ü
"you will realise that you’re past a battle you once thought you’d never overcome"
This media is not supported in your browser
VIEW IN TELEGRAM
"dark souls doesn’t reward you for never failing, it rewards you for returning after you already did.”
This media is not supported in your browser
VIEW IN TELEGRAM
Though the heavens remain mute and the old gods avert their gaze, let not the soul renounce its vigil. For suffering is not the mark of abandonment, but the altar upon which will is proven. In the long night of blood and ash, man is stripped of comfort, of promise, of mercy yet still he may choose endurance. To refuse surrender is to pray without hope of answer, to stand unblessed and unredeemed, and yet to stand. Such is the faith of the resolute: not in salvation, but in defiance sanctified by pain.
This media is not supported in your browser
VIEW IN TELEGRAM
I’ve died enough times to know—
maybe this time isn’t hope.
It’s habit.
maybe this time isn’t hope.
It’s habit.
This media is not supported in your browser
VIEW IN TELEGRAM
"Ugly is all i can give you"
The Discipline of Ruin
He was a man who wore his own existence like a soiled garment;
a garment he was compelled to put on again each morning, pretending before the world that he did not feel its weight.To be alive was, to him, neither miracle nor gift, but an ancient error no one had bothered to correct.
He was ashamed of breathing, as a sinner is ashamed to utter the name of God. Even the beating of his heart seemed to him an act of insolence, as though some disobedient organ insisted on continuing without permission.
Whenever the noscript “human” was placed upon him, he recoiled inwardly. The word was far too large for him, far too noble.
To be human, in his mind, required the capacity to forgive, to love, and to share in the suffering of others, and he found himself empty of such qualifications.
In silence he whispered that there must have been a miscount, that he had been mistakenly recorded among the living.
He did not contemplate death with sorrow, but with doubt. Not his own death, but the death of those who might, only might, have once been dear to him. His fear was not of loss itself, but of the possibility of loss, that a name, a face, or a memory might rise unbidden and prove that his heart was still capable of being wounded.
He did not know whom he loved,
and this ignorance pressed upon his chest more heavily than any mourning.
His inner world was an unmapped land. His emotions were like half-ruined roads leading to no clear destination.
If one were to ask him, “To whom do you belong?”
he possessed no answer, save a silence so honest it bordered on shame.
The outer world remained to him a foreign stage.
Customs, laughter, and companionship unfolded before his eyes, yet he never learned how to inhabit them. He performed the role of the man others expected him to be, while inwardly he remained a weary spectator of a play he had never rehearsed.
Like a traveler who understands the language of his destination,
yet whose accent is never forgiven.
His hatred of himself was neither simple nor fleeting. It was orderly, continuous, and carried on with a
kind of morbid discipline. He condemned himself not for one great sin, but for a collection of small inadequacies:
for not being brave, for not being pure, for lacking even grandeur in his fall.
It seemed to him that if he were to be ruined, he might at least have been ruined magnificently, yet he was not.
The mirror was not a place of recognition for him, but a silent tribunal.
Within it he saw no face, only the evidence of a case in which every glance, every line, every shadow
offered a new argument for condemnation.
Yet still, there was something in him that refused to bow.
For years, so many that he had lost count, he had lived in expectation of his beloved.
Not with hope of arrival,
but with a quiet habituation to absence.
Waiting had become another form of living for him, a kind of fidelity to what was not there.
He loved his beloved not in embrace, but at a reverent distance.
His love resembled prayer more than desire.
He believed that nearness would fracture what was beautiful,
and that distance alone could preserve its sanctity.
Whenever he imagined standing before them, his tongue grew heavy, and truth collapsed before it could become speech.
What remained was only this confession, simple, merciless, and sincere:
I am so used to ugly things,
which means ugly is all I can give you.
He did not speak these words for pity, nor for forgiveness.
He kept them within him as one keeps a testament, a final warning to anyone who might one day, by some error, come to love him.
He feared that love, once placed in his hands, would be corrupted.
He feared that his presence, like a cold shadow, would fall across the brightest chamber of another soul.
And so he remained.
Among people, yet apart from them.
Alive, yet ashamed of life.
In love, yet certain of his incapacity to love.
He was a man who wore his own existence like a soiled garment;
a garment he was compelled to put on again each morning, pretending before the world that he did not feel its weight.To be alive was, to him, neither miracle nor gift, but an ancient error no one had bothered to correct.
He was ashamed of breathing, as a sinner is ashamed to utter the name of God. Even the beating of his heart seemed to him an act of insolence, as though some disobedient organ insisted on continuing without permission.
Whenever the noscript “human” was placed upon him, he recoiled inwardly. The word was far too large for him, far too noble.
To be human, in his mind, required the capacity to forgive, to love, and to share in the suffering of others, and he found himself empty of such qualifications.
In silence he whispered that there must have been a miscount, that he had been mistakenly recorded among the living.
He did not contemplate death with sorrow, but with doubt. Not his own death, but the death of those who might, only might, have once been dear to him. His fear was not of loss itself, but of the possibility of loss, that a name, a face, or a memory might rise unbidden and prove that his heart was still capable of being wounded.
He did not know whom he loved,
and this ignorance pressed upon his chest more heavily than any mourning.
His inner world was an unmapped land. His emotions were like half-ruined roads leading to no clear destination.
If one were to ask him, “To whom do you belong?”
he possessed no answer, save a silence so honest it bordered on shame.
The outer world remained to him a foreign stage.
Customs, laughter, and companionship unfolded before his eyes, yet he never learned how to inhabit them. He performed the role of the man others expected him to be, while inwardly he remained a weary spectator of a play he had never rehearsed.
Like a traveler who understands the language of his destination,
yet whose accent is never forgiven.
His hatred of himself was neither simple nor fleeting. It was orderly, continuous, and carried on with a
kind of morbid discipline. He condemned himself not for one great sin, but for a collection of small inadequacies:
for not being brave, for not being pure, for lacking even grandeur in his fall.
It seemed to him that if he were to be ruined, he might at least have been ruined magnificently, yet he was not.
The mirror was not a place of recognition for him, but a silent tribunal.
Within it he saw no face, only the evidence of a case in which every glance, every line, every shadow
offered a new argument for condemnation.
Yet still, there was something in him that refused to bow.
For years, so many that he had lost count, he had lived in expectation of his beloved.
Not with hope of arrival,
but with a quiet habituation to absence.
Waiting had become another form of living for him, a kind of fidelity to what was not there.
He loved his beloved not in embrace, but at a reverent distance.
His love resembled prayer more than desire.
He believed that nearness would fracture what was beautiful,
and that distance alone could preserve its sanctity.
Whenever he imagined standing before them, his tongue grew heavy, and truth collapsed before it could become speech.
What remained was only this confession, simple, merciless, and sincere:
I am so used to ugly things,
which means ugly is all I can give you.
He did not speak these words for pity, nor for forgiveness.
He kept them within him as one keeps a testament, a final warning to anyone who might one day, by some error, come to love him.
He feared that love, once placed in his hands, would be corrupted.
He feared that his presence, like a cold shadow, would fall across the brightest chamber of another soul.
And so he remained.
Among people, yet apart from them.
Alive, yet ashamed of life.
In love, yet certain of his incapacity to love.
He believed that if his beloved were ever to come,
it would not be for salvation,
nor for an embrace,
but to witness the quiet, disciplined ruin of a man
whose greatest sin was this:
that he never learned to forgive himself for being human.
it would not be for salvation,
nor for an embrace,
but to witness the quiet, disciplined ruin of a man
whose greatest sin was this:
that he never learned to forgive himself for being human.
This media is not supported in your browser
VIEW IN TELEGRAM
Le persone cambiano davvero?