We are more than just friends.
And nothing more than that.
the feeling of being somehow angrily helpless because the love you thought was everything to you is now over and you feel nothing for them
I am sorry… It’s not you, it’s me. You see… I thought you were different. I… But you aren’t. So…
Well I guess it is you.
The path from hero to zero is short. Just one letter. And still - zero is the better word because it’s a number.
C’est la Vienna
there is a Bulgarian word with the same pronunciation. It means Hell.
с лед. теб.
Home is when the heart is.
I’m shortsighted so when I can’t see sh*t, I imagine it. Works for me.
Усещането да полудяваш от желание да си пушач, за да се усамотиш на балкона и да помислиш на по цигара. И после на ум да си признаеш, че едва ли някога ще пропушиш.
Надявам се има език, на който за това усещане съществува дума. Ще е жалко иначе.
We are all masochists, aren’t we. Masochists who hate to love in time of peace. It’s simply too hard. It requires balance and humility, and honestly love and caring seem much more natural during war. They blink. They are precious. And we like precious things. Us selectivelly greedy mother f*ckers.
We need to be on the edge, fueled by excitement to justify the most important category of intelligent life - love. We suffer from weak memory and crave for a reminder of what we might lose. Peace can simply not offer such a thing. The hallucination most dear to us is that maybe broken things look prettier than when they were whole. And that maybe if we break stuff we will see how it works. We will make our way to earn some sort of a secret. Toying with this concept feeds our curiosity. Our species is too stupid for peace and harmony. We need the idea of death to maintain our vitals. We are all junkeys.
Where is our sophrosyne?
try it. Your body needs a break from you. And I’m not talking about food. I am talking about the way you overexpose yourself to your emotional greed. It seems like you fucking hate yourself. You don’t stop. But you need to.
Quit suffocating your existence with shit. Just stop and spend a day drawing the bottom line. How many somebodies and somethings are there in you that you don’t need? Cut them out of your menu. Amputate them if you have to.
Stop cheating. This is the emotional equivalent of eating chocolate while trying to lose weight. It’s a fucking illusion. It’s fucking ill. You love it. But you actually don’t. You are so starved for it only because you are desperate to let it go. It’s your fucking Stockholm syndrome. And you are hysterical about it.
Go on a diet. Less is more. Try harder. I’m really mad.
I am an emotional being. And when I can’t squeeze love out of you, the love in me for you dies. It gives birth to painful jealousy. Or maybe I am just jealous and mad that I can’t be in love.
You must understand I am an emotional being. And when I can’t squeeze love out of you, I need to squeeze pain. I want to make you feel something, even at the price to tear you to pieces. I need to be sure you are real and human, and that you have feelings. But it wouldn’t work if they are not for me. It’s my captcha.
I wish you hadn’t come to the darkside. There are no cookies here. Just daemons.
- До утре!
- А дано.
- Е що?
- Ба ли го…