As a human, you have adored shadows twofold, and you won’t admit you are tired so you daydream them. When you realize you’re human in the machine, you know you’ve been inside one a while, so the adoration is transmuted. You don’t adore shadows. You confiscate the essence of them.

To those going through memory or pain given a particular imaginable heartbreak for any reason, I wrote this in the echo chamber threading resonance of a time that once broke who I was completely. I hope it resonates somehow, like it resonates for me now. medium.com/@maycelle/i-...

You get heartbreak, you feel it through once more in the process thereon, you have irony and regret and accept multiple truths it’s with and expect it. You add to it and accept it again. You have to be wrong of beauty and be liable for being tired. You have to let it be a closed market out at night.

Comparing ourselves to a thousand miles per hour seems like a slim measurement to infinity. Every point of consistency between one second and the next, we are dead and that matters. Going fast in a private imagination is not conventional anymore. Finding a prayer a thousand ways simply is.

Each hour that gets placed into the grave, there’s a different oversimplification of a universe—rather than accomplishment—that is dead. Each hour is just every hour. Something is always new, like following a trail of crumbs, looking straight into glass, and standing on eggshells.

Human rewards are a quantum measurement problem that appear self-absurd. Therefore we can think of small wins as Schrodinger’s cat.

Wonderwalls exist because buried blackened-but-not-blacked angels inside human conscience know that no mortal even them will confess to someone else "I think of you all the while." So it’s scratched or permanent rather than left written or contractually unscrewed for the place of a new public door.

Then you become so dazed by honorifics like great “uncle” and “aunt” realizing they’re actually smarter thinkers at present day than past nihilistic historicisms libs they offered. They just disguise critically insightful, helpful reviews on Goodreads using the most unimaginable usernames alive.

Humans fall in love. And in a perfect world one human falls in love with one. It is not always a choice, it’s rather the rabbit in a magic hat it is. If the idea fails, the ballot does not. The lottery is the omnipotent in the human. It will always spin many; one single ballot of those all will not.

The minute you wonder what kind of hope you have on another planet is when your pride is starved, the world means nothing as an opponent, and when your heart had grown twice as fond, the exoskeleton of it compounds everything that burns in purgatory in the dark, when it is kind.

Managing scars for thoughts, you have the difference between a forest and a bunch of trees; how you navigate them is the same. How you feel about following a map at the beginning, how you stand at the territory, how you see shapes of their crowns, alternatively all seeming vital through and through.

The idea of death warming or disappearing against survival is not the desire to shatter or freefall; often, its presence of a hug or no hug. An ascend of backward induction that’s way more than a loved one’s touch, more than having God. It’s what follows after seeing God, touching, after triumph.

As a hopeless romantic to evade using nuclear trajectory in going through seasons of romance, if each one teaches the coin-behind-the-ear trick every time, by the time of the right season, the quarter must change places, without doing the trick again, it must be used orbiting every trick been made.

Fear that someone’s harmonious touch can be drastically changed of a memory seems like an endeavour to justify absolute love. If not for fear, it’s a perfect vector. By fact, any sort of such magnitude against it like ignorance hungers visceral literature. Perhaps common sense that "right" is true.

Metaphysical guilt doesn’t mean we disdain unconditional love. Perhaps we deny that we failed at standard love convexed at an unprovable impalpable level. The colossal moment we mistake it, it grapples hope and imbalance with serendipity; courage forced retaining the thing it cannot encourage alone.

In the world of netizens, there are only two types of code in the algorithm. One of them apparent, happiness. If you don’t type in a code correctly, the entire code falls apart of bearing through the other. Happiness ceases to exist.

Old angels bless clouts using telescopes as they’re unseen, yet the goodness of Christmas Day is traversing blissfully hell and back until cutthroat catharsis pends broad daylight. The droplets that fed through the TV translates the church’s sermon. Cognitive dissonance stays like a analog cassette.

Indignity is so unknown to exhilaration and what’s normal, but when it’s alone, it’s so damn ferocious midair or it’s automatically flat-looking. That’s what rewinds me. I don’t know brilliant chess, even perfect ideas about it, but just as simple as that goes beyond powerful blurred thinking.

How you understand the bystander’s apathy and the process of elimination is worked the same as immediately understanding the 100% of our world that seems unforgivable, when truly tectonical plates are now far less penetrable.

When they tell you they mean impossible, they mean power. They mean unwavering. They cannot mean meeting it. They mean this close. And they tell you so you can see nothing.

When one tells you they have experienced love and met the impossible. Believe it, when they said they met the impossible. It‘s nothing to do with having love. It has nothing to do with anything else.

May’ve been a time you had the dream. You afterward wonder if the dream’s a nightmare. You wonder twice. You recall the dream had been some time back it occurred. The montage hits you unalike the visceral piecing memory. Your eyes sees the montage in the dark though the dream felt like no nightmare.

People’s capabilities to socially think can be liken to tofu. A curd already unnerved into its own soul.

Due to parapsychological recordings of spiritually haunting voices through smokescreens, drama was meant to be a very terse argot.

At a certain point you become an old person, the terminology "too much drama" becomes a permanent standalone smokescreen. You stand in it, bear it. Watch it ingest the talking heads you closely care about. In turn, emotionally unchange admiring it without reacting to montages of an infinite scene.

Nothing will be found to remain private any longer; remember that as it all collapses, when you understand you have something pure that is yours.

Salute to us soldiers who battle with gripping our most important deep-rooted familial relationships against free will to let go of these. If we’ve survived this far protecting what is important, we have gotten better with any lies that perennially bloom at the retina of our own dreams awake.

The grappling battle in appreciating a TV show is the strewed itch to check reviews and gel silence. Whispers are a panopticon symptom. To dig by self-selection is aerobic. Still it’s always fond to kill a habit doing the most dubitable task it’s worth the smallest degree of failure to carry it out.

In theory perhaps it’s different. I would love to know if you discover it. It depends how you run, I imagine. Yes. It is different from playing as a human running past another human—there’s too much play to that. This shadow type? You feel reaction. Even if you’re still a human chasing off the wild.

If you chase something in the wild, without much thought to deciding what you do, you will still feel a little alive if not more alive in the rush of your soul scraping while you pass by a shadow you had decided to sell it for.