My Inability To Feel...
My inability to feel...
There are times in my day that I stop what I'm doing and I feel my heart just to feel some semblance of life. I've been so accustomed to acting normal all these years that I don't know if my smiles are real, or if my laughter really sounds what I used to sound like. It's been almost 4 years, and this depression has not subsided. I thought falling in love with the man of my dreams would help this, and in some cases it has. But it just lays dormant until I have a moment to think, to reflect, to feel my heart beating and remind myself that this happiness, this depression, also shall pass.
More Posts from Hog-mage and Others
So they really are bitches!
Only female mosquitoes bite, because they need the protein in your blood to produce their eggs. Source
Be careful, feminism is just another label people like to throw around and feel superior with. Just live your life and don't worry about it. Treat women the way you treat your phone; with care and intense fear of breaking. I could be wrong.
Just because you have it, doesn’t mean you have to spend it.
Very cool
More hearing people should learn some sign language so here are some actually useful signs for us hearing people to learn.
This is all I need in the world
I try to be understanding with every person, and try to view posts from their point of view if they get upset. I'm glad you're so outspoken and so open with your autism. You are lighting the way for more understanding, and leading the way for an open dialogue. That's awesome, my friend.
As for the kiddo, he had another seizure last week at the YMCA while swimming. I'm heartbroken, the doctors don't know why he's getting seizures. Fingers crossed all is worked out soon.
His eyes...
she thought, are beautiful. There is life in there far beyond her reach.
Behind his eyes was freedom, far from the chains of his mind and the complex bondage he was held fast to. If only he could reach out. But he is left with a blank stare and various stimulation that were expressed with a flap of his arms, and twirling, his constant twirling around.
She held fast though, returning each time to look into his eyes, because she knew, she knew there was freedom behind his eyes.
A freedom that would break free for an instant, and he would focus and be free from the chains for but a moment, and stare back with recognition, with a single word on the tip of his tongue, but would never be uttered; “mom.”
His eyes, she thought, are beautiful. There is life in there, far beyond her reach.
Ormond Gigli
Models in the Window 1960
