The world was binding me slowly in the tread of life.
The tread grew with my troubles
It turned to rope the squeezed as my soul.
But the rope did not bind my heart.
What binds me to you? Love, perhaps. No. Maybe excitement. I am bound. No I am just lost. What I am bound to is the idea that I don’t have enough. That I need more. How to unbind? I want to feel free. Be bounded only to my wings.
The binding was tight, difficult to remove. Not tight in the sense of pain, or physical restriction, but a mental binding placed on her mind as a child. She was to become the leader of the sorcerer’s order, before they robbed her. She was to become their greatest fear.
The ties that bind are mostly metaphorical. Mostly.
The black binding was hot and heavy on my wrists, and I struggling pitifully, desperate to evade my captor. No avail, but I wasn’t going down without a fight. I could see the blonde hair of my friend, vaguely visible through the haze of drugs they gave me. Vague names to faces was all I could do as they pushed me through a plain, wooden door.
My paralyzing fear of getting hurt by anybody I meet. Love binds all of my confidence and suddenly I’m just so insecure. I feel like I’m tied to this anxious little girl when I truly love myself when I’m alone…I wish I could hold on to that feeling of confidence i have when I’m single and careless but I’m just bound to this hurt.
The very fabric binding us together is tearing. Once we were close – what has happened to us? I don’t know. It’s like we used to be two different people. What are we now? Everything has changed.
Everything is funding. I feel so constricted. Its like the whole world is closing in. This country is binding. Binding me to my flaws and discomforts. I can’t deal with. Binding. My binder that I left in Gennadys backpack. Not on purpose, but perfect. I don’t think he likes me in that way. Relationships are binding.
The binding was completely screwed up. The pages were torn. This book had been completely destroyed. That’s what most people would think, but to me, it was more than that. This book had gone through so much with me. Helped me in more ways than I could ever imagine.
part of my job is binding evil things. i put them inside cupboards, or metal boxes that i sink into the ocean. there is a special way of doing this. a spell you say once the thing is trapped, and then no matter where you put it, it can never get out again.
A binding contract. A binding friendship. Is anything in your life bound together like the pages of a book? Is anything so solid that you wouldn’t change a thing? For me, that answer is no. Things are constantly tumbling around me and I hate that feeling. I want things to be tied together in nice little bows so that I can feel organized and content. I want my life bound at the seams.
whatever decision you make will be binding. but don’t let that scare. all of the choices are good. but either way, if you pick option A, you will NEVER be able to have option B. Likewise, if you pick option B, you will NEVER be able to pick option A. After debate, i picked option A, and in the end, it didn’t really matter.
The rope was thick around her wrist. She tugged, hoping the pleading look in her eye would set her free. But no. He just smirked as she lie there helpless.
the ropes pull tighter, constricting, holding me down, but i long to break free to fly to soar. They try to keep me back, to break me down, but I will not be bound for long. I will fight to freedom
My declaration is so binding that I almost feel limited by it. A free man with no place free to go, as the lovely Neko Case once sang. How can a purely honest and beautiful thing make one feel like such a pariah?
The act of a rider and horse together is forever binding. Together they make the most wonderful of connections. They love and respect and make music through their bodied. Together they move as one. The lose as one and win as one and wil unconditionally love for it.
Shakah, shakah, shakah, groaned the copier/printer, as it flashed strange lights and whirred with an internal mechanical hum and pushed out loose-leaf papers to the same rhythm. I took them from the copier, when the stack had reached sufficient height, and the plastic sliding and clicking had ground back to deathly silence. Taking the utmost care not to disturb their order–that order which so many had worked so long to create a machine to so carefully arrange for me–I took them past the hole punch, out the door, careful for the wind, to my passengers seat. I drove slowly and with the windows up, despite the heat, so that they would remain unrustled by motion or wind, to the edge of the vast churning sea. And from the tallest, most wind-blasted bluff I could find, I hurled them into space and watched a divine gust obliterate them into a gorgeous whirling cyclone of separated and liberated nonsense.
He’s a sight to see. Blood rushes up to his face, blending the spattering of freckles bridging his nose with his increasingly ruddy skin. His eyes narrow and his jaw clenches shut with such ferocity that it’s no small wonder that none of his teeth break. Especially since I think I can hear him audibly grinding them together with frustration.
It’s interesting, really, how I alone can get such a rise out of him. For a person usually easygoing, generally cheerful, and full of nothing but Listerine-y blinding smiles, he certainly is interesting to watch when he’s angry.
The binding was dead. Totally and completely dead. The book that had seen her through those difficult years of bullying, where she found friends in at least one reality, had finally fallen apart. Did she try to fix it or respectfully put it to rest and buy a new copy?
THe binding on the book was cracked and wrinkled from years of wear. Someone or someones had loved this book very dearly, and the girl wondered why. However, when she cracked it open, it was all blank. Why would a blank book have so much wear? Perhaps it was simply old, but…
Words are binding. The linger on our hearts after people breathe out evil, vile words. They bind us in rope and we begin to think we’ll never escape. I’m still in my binding, waiting to be set free.
Rings are considered binding. I wonder why? What is it in human nature that makes us yearn to be bound. We say we love freedom but we spend our lives trying to find things to hold us down. Beliefs, loves, jobs, realities, they are our rings, our chains.
Jeff ran to the boat and climbed in. He could hear them coming through the trees as he tore at the binding holding the small boat to the pier. His eyes moved restlessly between the ropes and the trees where the sounds of thumping feet could be heard disturbing the stillness of the late night.
Permanence the feeling that everything is as it should be. Law contracts, wedding vows, divorce papers, parenthood. Things you can’t change ven if you wanted to. Conscious choices that all things have meaning and are permanent.
The book binding was fragile. I knew as much when I picked it up. The dusty cover had faded writing, I couldn’t decipher the words. I opened it up and looked at the pages. It was the instructions to create your own world. I started taking notes.
The connection we have between us is binding, magnetic. No matter how hard we try to repell one another we alway fall back into eachothers gravity. I don’t mind being bound to you. I wouldn’t mind falling into you every day, every moment for the rest of my life. You have always had everything I have needed. You have always been everything I have ever wanted. Please stop fearing and hating this bond between us, with each time you pull away it makes us fall together harder and it’s starting to rip up my soul. Why must deny that our love is natural, pure, obvious? Why do you try to break our binding? Your denial is what makes “us” so complicated, when it is not complicated at all. What could be more simple than us? No matter how hard we, you, I try to break this bond, it will only become stronger and more painful. I love you. We are a part of one another. We need to stop trying to fight it and just let it be.
Binding – what does binding mean? Usually it comes with a pretty strong connotation to it.. as in, if something is binding, it means that it’s not just some flimsy thing. I’ve been thinking a lot about that recently actually, because some people really like to stretch the meaning of this word to where it begins to lose its meaning.
It holds a book together, but what is it exactly? Glue? Leather? Strings? Seriously, who knows? I’m curious because I love books. And book-binding will soon become a lost art. I rue that day. Just like the day when kangaroos take over the world.
It occurs to me all at once that what I am about to say will be binding.
Each new passing second is a gasping breath.
Two words. Just say them, just say them.
No way out. Trapped. Lace clouds my vision, chokes my wrists.
His eyes; shining, beautiful, amazed. Like he is about to receive a gift.
I’m trembling. How can I say the truest words I have ever said, ever felt,
when I’m treading on lies? Lies like shards of broken glass.
He’ll never find all the pieces.
The world was binding me slowly in the tread of life.
The tread grew with my troubles
It turned to rope the squeezed as my soul.
But the rope did not bind my heart.
What binds me to you? Love, perhaps. No. Maybe excitement. I am bound. No I am just lost. What I am bound to is the idea that I don’t have enough. That I need more. How to unbind? I want to feel free. Be bounded only to my wings.
The binding was tight, difficult to remove. Not tight in the sense of pain, or physical restriction, but a mental binding placed on her mind as a child. She was to become the leader of the sorcerer’s order, before they robbed her. She was to become their greatest fear.
The ties that bind are mostly metaphorical. Mostly.
The black binding was hot and heavy on my wrists, and I struggling pitifully, desperate to evade my captor. No avail, but I wasn’t going down without a fight. I could see the blonde hair of my friend, vaguely visible through the haze of drugs they gave me. Vague names to faces was all I could do as they pushed me through a plain, wooden door.
My paralyzing fear of getting hurt by anybody I meet. Love binds all of my confidence and suddenly I’m just so insecure. I feel like I’m tied to this anxious little girl when I truly love myself when I’m alone…I wish I could hold on to that feeling of confidence i have when I’m single and careless but I’m just bound to this hurt.
The very fabric binding us together is tearing. Once we were close – what has happened to us? I don’t know. It’s like we used to be two different people. What are we now? Everything has changed.
Everything is funding. I feel so constricted. Its like the whole world is closing in. This country is binding. Binding me to my flaws and discomforts. I can’t deal with. Binding. My binder that I left in Gennadys backpack. Not on purpose, but perfect. I don’t think he likes me in that way. Relationships are binding.
The binding was completely screwed up. The pages were torn. This book had been completely destroyed. That’s what most people would think, but to me, it was more than that. This book had gone through so much with me. Helped me in more ways than I could ever imagine.
is something that pulls one thing to another. It can mean in a literal way like glue or it can be like two people being bound together by love.
part of my job is binding evil things. i put them inside cupboards, or metal boxes that i sink into the ocean. there is a special way of doing this. a spell you say once the thing is trapped, and then no matter where you put it, it can never get out again.
The stuff that sticks books together. The Force. Binds us, separates us. Fifty shades of Grey has kinky binding shit in it. Ummmmmm.
A binding contract. A binding friendship. Is anything in your life bound together like the pages of a book? Is anything so solid that you wouldn’t change a thing? For me, that answer is no. Things are constantly tumbling around me and I hate that feeling. I want things to be tied together in nice little bows so that I can feel organized and content. I want my life bound at the seams.
stuck please let me go – unwinding- time flying – connected colliding. break this binding. nothing more unkind when
Honestly, time is almost out and my mind is completely blank.
whatever decision you make will be binding. but don’t let that scare. all of the choices are good. but either way, if you pick option A, you will NEVER be able to have option B. Likewise, if you pick option B, you will NEVER be able to pick option A. After debate, i picked option A, and in the end, it didn’t really matter.
The rope was thick around her wrist. She tugged, hoping the pleading look in her eye would set her free. But no. He just smirked as she lie there helpless.
A word. A promise. A decree. An unbroken bond. Angelic. Heavenly. Eternal.
the ropes pull tighter, constricting, holding me down, but i long to break free to fly to soar. They try to keep me back, to break me down, but I will not be bound for long. I will fight to freedom
My declaration is so binding that I almost feel limited by it. A free man with no place free to go, as the lovely Neko Case once sang. How can a purely honest and beautiful thing make one feel like such a pariah?
The act of a rider and horse together is forever binding. Together they make the most wonderful of connections. They love and respect and make music through their bodied. Together they move as one. The lose as one and win as one and wil unconditionally love for it.
Shakah, shakah, shakah, groaned the copier/printer, as it flashed strange lights and whirred with an internal mechanical hum and pushed out loose-leaf papers to the same rhythm. I took them from the copier, when the stack had reached sufficient height, and the plastic sliding and clicking had ground back to deathly silence. Taking the utmost care not to disturb their order–that order which so many had worked so long to create a machine to so carefully arrange for me–I took them past the hole punch, out the door, careful for the wind, to my passengers seat. I drove slowly and with the windows up, despite the heat, so that they would remain unrustled by motion or wind, to the edge of the vast churning sea. And from the tallest, most wind-blasted bluff I could find, I hurled them into space and watched a divine gust obliterate them into a gorgeous whirling cyclone of separated and liberated nonsense.
Binding is being held in one place for a unknown period of time.
He’s a sight to see. Blood rushes up to his face, blending the spattering of freckles bridging his nose with his increasingly ruddy skin. His eyes narrow and his jaw clenches shut with such ferocity that it’s no small wonder that none of his teeth break. Especially since I think I can hear him audibly grinding them together with frustration.
It’s interesting, really, how I alone can get such a rise out of him. For a person usually easygoing, generally cheerful, and full of nothing but Listerine-y blinding smiles, he certainly is interesting to watch when he’s angry.
I feel as though my emotions are binding me.
i woke up, he was binding my hands together.
You bind me
Embrace me
Keep me drowning in you.
You’re not good for me.
Yet you stay in my thoughts.
Whisper the nothings I so long to hear.
Keep me, embrace me, bind me to you.
The binding was dead. Totally and completely dead. The book that had seen her through those difficult years of bullying, where she found friends in at least one reality, had finally fallen apart. Did she try to fix it or respectfully put it to rest and buy a new copy?
THe binding on the book was cracked and wrinkled from years of wear. Someone or someones had loved this book very dearly, and the girl wondered why. However, when she cracked it open, it was all blank. Why would a blank book have so much wear? Perhaps it was simply old, but…
Words are binding. The linger on our hearts after people breathe out evil, vile words. They bind us in rope and we begin to think we’ll never escape. I’m still in my binding, waiting to be set free.
Rings are considered binding. I wonder why? What is it in human nature that makes us yearn to be bound. We say we love freedom but we spend our lives trying to find things to hold us down. Beliefs, loves, jobs, realities, they are our rings, our chains.
the spine of this journal
titled “strife”
traps in me
a leaf folded.
the fruits of my labor
become rooted
and compressed by the stress of its own making
Binding my arms and legs will never bind my soul…
Jeff ran to the boat and climbed in. He could hear them coming through the trees as he tore at the binding holding the small boat to the pier. His eyes moved restlessly between the ropes and the trees where the sounds of thumping feet could be heard disturbing the stillness of the late night.
Permanence the feeling that everything is as it should be. Law contracts, wedding vows, divorce papers, parenthood. Things you can’t change ven if you wanted to. Conscious choices that all things have meaning and are permanent.
The book binding was fragile. I knew as much when I picked it up. The dusty cover had faded writing, I couldn’t decipher the words. I opened it up and looked at the pages. It was the instructions to create your own world. I started taking notes.
The connection we have between us is binding, magnetic. No matter how hard we try to repell one another we alway fall back into eachothers gravity. I don’t mind being bound to you. I wouldn’t mind falling into you every day, every moment for the rest of my life. You have always had everything I have needed. You have always been everything I have ever wanted. Please stop fearing and hating this bond between us, with each time you pull away it makes us fall together harder and it’s starting to rip up my soul. Why must deny that our love is natural, pure, obvious? Why do you try to break our binding? Your denial is what makes “us” so complicated, when it is not complicated at all. What could be more simple than us? No matter how hard we, you, I try to break this bond, it will only become stronger and more painful. I love you. We are a part of one another. We need to stop trying to fight it and just let it be.
Binding – what does binding mean? Usually it comes with a pretty strong connotation to it.. as in, if something is binding, it means that it’s not just some flimsy thing. I’ve been thinking a lot about that recently actually, because some people really like to stretch the meaning of this word to where it begins to lose its meaning.
It holds a book together, but what is it exactly? Glue? Leather? Strings? Seriously, who knows? I’m curious because I love books. And book-binding will soon become a lost art. I rue that day. Just like the day when kangaroos take over the world.
Your love is so strong its binding.
You’re into bondage too but that’s okay.
I’ll try anything for you.
I just wish you were here.
It occurs to me all at once that what I am about to say will be binding.
Each new passing second is a gasping breath.
Two words. Just say them, just say them.
No way out. Trapped. Lace clouds my vision, chokes my wrists.
His eyes; shining, beautiful, amazed. Like he is about to receive a gift.
I’m trembling. How can I say the truest words I have ever said, ever felt,
when I’m treading on lies? Lies like shards of broken glass.
He’ll never find all the pieces.