(via fleur-de-lis-)
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Some men
Are just born for war. Ragged souls, lost in the bewildering jungle of a resource centric world. Hunters in a world of gatherers. We must evolve or die.
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(Source: funktionality)
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I miss it
the burning, that indescribable feeling of being utterly breathless. I crave it, crave the way I fall to the floor exhausted, gasping for breath as my body cycles a fresh batch of serotonin and endorphins rushing through my veins. I am addicted to that feeling. To the fresh crunch of an apple, that sweet quenching taste of pineapple. Shoveling rice and steak into my starving body just to fuel up for next time.
I click play, I don shorts and shoes. Running, biking all of it has become this passion, this obsession I just can’t seem to do without. Give me more, make me stronger, make me faster. It is all I want, all I need to feel satisfied. That breaking moment when you can’t anymore and you find that you’ve taken another step, that you’ve bent down into another squat, another pushup, another breath of fresh air.
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What would it have cost her
to sit silent and let the injustice stand. To let his words slip by, unnoticed, to let it teeter by like a tiny tug boat just sailing on by. Nothing, it would cost her nothing. Her life had not been perfect, but close enough to perfect that she could warrant no complaints. She had never been ill treated, never a night without a soft bed beneath her so she asked again. What would it cost her, to let ignorance slip by unfettered, that slick comment, demeaning, infantile to its core. Her was her boss after all, so what would it cost?
She swallowed hard, her eyes focused on him as the meeting carried on effortlessly, as though nothing had happened. What is the cost? The cost she asked herself. She had spent her life as an accountant long before rising through the ranks, she had counted the cost each and every day, so why was it so hard now?
What would it cost to have her humanity stripped away, by one hapless comment. To let the words fly in the wind, a ghastly beast, slavering jaws, a breath so foul she could hardly breathe. Her jaw tightened, her fist clenched.
What would it cost?
Her rights as a human being, the individuality of her soul, the very breath from her lungs. “I am a far more than a simple thing” she said at last, the outrage clear in her voice. They looked at her, astonished by the outburst, the calm river at last bursting forth from the dam. She smiled inwardly as she rose from her chair.
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(Source: mybloodtypeisnutella)
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(Source: mybloodtypeisnutella)
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Theme: Linear by Peter Vidani
