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I’ve spent way to much time trying to figure out what’s wrong,
with me.
Do I reconstruct myself or wait for someone to love me?
We’ll see.
I’m just searching for a time to say that I’m fine,
Without it being a lie.
Do I even know me?
I think I’m missing something.
And Isn’t this supposed to be fun?
You reach for someone,
instead they run.
I know my life has only begun, but when it comes to love,
I swear I’m done.
I’d offer you forever.
What more could you possibly ask for?
If being myself isn’t good enough,
I’ll change, for the sake of falling in love.
Is love a scavenger hunt?
Or a surprise party?
Do I have to go searching for it,
or does it simply come find me?
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We are something like apparitions today; juggling a multiplicity of selves through the noise; the “you” you are on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, Tinder…wherever…at your day job, your night job, your hobby, your primary relationship, your friend-with-benefits, your incredibly astonishing range of extracurricular activities. But this hyperfragmentation of self gives rise to a kind of schizophrenia; conflicts, dissocations, tensions, dislocations, anxieties, paranoias, delusions. Our social wombs do not give birth to our true selves; the selves explosive with capability, possibility, wonder.
The Bullshit Machine — Medium (via photographsonthebrain)
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