"Someone once told me a story about a man who wore a crimson mask to hide all the pain he kept inside himself, because he was afraid to stain the purity of the world, red.
Yet he told me that revenge was a dish best served as hot as a desert, but it wasn’t sweet as a dessert because you sacrificed too much.
He told me about the way the sands swept past lands that held far too many memories and that nothing can be kept inside yourself for too long, ‘cause your hurt tends to start leaking out of you.
And I’ve found that the leaking comes out a broken heart too torn to mend with beautiful words and you can’t always weave a lie to stop the sob that threatens to rip from your throat or the depression from crushing you between the hands of a priest.
That there are armies that are no more than five, you’re held together with dynamite and the passion to choose freedom over slavery, that you are like young volcanoes that only the oppressed hear.
That you can gallop across sands that burn you with every look and every time you look you can’t look away because the heat that spreads across your hands as you raise them to the world, an endless stream of destroying remarks that you bare to the sun which scorches you to the bone and you can’t help but lie on a ground that is broken with the bodies of all those who tried to hold you up.
But I believe that no one can drown a person when the water is only up to your waist, and you can be as tall as you want if you face your demons with the courage of a thousand perfect dreams you chose to toss away.
And I know I don’t fall into a category but I fall a lot; through windows and doorways and out of hearts that beat tirelessly, yearning for the strength to forget that every busted back and bitter truth carries you that much closer to healing.
That monkeys don’t always dance to the lies that you carry in turn, ruining the chance to shine like the plumage of a bird held in bellies made for laughing, like the snap-shot, sketch-book colors of a butterfly that you can only whisper the name of, “Americana Exotica”.
I am not one to fall for fairytales however I can believe that oranges can be used to fend off the ghosts you don’t want on your doorsteps and if morphine means you can sleep easier than I refuse to believe that you aren’t strong enough to wake up and take up the day again.
And that elephants can only be seen on the land when they can carry you further than horses ever could because they never forget a plea to the kindness of a soul.
I am not a happy ending to be found at the end of one of these books and I can’t always be counted on to provide bravery in times where you need but you can always count on me to tell you a story of how a desperado told a story to a girl who saved his life when all he wanted to do was die.
I won’t be a writer to your cliche story of how love helps the wounded find the gauze to wrap up their crippled legs because they tried to jump to heaven but ended up falling into the idea that they can’t ever be in love.
Because everyone deserves love, no matter how small or gap-toothed or dusted with silver because they shine more than a thousand diamonds and rub your eyes, “can you see them, the stars?”
Answer me yes, because then I can tell you a tale of how winning doesn’t always mean you get the love interest but it means rediscovering your sanity, that you are not just a person.
That I can believe in my own ability to withstand bullets and heartbreak, and the impossibility of everyone telling me “no” and “go” and “so?” because someone once told me a story of how
landing is worth the fall."
Anonymous asked: Who is your favourite person who lives in Scotland
"u wot mVIII"