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DeWayfarer · 61-69, M
Funny few consider the potential is still there. Just not in the form they are accustomed to.
Why does the form matter? And not the potential?
Are we all so selfish and picky that we can not love things that change?
I can understand if the potential is lost. That's truly a sad and uncontrollable thing. Yet we are not as sad of such a loss of potential, as much a loss of form.
Why does the form matter? And not the potential?
Are we all so selfish and picky that we can not love things that change?
I can understand if the potential is lost. That's truly a sad and uncontrollable thing. Yet we are not as sad of such a loss of potential, as much a loss of form.
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RoundandRound · 46-50
Hold me in a bucket (emotional despair) until I can have the strength to love you back?
Instead they give up when they should cling too?
Instead they give up when they should cling too?
RoundandRound · 46-50
@DeWayfarer I guess I see it as dying not changing.
DeWayfarer · 61-69, M
@RoundandRound I still ask is the potential being strangled?
You have put the potential in a confining bucket!
You have put the potential in a confining bucket!
4meAndyou · F
When my father lay in his hospital bed, dying, I felt such deep sorrow. I sat there beside him day after day.
I brought my mending with me, to keep busy...and my favorite faded red t shirt was in the mending pile. It had begun to develop tiny holes all over it, and I kept trying to fix each hole. But each time I would handle the shirt, another hole would appear. I realized then, that the fabric itself was made of rotten threads, and it couldn't be repaired.
My father was like that shirt. He was so deeply damaged inside that no one could repair him...and the more they tried, the worse it got.
I realized then, that a message was being sent to me along with my futile attempts to mend my shirt. Some things can't be mended. All we can do is mourn their loss.
I brought my mending with me, to keep busy...and my favorite faded red t shirt was in the mending pile. It had begun to develop tiny holes all over it, and I kept trying to fix each hole. But each time I would handle the shirt, another hole would appear. I realized then, that the fabric itself was made of rotten threads, and it couldn't be repaired.
My father was like that shirt. He was so deeply damaged inside that no one could repair him...and the more they tried, the worse it got.
I realized then, that a message was being sent to me along with my futile attempts to mend my shirt. Some things can't be mended. All we can do is mourn their loss.
RoundandRound · 46-50
Fungirlmmm · 51-55, F
Beautiful example
MasterLee · 56-60, M
Love is like a wax squid
OogieBoogie · F