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i have danced with death
i have reached out my hands
and let my fingers brush against her
once or twice i have
disturbed her slumber
the first time she awoke
she reached for me
just letting her fingertips brush mine
and i flinched and retracted
my own arms
so afraid to go through
the second time i only called
and i woke her lightly
only enough for her to notice
that i had tried to grasp her
on my third attempt
death held onto my hand
and i tried to pull myself
into her arms
but something must have
grabbed onto my leg
and tugged me back home
the next time she was waiting
she was waiting for my touch
and she reached her hands out
and snatched me close to her
i grasped at her dark hair
and relished in her scent
but i heard them calling
and i pushed her away from me
i swam back through the darkness to join them
and the very last time
was the time i looked in her eyes
i clasped her hands in my own
and begged her to take me
but she was silent and
all too soon i felt the arms
of many who i loved
coming down on me
and bringing me back
you see, death and i
we have danced a bloody waltz
that has spit nothing
but misery and fear back to me
and though sometimes
i long for death to claim me
take me once and for all
i have vowed that i will
never search for her again
i will have to live out my days in misery i suppose (m.g.t)

Anonymous asked:

Why do you wish you were dead ???


I exist in a world where people die prematurely for greed. People actually die in this world because of greed. We are all products of earth yet someone, somewhere decided he owned this, or he owned that. We actually have to pay and slave away at school, work and society to prove our worth; to who?

A world of poverty which is artificial and a world of terror, war, conflict and pain which can be gone if only we were at 1 with ourselves.

But that’s not my business. I’m not rich and I don’t own the big corporations. I would rather die if I knew someone would lose their problems. Anyway.

He awoke each morning with the desire to do right, to be a good and meaningful person, to be, as simple as it sounded and as impossible as it actually was, happy. And during the course of each day his heart would descend from his chest into his stomach. By early afternoon he was overcome by the feeling that nothing was right, or nothing was right for him, and by the desire to be alone. By evening he was fulfilled: alone in the magnitude of his grief, alone in his aimless guilt, alone even in his loneliness. I am not sad, he would repeat to himself over and over, I am not sad. As if he might one day convince himself. Or fool himself. Or convince others—the only thing worse than being sad is for others to know that you are sad. I am not sad. I am not sad. Because his life had unlimited potential for happiness, insofar as it was an empty white room. He would fall asleep with his heart at the foot of his bed, like some domesticated animal that was no part of him at all. And each morning he would wake with it again in the cupboard of his rib cage, having become a little heavier, a little weaker, but still pumping. And by the midafternoon he was again overcome with the desire to be somewhere else, someone else, someone else somewhere else. I am not sad.
 Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything Is Illuminated (via feellng)
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