Why Are Beautiful Things Created, If They Would Be Thrown Away, Destroyed In The End? It Is Fleeting,

Why are beautiful things created, if they would be thrown away, destroyed in the end? It is fleeting, a happiness which merely touches and slips through your fingers. Why would you work for something which won’t last?

But honey, he said, turning away from his work to face her with a soft smile. Isn’t that why they are beautiful?

-S.G

Excerpt from a story I’ll never complete | original plz don’t copy

I turned to look at him

As he stared outside.

The lights of the city playing with the shadows on his face,

The market area reflected in his spectacles.

And I wondered why I felt the same

A similar feeling of déjà vu

When I realised, that this silence

Was now more familiar to me

Than he was.

-SG

Excerpts from original poetry| untitled till now

Please don’t copy

When people ask, “How can I tell if someone is disabled or just lazy?” I think about my parents.

My parents have known me my whole life. When they’re not actively contemptuous of me, they do seem to be somewhat aware of my general personality and character. In one of his nicer moments, my dad has called me “sweet-natured.” They can tell that when I make them a surprise breakfast or lunch that I enjoy being helpful and doing nice things for people.

They know from watching me grow up that I have always had trouble keeping my room clean, getting homework done, and keeping my desk tidy at school.

The longest I can push myself past my limits is about nine months. Then I collapse and end up less functional than I was before I pushed myself. This has been a pattern throughout my middle and high school years. I would go to public school for about a year, and then collapse and have to do the rest of my education at home. My work history follows this pattern, too.

I once sat in a therapy session with my dad to talk about the constant struggle we were having at home because he wanted me to help out more and do better in school. When he asked me why I didn’t do things, I broke down in tears, because I couldn’t explain it. “I just CAN’T. I want to, and I CAN’T.” Nobody listened.

My mom asked me why I don’t do things, and I said, “I just can’t. I sit there for hours trying to convince myself to do things, and I can’t. Move.”

And she said, “Don’t think about it, just do it,” completely missing the point.

When I got older I found words for the things I was dealing with. I got professionally diagnosed, and I’d look up information about my diagnosis and e-mail articles to my parents explaining what my disability is and why I can’t do things.

My parents have firsthand information about my character (helpful, likes doing things for others) and my history with disability (can’t consistently keep things clean, can’t manage a daily schedule). I’ve talked to them extensively about my diagnosis and given them information about it. They have known me my whole life, and I’ve always been this way. And they still, STILL choose to believe I’m just a bad person who doesn’t try and doesn’t care.

My disability isn’t invisible, people refuse to look at it.

People like problems they can yell at. They like having a target for their frustration. They don’t want to admit disability is real, because they want problems that they can either solve, or blame someone else for. And the disabled person themself is  their scapegoat, someone who can’t ever opt out of their role because the disability is never going to go away.

So are you going to write me a piece of romantic poetry? She had giggled, looking at him. Full of metaphors comparing me to the prettiest flowers in the land or comparing my eyes to the titillating moonlight?

He didn’t reciprocate her smile. When some exaggerates love too much, he had said softly, they haven’t really loved. Not truly, no.

Now thinking back he seemed to realise at that moment, she hadn’t really cared about his thoughts, nor him; had only been standing for pretty praise.

Better late than never.

- excerpt from a story I’ll probably never complete (original pls don’t copy)

If you write a strong character, let them fail.

If you write a selfless hero, let them get mad at people.

If you write a cold-heated villain, let them cry.

If you write a brokenhearted victim, let them smile again.

If you write a bold leader, let them seek guidance.

If you write a confident genius, let them be wrong, or get stumped once in a while.

If you write a fighter or a warrior, let them lose a battle, but let them win the war.

If you write a character who loses everything, let them find something.

If you write a reluctant hero, give them a reason to join the fight.

If you write a gentle-hearted character who never stops smiling, let that smile fade and tears fall in shadows.

If you write a no one, make them a someone.

If you write a sibling, let them fight and bicker, but know that at the end of the day they’ll always have each other’s back.

If you write a character, make them more than just a character; give them depth, give them flaws and secrets, and give them life.

Mind blown rn

why do people say “don’t be a pussy” when talking about weakness more like “don’t be a man’s ego” because you know there isn’t nothing more fragile than that