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Watch your , they become your ; watch your words, they become your ; watch your actions, they become your ; watch your habits, they become your ; watch your character, it becomes your .

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Miguel Hernández, tr. by Robert Bly, from The Selected Poems; “Death,


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♬♡ Lord Huron ~ The Night We Met ♡♬

Self-Image and Love

I have grown up criticized in a conservative home. My family was church-goers, and I grew up to the pity of their words. It doesn’t hurt when you hear it, but it sticks and stacks up high, till it pours out of your body in goops of black tar. It stains you because you may be confident, and love your body, but that tar will always stain the words of shame and self-doubt on you. Be it about how you will have cystic acne and scars for your entire life, or how you are the son of the family but you never succeeded athletically, and in school, well, you’re not #1.

I won’t lie, I have a good life. I am well provided and have food, clothes, a home; a.k.a. the whole shebang. But how is it that one can still feel trapped? My self-image was developed by the harsh comments from the past, but I am molding it to be self-loving because damn it, I didn’t sign up for acne or scars which I inherited from my grandfather.

I guess I’ve just been on a tangent when I really wanted to say that, I am defeated. I love myself, yet at the same time, love…love is a far-off dream. Perhaps it’s this whole generation’s belief that true love doesn’t exist and fairy tales are for the ignorant and desperate. I wish to be with someone that would go against my faith, and they may not even be in love with me. I learned that from a homeless man when I was volunteering at a homeless service area. We can love someone, but they may never love us back.

I want to say that I am happy, and I sorta am. I have this, to give my deep thoughts as I cannot write as fast as I think, so journaling in paper has been an utter failure, and I write to all of you because I want to know what life is about. I want to hear experiences and stories.

I want them to love me because I have stood by them, and they make me feel like I am okay, but then I think of my body, my face, my voice. I cry, because I really am a sad person. I know i’m logical, and I know nothing really offers a guaranteed good life, so why do I still ask, ‘What did I do to deserve this?’ 

- Sam

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Rolled them (digital) bones for something to draw quick; ended up with a Minotaur Princess.

This is over a week late now, and anon might’ve been a hit and run so they won’t see this, but THANKS. I meant to address this the next time I uploaded something, but I kept forgetting.

And that thanks goes to anybody who’s commented in a reblog or whatever. I’m not real social in general and I absolutely don’t treat tumblr like social media, but I appreciate the feedback, even if I don’t acknowledge it. That being said, I’m not unfriendly unapproachable; Messenger and Asks are open. Messenger kept private and Asks public, unless noted. I’ll let the asks pile up and answer ‘em in one post, though. Don’t expect an immediate response. (heh. like enough will come in to pile up. heh)