I'm getting old.
Sweet Carolina.
Click here to see me.
Tell me your story.

I used to have a lot of shit here, I don't know what to write anymore.

Keep fighting. Everyday is war.

Walter Vaes (Belgian, 1882-1958), Still life with red anemones on a green background. Oil on wood, 24.5 x 31 cm.

"Here is a man who would not take it anymore. A man who stood up against the scum, the cunts, the dogs, the filth, the shit. Here is a man who stood up."
Taxi Driver (1976) dir. Martin Scorsese


where is this? it looks like heaven. I’d love to come here and sleep next to the river, the sound of the water a lullaby, the fog a thick blanket and the trees watching over you. it looks magical.

pale & shit

And it has been
one hell
of a year.
I have worn
the seasons
under my sleeves,
on my thighs,
running down my cheeks.
This is what
looks like, my dear.
Michelle K., It Has Been One Hell of a Year.  (via coyotegold)

(via aleinehcoal)

Sitting in this empty house alone. I thought one day I would get used to it, but it’s just as empty as it was on the first day. Just as cold. Just as silent. All I can hear is the emptiness that surrounds me and the thoughts that engulf that space. I guess depression is a lot like cancer. Maybe depression is the cancer. I have days of remission, days of metastasis. I have been working hard to renew myself as the person I aspire to be but it doesn’t seem enough. I’ve created vices, and wisdom to live by but I do not feel as if I am living. My influence is broad and I feel I have made a mark on many lives- but mine, my life feels like that of a black hole in a galaxy. Encompassing but empty. I mean for a ‘normal’ person my future and present might not look so dim. I have a career I love unfolding in front of me but that’s just not enough. Money is not enough. I feel disconnected. Disconnected from the last bit of blood I have left, my mom, disconnected from society, disconnected from life, disconnecting with friends. I have not a single soul I can pour these words out to, that’s why I choose here, where the likely hood of anyone knowing me is slim. It’s not the hard work, trials and tribulations that are killing me, it’s the loneliness that is the dagger. Loneliness that I’m not sure one person could single handedly tackle. It’s an inherent loneliness that I feel will be with me until the end of my time. And until that time comes I guess all I can do to pass the unwavering doubt of my future is to talk to the only person I can tell everything to, a figment of reality I’ve created in my mind which takes the place of my dad, these ghosts that aren’t here but I wish were just so I have SOME KIND of soul around. I shout at the air, in hopes of some kind of response, some kind of comfort, but the only response I get is the creaking of the house, which I try to translate in to some kind of ethereal response. I’m losing my fucking mind.

You can’t love pain, it will kill you