I may be a writer, but for the life of me, I will never quite understand poetry and its supposed power.
I am a writer. I write books for fun, but i am also an avid reader. My world is complicated, but probably not anymore so that anyone else’s.
I am not well known, but one day I will be. That mych I know.
He’s the one guy I would wait up for, the one I keep almost using the l word with, because it’s true. Though we could never be, I think I may love him. I do.
I drove by an old field that I used to live by today. It was once amazingly gorgeous, just full of green grass, wild flowers, and hills. Today I drove past and literally felt my heart stop. Now it’s just a huge construction site.
Why humanity has to wreck everything it gets its hands on, I’ll never know.
I’ll tell you another secret, this one for your own good. You may think the past has something to tell you. You may think that you should listen, should strain to make out its whispers, should bend over backward, stoop down low to hear its voice breathed up from the ground, from the dead places. You may think there’s something in it for you, something to understand or make sense of.
But I know the truth: I know from the nights of Coldness. I know the past will drag you backward and down, have you snatching at whispers of wind and the gibberish of trees rubbing together, trying to decipher some code, trying to piece together what was broken. It’s hopeless. The past is nothing but a weight. It will build inside of you like a stone.
Take it from me: If you hear the past speaking to you, feel it tugging at your back and running its fingers up your spine, the best thing to do—the only thing—is run.
|—||Lauren Oliver, Delirium|
|—||V. M. Folsom|
|—||V. M. Folsom|