The Mystery of Her
Two Friends. One love Story. One Tragic Ending.
story no longer available <3
About the Creator
lilly jimenez
hey beautiful person stumbling upon my profile, I hope you enjoy what you read and always remember that you are loved and deserving of a happy life. be yourself and keep being the strong soul you are. I love you <3
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Living with Passion
Passion. A seven-letter word defined as “an intense desire or enthusiasm for something”. Well, I am the type of person who has many things I pour my passion into. For example, I am huge on saving the planet and the animals within it. I am passionate about reading and how important it is to escape reality for a little while in a good book. I care a lot about spreading awareness for many things I have like anorexia, bipolar disorder, anxiety, depression, and also for things I am like bisexual, or even for things I don’t personally relate to. I’m passionate about crystals and spirituality. I’m passionate about fashion and expressing myself without fear or judgment. I’m passionate about making my life the best it can be for me, and not just following others’ expectations of me. I’m crazy passionate about spreading love and positivity to everyone I meet even if they’re strangers. But most importantly, I’m passionate about living.
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Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
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