the leading, halt maturing on the glasses of it being the more awful. Of course life is worse— each day we breathe we pass on a small more. That, ought to illuminate you to be free and live. Hold nothing back, be louder, go father.

When is sufficient... considered as well much? How much do we know about being sufficient? Go farther...be courageous. Cry, be irate, and...take jumps. Life is disintegrating. Broken. And however, it's never been way better. Battered and bruised; but sweetened and lively.

Daily Affirmation ♡

𝙸𝚗 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚅𝚒𝚙𝚎𝚛.

The brightness of the morning sun knows no bounds. It simply increases. We'll follow the wind, which has no discernible direction.

The Viper has no knowledge of importance. These parallels are uncommon, but they are very consistent. It's unlikely that you'll be any of these elements.

The world's rationality is slim by the margins. Count the number of times the sun rises. Count the number of times the wind will strike you in the face. Count how many times the Viper has appeared in your life.

Is that searing still there or has it dissipated into your soul? Do you ever get up when the sun does? Do you know who the Viper is?

—H.

I'm choosing to do it with the sound. I'm going to give up my life's baggage and physical torments.

On all fours, I'll reach the surface of the Earth. I'm going to drain the blood of all illicit drugs.

I'll take hallucinogens. I'm going to cry as I'm mortified.

I'll revert to my old habits.

I'll look for new recreational activities. As I see new ways of unleashing self-inflicted pain.

The World's strong downpour will reveal me to be immaculate. My own horrible thoughts will make me messed up.

I'll... Continue to be a flawed individual.

Solitude.

—Smile

It's neither the happiest nor the most faultless smiles. It's the concept of a grin. The crooked, the dimples, the hurt, and the fray were all present. Pain and anguish collided. So, why are you smiling? What if the only thing that comes out of it is pain?

There isn't any cookie wisdom. There was no extraordinary serendipitous conversation. To be able to smile despite it. Pushing forward while knowing that it could all end at any moment brings a smile to your lips. It doesn't matter if it's for a second or for Infinity. Those lips will curl, and that soul will express gratitude.

Smile...

Grin...

Repeat...

And where am I? Where do I commence...do I culminate here? Hurt and broken? Believing that it was something when it wasn't. I'm to blame. I put myself in a position to be facilely hurt...suppose I go back? I'd like to think I'd make different culls. But that'd be too facile. Nothing left to do but cry and move on.

Believe it or not the stinging sensational pain will fade and I'll be okay. Maybe not...now or next week; but I'll be okay. Insanely broken but better pieces I suppose.

Insane. I'm insane for the things I believe in.

Sea or ocean. Painter: Lionel Walden.

The weekend—

An astonishing combination of delectable sweetness and mystifying cacophony. Ear-warming. What is? Why the spring days ahead—that is.

The longer nights, shortened days, sunrises, and sunsets are upon us; they love us. Connotations of sweetness. Looking ahead, anticipating the joys of spring...

We wish to keep, possess, and not wonder any more of what lies ahead. We wish to be enchanted, overcome by delirium when it comes. We wish to have our arms outstretched to catch the peaking days. We wish to close our eyes on the settling nights.

Spring...

Spring...

Spring.

—3/30-’

The tension battle within oneself is hard to comprehend. How does one separate themselves from metaphorical clips of things that haven't occurred yet? Is this all anxiety-ridden? Has the subconscious taken over?

I believe it is consciously acceptable to be happy and understand unknown emotions. Naiveté is damaging. Being happy implies accepting naiveté. It is not comforting at all. I rather believe that being naive is damaging.

So right now, I have no idea what to do, but I'm still happy. I don't know where to go, but I'm still happy. I am in the abyss of ‘it hasn't happened...but it might’—but I'm happy. I'm happy that I can acknowledge where I am.

Xoxo— Angel.

gentle reminder that you did nothing wrong by putting yourself first! ♡

For a season, a reason, unpleasing, and ever so lesion. Rather write it down than act it out.

Franz Wright, from God's Silence; "Why Is the Winter Light"

[Text ID: Empty me of the bitterness and disappointment of being nothing but myself]

The hug became a cure. Not only a hug, but medicine. Not just medical treatment, but healing. More than healing, but needed. They never let go. Even when they are apart.

“When— Where can I find that?” She asked.

“Find what?”

“That.” She extended her arm pointing to the two people embracing.

“It’ll find you.” It answered.

Her arm sank back to her side. Her eyes were clouded with envious tears; maybe not so much envious tears as sadness. 'When will it find me?'

She hadn't asked out loud, but it heard her. “Be patient.” It answered.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 “𝐎𝐝𝐝” 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠—

I don't belong. I don't belong, belong. Do I not belong? Am I an alien? Do I not belong in this world?

Despite not asking the question, I gaze to the skies for answers. And yet, I wonder...what? Do I belong or am I meant to feel this? Feel what? This. This...being?

The intense chewing has bruised my lips, numbing my fingertips, causing my eyes to widen and my soul to awaken. Am I not bound to this life, to this experience, to this world that has been shoved upon me. Like compacted snowballs. Do I belong here?

I could walk the tightrope of mounting cathartics and pave a new way. I could even go down the path of death, and my mind has ever so carefully migrated to that area.

This strange feeling. These strange feelings. Odd feeling, this, be I, me, the feeling. Does anyone...anyone have answers? Do I belong here, there, anywhere? Am I needed, wanted, loved, or appreciated? Do I belong...?

Heeeeelllll yeaaaaah.

Don't ask me "wyd" i really just be in my room going insane and being a danger to myself

These are the hours. The hours, the minutes, the seconds. And the mind? Brutal.

𝑾𝑨𝒀 𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒆, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒕 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒆. 𝑾𝑨𝒀 𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒕 𝒇𝒂𝒔𝒄𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝒎𝒆. 𝑾𝑨𝒀, 𝑾𝑨𝒀, 𝑾𝑨𝒀 𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆...𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒅𝒂𝒎𝒏, 𝒊𝒕 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒔 𝒎𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆.

—Solo—

IV

The flickering sound of the candle echoing in the quiet room illuminated the small space. Casting shadows over all the hair and makeup products stacked upon the dressers. In a criss-crossed position, Angelina tilted her head back while the loose leaf paper in her lap slipped to the tile floor, like a water fall. The tile floor was cold against her bare legs. She had been in the position for quite a while now by her assumption.

It wasn't for any particular reason. There were no underlined secrets as to why she was hunkered down in her room. Dressed in the short cut red robe she had worn after her shower, her legs were becoming numb from the cold porcelain tiles- she figured it was time to get up.

This was Angelina's moment of complete dissociation. As she stood dragging more of the papers to the floor. Her thumb poised between her lips, the electric devices she owned were turned off. She desired seclusion and was in a deep trance. The past few work days—were duplications of days prior. Interviews, same questions, and the impending thoughts of what was next.

“What is next?” She said, as her teeth grazed the skin on her thumb.

She pondered the question out loud. And of course no one else but herself could hear it. But maybe the universe. Her darkened blue eyes followed the paper trail, her free hand tugging at the collar of her robe. “What else can I offer...?” she asked herself. The question was rightfully so to be asked. As Gia was becoming a distant, rather large, memory— Angelina found herself in the trance of where to next.

Upon the mountain of interviews and appearances is on late night talk shows, she was set to sit down with Bobbie Wygant. The woman was more than a reporter—more or so a staunch supporter of Angelina's father. Following his career. That thought alone created butterflies in the woman's stomach. Bending at the waist, Angelina picked up a page her eyes squinting in the dim light. ‘The Bone Collector’ was scribbled throughout the top of the page.

Lisa Rowe was still in effect, production being pushed back a couple of weeks and months or so. This next film, had an amazing cast. Denzel Washington was in it. Her eyes widened at the name.

The actor's cinematic range surpassed virtually every other actor's. Angelina found it to be rather fortunate to be part of this film. However, there was a bit that scared the thin movie star. The attempt to play such an intimidating role. Amelia Donaghy— had several different parallels from Gia, Lisa, almost every character she had done prior.

Padding across the floor in her room Angelina fingered her frazzled hair that was now a dirty blonde. Blonde with light brown highlights, if you looked closely. Angelina paced back and forth, before stopping to take out her open pack of Mallboro cigarettes. While doing so, she hesitated the thought of lighting one, and asked herself if she was strong enough to appear in this film?

Her manager, assistant, and friend Julia had continuously argued with her that if she didn't commit to this film— there was a strong chance that they wouldn't work together anymore. Angelina found it to be more or less an empty threat. Julia had said that about, ‘Gia’ and well...the movie was made. At least that's what Angelina remembered.

Lighting the cigarette, Angelina took a deep drag of nicotine. The pages of the script surrounded her feet. Her open journals tossed about as she stood here absorbed in thought. Her mind suddenly flashed to her mom. Miles and miles in Cambodia - on a journey of "self-discovery." Angelina just needed to hear her mother's hippie but... accurate advice.

Angelina's mother had always wanted to be an actress. And contrary to what people believed—her mother never forced acting upon Angelina or her brother James. Her mother had come to the rather fast conclusion that she wanted to be a dedicated mother. Devoting her time, energy, and life strictly to Angelina and her brother. But she never failed in telling her children, to always express themselves and to follow whatever passion they had.

When Angelina couldn't decide what to do, when she didn't want to be a ballerina anymore— the choice of mortician was no longer an option. She chose acting. And her mother was delighted. And the advice never changed.

“Go for everything that's in your reach. Discover who you are...with every opportunity.” Is what her mother would say. She'd say it, at the most random times...but that meant something.

Once more, Angelina expelled smoke from her lips and took another puff of her cigarette. She let that smoke go— easing from her lips slowly. Regaining her position on the cold floor, cigarette in her mouth, her eyes fixed on the scattered pages of her script, Angelina made the decisive decision. She could do this. Not just this film, but all things in life that she had crazed passions for. She could do this.

In writing, I seek the ultimate validation from me. Not from others. I seek the validation from my past. Are I a reflection of my past self? How many candles, meditations, and cleansings do I need?

Are I doomed to forever fall flat against the marks I've made for myself? Am I not entitled to the desire for truth? What's been placed upon me, is my own burden. My own weight. I am fighting and resisting me. How do I let go?

In this case...I am the lesson. In this case...I am the bridge scorned, for believing that at such a time, I could ever feel open enough to have. Have? Have what? Even I am confused. Hell, I've burned myself twice as poster and imposter for what can be. In this case...I am the bridge scorned.

Thus I write. And I'll keep writing until my fingers are numb. Until my eyes grow tired. Until my mouth becomes dry. Until my limbs ache, my heart stops, and my mind shuts down until I am not there anymore. But I will write. My sin, my success, my tragedies, and the unknown that surrounds me.