Quante volte dovrò morire per sentirmi davvero vivo.
Tante, troppe volte.
Questo è il prezzo da pagare.
Il dolore, quello che ti spezza il fiato.
Come quando credi di sognare ed un pizzico ti sveglia. Si muore per ogni assenza, che diventa mancanza, per ogni delusione.
Ma per ogni volta che si muore, si rinasce più forti.
E’ così ce lo meritiamo.
E rinascere e spiccare il volo, questo ci fa sentire vivi.
il cercatore d’amore (via ilcercatoredamore)
E sono arrivato al punto di ammettere che anche se ti donassi il mio cuore tu probabilmente lo getteresti. Non è vero che la felicità la si trova sempre, certe volte finiamo con l’encefalogramma piatto e basta. Non ha senso amare il prossimo, quando questo cova per te l’odio più profondo. La solitudine è la nostra ultima speranza di sopravvivere.
I flip open the book in front of me and land on a picture of Peter Pan leading Wendy out her window to Neverland, which warms and breaks my heart at the same time. It reminds me of my childhood, and when I believed in shit like that. When I believed that when something goes wrong and the monsters decide to come for you, some fantastical imaginary friend from the box of VHS tapes under the tv would somehow just know that you were in trouble and would come to your rescue. It’s such a bitch when the day comes where you finally have to shed your fantasies, and no matter how long you try and put it off, you eventually and unfortunately have to grow up. Because after your teenage years start melting away, after all the beer bongs, backseats and premature broken hearts, life will inevitably start dragging you kicking and screaming headfirst into adulthood, and you have no say in the matter. There’s no rewind button, and you can only put yourself on pause for so long after the moment when you realize that your parents aren’t super heroes and that they aren’t always going to be there to fight your battles for you. There’s always going to be periods of time in life when it’s going to be just you, and that if you’re going to make it, you have to be your own hero within a reality that can be so hard to stomach. In my heart I know that nobody’s going to come rescue me from this, and that it really is all up to me. Nobody’s going to come for me in the way that I want them to. Nobody’s going to save me. So whatever, fuck it. I guess I’ll just do it myself. I’ll save me instead. But god fucking damn it, I wish he was real. I wish that I was someone’s Wendy Darling. I wish that someone braver and stronger than me would show up out of the blue and rush me off to the sky and to a place where I would be young forever. But it was in that moment, this moment, that I let the fantasies fade and accepted the reality that I’ve stumbled into, and that I will learn how to fight my monsters on my own if I have to. But if for whatever reason all our fantasies ever decide to switch places with our bitter realities, and it does actually fucking happen, if I ever break free from this rusty cage and fly, then so help me God, if you’re like me and you’re ever in trouble, expect me, because I will fucking come back for you. I promise.

I let out a melodramatic sigh and roll my eyes at myself and my constant stream of overly-analytical poetic thoughts. I stare at the picture for a few seconds, reluctantly pick up a green crayon off the table, and slowly begin adding color to the blank page.
An excerpt from Caged Boy Sings: the movie extravaganza.  Or maybe I meant to say book.  You’ll find out soon enough, but either way, it’s coming soon.  (via cagedboysings)