I used to think I was alive. I still think I am., I suppose, and I know people who would rather they weren’t in the way that they are now. I wish I could help them. Being alive is not always happy or exciting or even forgiving, but it’s something I hope to be happy with someday.
Life is for the living and I have been at this thing for 26 years now. Yet-I feel like an amateur. Life’s rumbles, its tumbles, its many falls. Sometimes I wonder what if its opposite was better. Is it? I know it is certain. I will surely see.
i like being alive. sometimes. its invigorating and stuff…. but i always wonder how it feels to be dead. how much different it it really? not all that much i bet. you cant get in trouble if youre dead. that’s satisfying to know. maybe i’d rather be dead.
I can’t wait to share everything that is swirling inside of my head, tumbling through the chaos in my soul and ripping out all the blocks of procrastination.
Is this what it feels like to breathe unrestricted?
Is this what it feels like to live?
I am dreaming, I am flying, I am living.
It feels so good.
It is much better than I should ever have expected.
I miss his skin. I miss the way his hands felt on my sides. No matter when he touched me, or where, it would give me chills. He was always warm, inviting. His chest would be against mine, and his fingers gently running along my spine and back, I would feel calm. It was the most peaceful and comfortable moments. The way his face brushes against mine, how his lips were always just moist enough to feel, but never wet or sloppy. I miss the way he looked at me and smiled, the way his eyes would stare at my lips. His lips and mine meshed in sync, always able to predict the next move. But mostly, over all, his heat. The warmth and softness of his muscled body would slid against and next to mine. That was my favorite, his skin. It was the one thing that kept me alive that whole time.
I’m here again talking just talking and going on, cluttering up this page, topic, alive, life, taking up space and central processing units and air, the oxygen we all breathe, our eventual decomposition
balls against the wall,
flying through the air,
Jumping without the net,
teetering on the ledges edge,
Never felt so alive….
when I see that look in your eyes…
I feel alive when I am outside. The grass is green and the wind is blowing. The smell of leaves and rain lingers. The grass is damp and the sky is a muted grey blue. Birds are quiet and all you can hear is the rustle of trees. Then I am alive.
The first time he flew as Robin was the first time he had felt so alive.
The wind combing through his hair, the feeling of weightlessness as he soared hundreds of feet above the Gotham streets, the only thing keeping him from falling a thin but strong rope attached to a titanium grappling hook.
At home he was trapped, a prisoner.
Dead.
But here, up in the air in the shadow of the Bat, he was alive.
we made it somehow, with nothing left but our own fortitude and a few limbs if we were lucky. the thing rose from the ocean like the personification of judgment. we felt the way it threw its gaze down at us. we’d done nothing wrong, but the sins of mankind were thrown onto our backs and into our stillbeating hearts. sailing home now. can’t wait to tell the kids.
“I am alive in this world of face first falls and public breakdowns.”
Blue October—forever making life make sense. That’s the thing, we are all alive even though things may not always go smoothly for us. Life is mean to have its ups and downs and part of life is bouncing back from those tough times that may make us feel smaller than a speck of dirt. Live your life and overcome all of the obstacles that may lie in your way.
I feel alive lately, mostly because I am using words, words, words. It is great to be in touch again, with myself, whom I am, through words and the combinations of them. I am happy to be achieving my goal of reading more, writing a fuck of a lot more, and becoming whom I want to be, all through the expression of words.
I’m alive. I’ve drank and been drunk, tried and failed at killing, and have ultimately messed up my life. I took pills without thinking, and took a knife to my skin by thinking. But I’m alive. I am alive because these few people loved me unconditional, without boundaries or constants. And because of them, I am alive.
I love this. I love feeling so alive. I can feel my heart beating loud, and my lips won’t stop begging for yours. You make it so easy, I don’t ever want to go back.
Living- what a wonderful thing. I am alive and well. My life is full of love. People who love and love me me. Live with me and love as well. What about death. Death demands paragraphs, chapters, leaflets, libraries. Death is everything alive is not. It is its synthesis. Its hardwould, it is the glare behind the photographer.
Breathing, sucking in air like its going out of fashion. Feeling warm blood pulse and pump.
Seeing everything. Smelling through both nostrils (ah, no head cold!). Cuddling pets. Hearing kids laugh.
Things that make me feel alive:
cold nights outside, watching the stars
music that you can’t help but cry to
a clean, good-smelling room
drawing something perfectly
writing a perfect paragraph
love
I stood beneath the pouring rain, watching the droplets tremble along my skin and over my outstretched fingers. Thunder rolled deeply in the distance, but I didn’t move. I was frozen to the spot, my feet sending roots into the grass; I wanted to settle down and grow here. I was stone. But I was more alive than if I had been able to move.
Alive. Something I haven’t felt in awhile, what with every passing day, it seems less and less people see me, recognize me or even feel me. I’m beginning to fade into the background of life. Losing family, friends, even myself. I grow a little more pale, a little less caring. A lot more scared, as my reflection disappears from the mirror.
what does it really mean to be alive? i don’t mean breathing and walking and talking, or maybe signing? but i mean really being alive. if someone asked me what it meant to be alive i would immeidetly think about teenagers and the adventures they go on and that is what it really means to be alive. but not every teenager is “alive”
Alive and well, far from hot Hell, he dusted his shirt off and doffed his hat to the ladies fair, who wondered where he’d been the night he’d gotten his lights punched out, his shoes worn out, his pants ripped up, his tongue near torn out of his own skull. He wandered aimlessly through the dark city and thought about where his assailants had gone. Bruises never stopped him.
It poured into her lungs, all the air. All of it. Right into her withered being, filling her and plumping her. Everything she’d ever complained about was refueled and ignored. And didn’t she feel bad, knowing that it all could’ve ended with a sneer and a grimace? Wasn’t she ready to take it all back and be free again? She was. And she would.
The constant buzzing, initially daunting, was now as comforting as a favourite song. The boy watched as the tattoo artist injected the ink into his skin, the remaining unblemished skin of his forearm becoming a mosaic of colour.
It was not an ‘addiction’, that kept him coming back for more tattoos, rather it was the pain. For a boy who had become numb to everything, it was the prick of a needle, injecting ink into his skin, that let him know that he was still, somewhat, alive.
Sometimes I’m just sick of being alive you know? I just want to be done with it. Then again there is this amazing rush when you really feel alive. And sometimes I just want to repeat that rush and continue in life. I love life. I guess that word Alive is just basically the same as life am I right? I don’t know I get that there is a distinct similarity between the two but i think it’s more that they relate than they are the same.
Alive, again. How was this possible? I blinked into the darkness. What happened? Where was I? And more importantly, HOW was I still alive? I was sure that bullet to the heart would have killed me. Apparently the blood rushing through my veins thought differently. I was alive.
I was alive, but how long for? That I was unsure. I know there is something there, something wrong. I heard the rustle in the bush behind me. I hadn’t a clue what was happening. I was terrified, I really needed to figure out what was wrong. But, I was alive.
There’s this moment that happens to me every time that I’ve been on a plane lately. This realization that I am participating in something that the majority of humankind has never even believed to be possible, let alone experience, that I am alive in a way they will never be. And then I return to reading my book.
I used to think I was alive. I still think I am., I suppose, and I know people who would rather they weren’t in the way that they are now. I wish I could help them. Being alive is not always happy or exciting or even forgiving, but it’s something I hope to be happy with someday.
Life is for the living and I have been at this thing for 26 years now. Yet-I feel like an amateur. Life’s rumbles, its tumbles, its many falls. Sometimes I wonder what if its opposite was better. Is it? I know it is certain. I will surely see.
i like being alive. sometimes. its invigorating and stuff…. but i always wonder how it feels to be dead. how much different it it really? not all that much i bet. you cant get in trouble if youre dead. that’s satisfying to know. maybe i’d rather be dead.
I’m alive.
Set me on fire.
I’ll burn.
I can’t wait to share everything that is swirling inside of my head, tumbling through the chaos in my soul and ripping out all the blocks of procrastination.
Is this what it feels like to breathe unrestricted?
Is this what it feels like to live?
I am dreaming, I am flying, I am living.
It feels so good.
It is much better than I should ever have expected.
I suppose, because, I am alive.
What a beautiful thing.
I have two minutes to speak
and one of them, peak
to write a staff in verse
about the entire universe
damn, it won’t work
I can only shirk
my impossible task
a mask
I miss his skin. I miss the way his hands felt on my sides. No matter when he touched me, or where, it would give me chills. He was always warm, inviting. His chest would be against mine, and his fingers gently running along my spine and back, I would feel calm. It was the most peaceful and comfortable moments. The way his face brushes against mine, how his lips were always just moist enough to feel, but never wet or sloppy. I miss the way he looked at me and smiled, the way his eyes would stare at my lips. His lips and mine meshed in sync, always able to predict the next move. But mostly, over all, his heat. The warmth and softness of his muscled body would slid against and next to mine. That was my favorite, his skin. It was the one thing that kept me alive that whole time.
I’m here again talking just talking and going on, cluttering up this page, topic, alive, life, taking up space and central processing units and air, the oxygen we all breathe, our eventual decomposition
aerobic respiration
and I want to cry, it’s that bad
balls against the wall,
flying through the air,
Jumping without the net,
teetering on the ledges edge,
Never felt so alive….
when I see that look in your eyes…
but i really am tired, really
it’s a long process and it’s tedious and
drawn-out rather like a slow death by hypothermia
the warm before the chill
sort of like that
i wonder if your appearance was that a moment of warmth before everything ended and the curtains closed once and for all
im not even dead yet and im not sorry
im going to stay here and laugh at you of it
whatever it is
whatever
im not alive im not speakin its just my character
my character speakin
i cant think anymore the noise is too loud
and cant even articulate a question
i thought talkin would help but it didnt
I feel alive when I am outside. The grass is green and the wind is blowing. The smell of leaves and rain lingers. The grass is damp and the sky is a muted grey blue. Birds are quiet and all you can hear is the rustle of trees. Then I am alive.
I’m not, certainly.
Or maybe I am. Physically, biologically,
not really.
What is living, really?
I’m tired.
I want to sleep.
Death brings sleep. I want to die.
Really. I mean it.
No.
I just want to sleep.
Sleep and forget.
The first time he flew as Robin was the first time he had felt so alive.
The wind combing through his hair, the feeling of weightlessness as he soared hundreds of feet above the Gotham streets, the only thing keeping him from falling a thin but strong rope attached to a titanium grappling hook.
At home he was trapped, a prisoner.
Dead.
But here, up in the air in the shadow of the Bat, he was alive.
we made it somehow, with nothing left but our own fortitude and a few limbs if we were lucky. the thing rose from the ocean like the personification of judgment. we felt the way it threw its gaze down at us. we’d done nothing wrong, but the sins of mankind were thrown onto our backs and into our stillbeating hearts. sailing home now. can’t wait to tell the kids.
“I am alive in this world of face first falls and public breakdowns.”
Blue October—forever making life make sense. That’s the thing, we are all alive even though things may not always go smoothly for us. Life is mean to have its ups and downs and part of life is bouncing back from those tough times that may make us feel smaller than a speck of dirt. Live your life and overcome all of the obstacles that may lie in your way.
I feel alive lately, mostly because I am using words, words, words. It is great to be in touch again, with myself, whom I am, through words and the combinations of them. I am happy to be achieving my goal of reading more, writing a fuck of a lot more, and becoming whom I want to be, all through the expression of words.
A breath of fresh air, the scent of flowers. Rustling. Activity. It is everywhere. And I am a part of it. I am alive.
The important part isn’t how I manage to cope with all of this now—that’s what my therapist is for. It’s that I made out of there alive. Somehow.
I’m alive. I’ve drank and been drunk, tried and failed at killing, and have ultimately messed up my life. I took pills without thinking, and took a knife to my skin by thinking. But I’m alive. I am alive because these few people loved me unconditional, without boundaries or constants. And because of them, I am alive.
I love this. I love feeling so alive. I can feel my heart beating loud, and my lips won’t stop begging for yours. You make it so easy, I don’t ever want to go back.
Living- what a wonderful thing. I am alive and well. My life is full of love. People who love and love me me. Live with me and love as well. What about death. Death demands paragraphs, chapters, leaflets, libraries. Death is everything alive is not. It is its synthesis. Its hardwould, it is the glare behind the photographer.
Breathing, sucking in air like its going out of fashion. Feeling warm blood pulse and pump.
Seeing everything. Smelling through both nostrils (ah, no head cold!). Cuddling pets. Hearing kids laugh.
Things that make me feel alive:
cold nights outside, watching the stars
music that you can’t help but cry to
a clean, good-smelling room
drawing something perfectly
writing a perfect paragraph
love
I stood beneath the pouring rain, watching the droplets tremble along my skin and over my outstretched fingers. Thunder rolled deeply in the distance, but I didn’t move. I was frozen to the spot, my feet sending roots into the grass; I wanted to settle down and grow here. I was stone. But I was more alive than if I had been able to move.
Alive. Something I haven’t felt in awhile, what with every passing day, it seems less and less people see me, recognize me or even feel me. I’m beginning to fade into the background of life. Losing family, friends, even myself. I grow a little more pale, a little less caring. A lot more scared, as my reflection disappears from the mirror.
what does it really mean to be alive? i don’t mean breathing and walking and talking, or maybe signing? but i mean really being alive. if someone asked me what it meant to be alive i would immeidetly think about teenagers and the adventures they go on and that is what it really means to be alive. but not every teenager is “alive”
Okay
Alive and well, far from hot Hell, he dusted his shirt off and doffed his hat to the ladies fair, who wondered where he’d been the night he’d gotten his lights punched out, his shoes worn out, his pants ripped up, his tongue near torn out of his own skull. He wandered aimlessly through the dark city and thought about where his assailants had gone. Bruises never stopped him.
I felt so alive, the way she looked at me. I felt… Infinite…
Confronting the word alive. It taunts me. It urges me to do more–to be more. Am I alive? Sometimes. In the right conversation.
It poured into her lungs, all the air. All of it. Right into her withered being, filling her and plumping her. Everything she’d ever complained about was refueled and ignored. And didn’t she feel bad, knowing that it all could’ve ended with a sneer and a grimace? Wasn’t she ready to take it all back and be free again? She was. And she would.
On my knees, alive but dead
Look at the invisible blood I’ve bled
I’m not gone, my mind has drifted
Don’t expect much, I’m warped and twisted.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Alive.
The constant buzzing, initially daunting, was now as comforting as a favourite song. The boy watched as the tattoo artist injected the ink into his skin, the remaining unblemished skin of his forearm becoming a mosaic of colour.
It was not an ‘addiction’, that kept him coming back for more tattoos, rather it was the pain. For a boy who had become numb to everything, it was the prick of a needle, injecting ink into his skin, that let him know that he was still, somewhat, alive.
não basta existir, é preciso sentir, experimentar, gostar, transformar.
Sometimes I’m just sick of being alive you know? I just want to be done with it. Then again there is this amazing rush when you really feel alive. And sometimes I just want to repeat that rush and continue in life. I love life. I guess that word Alive is just basically the same as life am I right? I don’t know I get that there is a distinct similarity between the two but i think it’s more that they relate than they are the same.
If there is anything to be learned,
from this rush of glitter and golden light,
it is that one should always wait
just one more moment
before tying that rope.
Alive, again. How was this possible? I blinked into the darkness. What happened? Where was I? And more importantly, HOW was I still alive? I was sure that bullet to the heart would have killed me. Apparently the blood rushing through my veins thought differently. I was alive.
I was alive, but how long for? That I was unsure. I know there is something there, something wrong. I heard the rustle in the bush behind me. I hadn’t a clue what was happening. I was terrified, I really needed to figure out what was wrong. But, I was alive.
I’m alive, the fact that i didn’t always appreciate, but now, i do. i’ve never wished to be dead.
There’s this moment that happens to me every time that I’ve been on a plane lately. This realization that I am participating in something that the majority of humankind has never even believed to be possible, let alone experience, that I am alive in a way they will never be. And then I return to reading my book.