The ragged folds of the man’s robe twisted around his ankles in a strange but almost entirely fluid motion, it was as though it had been perfectly scripted to follow the winds of change, which had swept its way into his life
Nicholas
Me. Run down. Beat. Torn to pieces and semi broken. Beautiful. Unashamed. Relentless and hopeful. Opposites. Totally and completely the same.
Becky
I always wondered why they named him what they did. It didn’t seem to suit him after we gave him away, a flimsy little puppy all barrel shaped and incessantly annoying. I guess you don’t question a dying woman though, you go with things. It’s only ever in retrospect that we really understand.
I had a doll once. It was not a raggedy ann doll. But it was ragged and motheaten after a few years of a childs tender love.
then when I grew up a bit I realised my mother looked the same. ragged.
the love of a child causes the same in a doll as it does in a mother.
Paul Goodliffe
she was worn down. exhausted. she had had enough for the day. she stumbled back to her little apartment, shutting the door behind her with a crisp “click,” her breathing ragged. she hated having a fourth-floor walkup on days like these.
ali
The water was taking her under, caught under the waterfall in the irrigation canal. Why did she jump in there, everyone knows this waterfall is dangerous. She had almost drowned once as a kid and here she was again, trapped under water for what seemed like ages. Water is a powerful machine, swirling you all around, right side up, up side down, each time more powerful than the next. The concrete wall of the irrigation ditch was all she had to grab on to. So sharp, full of ragged, rough stone edges, slicing through the palms of her hands. But the contact was all she needed to push off the wall, past the turbulance and into calmer waters. The slices on her hand would take weeks to heal but the memory would last forever.
The ends of this broken page are ragged like the ends of strings to the parchment that once enveloped my heart. you did this, you tore it out of my body and left the ragged edges to heal on their own. What can I do now? my heart is no longer in its place and all I have to show for the emptyness are the imperfect remains of the cloth that used to hold it.
Now he has come to fix it, tying the fibers of my dreams back together, taking the ragged edges and making a masterpiee of his own. He will make life art, all he has to do is smile, open his arms and the world becomes his playground. he is a hero, my hero, he fixes me.
Daniela
There was a sullen look in his eyes and his beard grew to his neck except where it was matted by dirt and filth. His clothes slouched away in from his nearly skeletal body. The sun had beaten his skin unmercifully, his shoes were blown out, crinkle-cut toes showing, and his stench was sour decay. The most telling part of it all was his posture: nearly bent over, breathing coming in shallow and slow. He was once a proud man, but now, he was rolled over by the world, defeated, down for the count, and he could no longer deny it.
ragged on my soul, never good enough to see the other side or what this side really means, I’m flawed, yes, and I know, I can feel it in my guilt and in my bones, but you seem to see the necessity in reminding me of my worth: less.
The ragged folds of the man’s robe twisted around his ankles in a strange but almost entirely fluid motion, it was as though it had been perfectly scripted to follow the winds of change, which had swept its way into his life
Me. Run down. Beat. Torn to pieces and semi broken. Beautiful. Unashamed. Relentless and hopeful. Opposites. Totally and completely the same.
I always wondered why they named him what they did. It didn’t seem to suit him after we gave him away, a flimsy little puppy all barrel shaped and incessantly annoying. I guess you don’t question a dying woman though, you go with things. It’s only ever in retrospect that we really understand.
What a legend you were, lady.
Ragged can be a cliff, or a article of clothing. a ragged cliff is something that can be rough.
He felt despondent and ragged until he started participating in The Love Project at http://singleagainonlinediary.blogspot.com.
I had a doll once. It was not a raggedy ann doll. But it was ragged and motheaten after a few years of a childs tender love.
then when I grew up a bit I realised my mother looked the same. ragged.
the love of a child causes the same in a doll as it does in a mother.
she was worn down. exhausted. she had had enough for the day. she stumbled back to her little apartment, shutting the door behind her with a crisp “click,” her breathing ragged. she hated having a fourth-floor walkup on days like these.
The water was taking her under, caught under the waterfall in the irrigation canal. Why did she jump in there, everyone knows this waterfall is dangerous. She had almost drowned once as a kid and here she was again, trapped under water for what seemed like ages. Water is a powerful machine, swirling you all around, right side up, up side down, each time more powerful than the next. The concrete wall of the irrigation ditch was all she had to grab on to. So sharp, full of ragged, rough stone edges, slicing through the palms of her hands. But the contact was all she needed to push off the wall, past the turbulance and into calmer waters. The slices on her hand would take weeks to heal but the memory would last forever.
The ends of this broken page are ragged like the ends of strings to the parchment that once enveloped my heart. you did this, you tore it out of my body and left the ragged edges to heal on their own. What can I do now? my heart is no longer in its place and all I have to show for the emptyness are the imperfect remains of the cloth that used to hold it.
Now he has come to fix it, tying the fibers of my dreams back together, taking the ragged edges and making a masterpiee of his own. He will make life art, all he has to do is smile, open his arms and the world becomes his playground. he is a hero, my hero, he fixes me.
There was a sullen look in his eyes and his beard grew to his neck except where it was matted by dirt and filth. His clothes slouched away in from his nearly skeletal body. The sun had beaten his skin unmercifully, his shoes were blown out, crinkle-cut toes showing, and his stench was sour decay. The most telling part of it all was his posture: nearly bent over, breathing coming in shallow and slow. He was once a proud man, but now, he was rolled over by the world, defeated, down for the count, and he could no longer deny it.
ragged on my soul, never good enough to see the other side or what this side really means, I’m flawed, yes, and I know, I can feel it in my guilt and in my bones, but you seem to see the necessity in reminding me of my worth: less.
reminds me of a rug. or a mountain. or a homeless person. their clothes. makes me think of something dirty.