Have you ever been happy?
Been so happy it was blinding?

Have you ever wanted to die?

I am terrified of being low again
because maybe the next time I hit the ground
it will **** me in and I will never
get to see the light again.

I am terrified of imagining blades on my wrists.
I am terrified of the black sluggishness in my brain.
I am terrified of the stitched smiles upon my face.
I am terrified of hopelessness and shame.

I don’t want to be low ever again.
I don’t want to live through that pain ever again.

I want to live.
I need to want to live.
I need to see life as blindingly white.
But I see the feeling fade away before my eyes,
and I can only reach for it with lanky arms;
my fingers gracing the reflection of something
that was long ago solid but somehow melted,
vaporised, disappeared.
And I will be forever too weak
to do anything about it but learn to miss
a happiness I began to mourn the day it arrived.
I can only watch as my reasons to live go away
in a hope that my mind will not conjure up
a new list, but for the reasons to forever stop this pain.

Running after money,

running after name,

running after fame,

running after this,

running after that.

Why can't they just walk?

U ljubav vjerujemo
volim te jedno drugom šapućemo
večernje šetnje volimo
iste snove sanjamo
iste želje imamo.

U našoj bajci ćemo živjeti
poljubce jedno drugom poklanjati
osmijeh darovati
najbolji prijatelji ćemo biti
u sreći živjeti.

Svoju djecu paziti i voljeti
djeci pokazati i govoriti
uvijek svijetlom stranom života hodati
život u veselju i radosti provesti
svoju sreću ćete ostvariti
u snagu ljubavi snažno vjerovati.

Stjepan Orlić

It’s hard to quantify experiences, but to coin someone else's
original phrase, ‘you know it when you feel it.’

Now that I’m living in Paris, at my Grandmère’s 76-room ‘hôtel particulier,’ I find myself on the itchy edge of wealth, influence and power and while I don’t consider myself necessarily of that class, I’m certainly exposed to attempts to drag me into it.

Many afternoons, as I come home wearied by classes and braced for hours of study, there are these silver trays with little white, gold embossed envelopes (invitations), casually placed where they’re unavoidable, and it’s not unusual to find that one of the CMs has laid out a dress for me and a suit for Peter - though we seldom attend these events.

I find myself vociferously defending my schedule (for the thousandth time) - and I’ve only been in school three weeks:
“Grandmère, I’m in med-school, I have homework.”

Let’s wax freeversely of the upper-class (as if I belonged)..

In elegant but confined houses
where lives unfold in drawing rooms
and the inhabitants are sharp and snobbish.
They struggle against social and ****** constraints -
frustrations essential to the drama and pathos of wealth.

Let the rabble be messily heterogeneous
and agenda-set “inclusivity.” It’s nothing to us.
It hardly foregrounds harmony or authenticity.

Civilized people are more reticent and buttoned-up.
It’s sexier and more romantic, to drive toward marriage,
where lovers work to deserve each other,
and individuals integrate into couples.

Failing this urbane integration, love degenerates
into solipsist libertinism and eventually, these
sad outcasts catch their deaths - apart and alone.
.
.
Songs for this:
Am I the Same Girl? by Swing Out Sister
It Hasn't Happened Yet by William Shatner