Raw Emotion - Tumblr Posts

Seeing this in the middle of the lesson is bad thing... It is so... So emotional scene, so beautiful 😭😭😭

How to stop crying? 😭

Tony and Morgan in Avengers: Endgame deleted scene!

The Touch of a Hand

I’m dealing with some stuff right now. This is a vent poem I wrote, after the event happened. I suppose it’s more prose or free verse than the traditional variants, but it’s real, and it’s mine. Figured I’d post it. Let me know what you think.

I want to scream.

I want to fight.

I want to yell.

…

But I can’t.

I can’t, because I love her.

But it’s that love that hurts me now.

 People define love in their own ways.

Sonnets, anagrams, couplets, those lines that spell a message, when you read them top to bottom.

Alliteration, symbolism, personification, plot devices to express something that is undefinable and so all-encompassing that it’s unfathomable, no matter how deep you dive. Ambiguous, they call it.

 To me, right now, love is a hand that reaches out. It knocks at the door, and you have the choice to let it in or not.

That choice defines you, defines who you are, what you will become, because if you let it in, that hand touches you in that place where only a special few can reach.

That touch changes you.

…

It changed me.

 For the first time, I knew what romance was, not the casual acquaintance of a fun meeting with a girl, but a real, legitimate connection that bound us together.

I knew what it was to fear for the safety of a woman who wasn’t family.

I knew the raging desire to protect.

I knew the timidity that dogs the steps of a man afraid to lose something precious, or rather, someone precious.

I felt the pang of separation, and the desire to draw nearer, to spend every waking moment thinking of that person, because my brain was ablaze with cheerful, happy memories of laughter and smiles, of eating eggrolls, cooking dumplings, and sharing a warm bowl of curry with asparagus and butternut squash.

…

Of dancing under the mistletoe, followed by a chaste kiss on the cheek.

 I knew what it was to be a comforter, to be willing to do anything for her.

…

At least for a time.

 But then I had to leave her. And we tried to make it work.

For a time, it did.

…

But I couldn’t be what she needed, when I was away.

I floundered to find a way to support her, to earn my way in life, so I could have a place ready for her, so I could be the provider I thought I needed to be.

I wanted to be safe.

…

She wanted a risk.

 She waited patiently. So patiently. But I couldn’t catch a break.

Perhaps I was lazy. Perhaps I was too much of a risk. Perhaps I was too inexperienced. Perhaps I didn’t try hard enough.

Hindsight always seems to be filled with those. Perhapses and maybes and what-ifs.

 Bottom line: I didn’t give enough.

 And she couldn’t wait for me anymore.

 And that’s where the pain comes from, because that hand that touched you became a part of you, a part of that place where few can go, few can touch.

She took that hand back.

She did it gently.

The separation still hurt.

 I’m not bleeding inside. Not exactly.

A new hand is there, instead, one that doesn’t really belong to anyone. Think of it as a defense mechanism.

That’s the hand that hurts, because it squeezes the place where the other hand once was. It crushes to staunch the flow that could well be disastrous otherwise.

 Pardon my crude insertion. I know it’s overused, but it seems appropriate. To sum things up, it hurts like a bitch.

Actually, it hurts worse than that. A bite, even a deep one, is easy to recover from. We have painkillers and tourniquets and stitches and antibacterial creams for that, things designed to speed the healing and ease the pain.

You can’t do that for this.

All you can do is bear it. Hold it in. Let that grip hold tight, until time numbs you to that pain. Until this primal damage control is able to make sure you’re ready for that next hand to come along.

 And part of you wants to curl up and whisper over and over, “Never again.”

I know part of me does. Partly because I believe she was the one. Partly because I think a piece of me doesn’t want to risk the pain happening again.

 We’ve both made our choices, she and I.

And we both have to deal with this clawing hand now that holds to our chests, where each of our hands once touched.

 Where will we go from here?

Neither of us know.

All we can do is move forward on our paths and hope to find the answer somewhere along the way.

 That is love.

That is life.

That is living.

To hell with ambiguity.

While the "it changes" scene from Snoopy Come Home perfectly and beautifully portrays the most depressed and hopeless parts of my being there is an opposite side to it!!! The song Snoopy's Christmas by The Royal Guardsmen protrays the most inoccent and joyous parts of my being, it is me and my Grandma's song and everytime I hear it on the radio during the holiday season I instantly feel like a little kid who has not yet faced harm or pain. Nothing can display the intense raw emotions I feel as magnificently as Snoopy can.

I love how Raw the emotions are in their panel, his expression is so gritty and shows how much Falin means to him <3