I love to write, so I do. Here you can read what it is that I write.

Most of it is fiction, some of it is not.

“Socializing is as exhausting as giving blood. People assume we loners are misanthropes just -sitting thinking: oh, people are such a bunch of assholes. But it’s really not like that. We just have a smaller tolerance for what it takes to be with others. It means having to perform. I get so tired of communicating.”

—Anneli Rufus

(Source: creationoftheday)

What’s wrong, darling?

She saw the sadness in his eyes as she walked through the door. He sat there trying to look cheerful, but God knows he was failing.

“What’s wrong, darling?” She asked him as she took his hand is hers.

“I’m scared, frightened,” he replied quietly.

“Of what?”

“Of what my life would be without you.”

And as he spoke those words, her heart fluttered. For a moment she thought something was terribly wrong. Now all she needed to do was reassure him, tell him she would always be by his side. Of course it was a lie, but that didn’t matter. Not in that moment at least.

(Source: creationoftheday)

Sick of dying

He is sick and dying. Well, except for the dying part, but he is most definitely sick. Or maybe he isn’t sick at all, maybe he is just a human being. One of those human beings who, every time they have a cold, feel like they are sick and dying. And they are never dying a normal quiet death. No, oh no, it is never that easy. They always die horrible painful, and especially, loud deaths. After they are done dying, they continue living, until they get their next cold and then, of course, they die again, even more painful, even more horrible, even louder.
‘Honey, I am dying!’ He screams in total agony.
‘Yes, sweetie, I know. I will get you some tissues,’ she responds calmly. 
‘I really do think you can go to work,’ she says after she handed him the tissues,.
‘I can’t die at work.’ He feels terribly insulted.
That’s how it always goes. And more importantly, that’s how it will always go. Well, until he really dies, that is. I hope that time will be less painful and less horrible than all the other times.

(Source: creationoftheday)

Painful relationships

Horrendous break up.
Get back together.
It’s still the same.
Break up again.
Get back together.
It’s still the same.
It should work. 
Break up.
Trying to forget.
Can’t forget.
What now?
Oh shit.
Oh no.
It’ll definitely work now.
Get back together.
It doesn’t work.
Break up.
Painful heartache.
Life does go on.
Feeling better.

(Source: creationoftheday)


He was in his early fifties when it started. Alzheimer. It started off slowly, forgetting appointments, forgetting things in the grocery store. Then he couldn’t read or watch TV. He had to stop working a long time ago. So he did what he still could. He gardened. Not just in his own yard, but in our yard too. Our yard never looked as good as when he roamed around in it for hours each day. One day he was visiting and I found him at the top of our stairs. He looked so utterly lost, desperate. It was clear he had no idea where he was. He looked at me with eyes full of sadness and said with a brave voice: ‘Horrible, isn’t it?’ All I could do was smile and point him in the right direction. He knew he was ill. Then he forgot he was ill. He forgot his name, the name of his wife. He forgot everything he ever knew. I still remember when my father told me he had gotten aggressive, violent. He wasn’t the person he used to be.
Now he is dead. He died not knowing who he was, where he was, what was going on. He died knowing nothing. He died knowing nothing more than when he was born.

(Source: creationoftheday)


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A handpicked medley of inspirations, musings, obsessions and things of general interest.