It’s not the guilt that kills the survivor. It’s memory. Charley is determined to live again, since destiny has given him the chance to live when he should have died before. Never mind the bodies of his sister, his wife, his unborn child. He’ll live for all of them.
I haven’t seen you in a long time, but I know you’ll surface soon. When I need you most, you’ll come. You’ll torture and break and tear. You’ll save the essence that makes up my life. And I want that.
A survivor can mean anything. You can be a survivor of cancer or stroke or abuse or anything.
But, being a survivor is what counts. If that makes sense.
She tells me that her name is Perle, and I immediately connect, feeling as though I remember the thousands of years it took for her to grow inside an oyster to become beautiful and hard and strong. You can tell she’s been around and knows a few things and I am a full and absorbent vessel.
What did you expect? That it would last forever? That you could experience these things and put them in our pocket, and take them with you like obedient pets? Did you think they were lying to you, those robed degenerates lounging on marble?
You hirsute madman, stumbling from the wet jungle, clumps of mud in your beard and eyes. Where did you expect the path would lead? Through all this dripping verdant life, expiring and reforming eternally before your eyes, to a clearing with Spanish marble and Roman statues, catching the sun like the plaza you left? And in the center, a beautiful fountain of gold? Wreathed in the divine consideration of angels, created from the stories you left? Waiting for you, built for you, with life for you to take, exactly as you hoped it would be?
The plane had crashed on a mountain range far to the north, and I thought I was the only survivor. I was wrong. As I dragged my body across the wreckage, my legs fighting against me, I could see a body thrashing against melted metal and alloy. I managed to free the old man from the debris, and as he wept, I held his warm and broken body against my shattered ribs.
Am I only a survivor? Can I not win, triumph, overcome?? Apparently not. See how she looks at me. I am a failure in her eyes. But, I’m alive.
It’s not the guilt that kills the survivor. It’s memory. Charley is determined to live again, since destiny has given him the chance to live when he should have died before. Never mind the bodies of his sister, his wife, his unborn child. He’ll live for all of them.
I haven’t seen you in a long time, but I know you’ll surface soon. When I need you most, you’ll come. You’ll torture and break and tear. You’ll save the essence that makes up my life. And I want that.
A survivor can mean anything. You can be a survivor of cancer or stroke or abuse or anything.
But, being a survivor is what counts. If that makes sense.
I love reading books about survivors I want to watch the movie survivor but I can’t find it
I really love the kids surviving on the islands. so I started learning survival skill’s I am prepared.
I love reading books about survivors I want to watch the movie survivor but I can’t find it
i really love the kids surviving on the islands
She tells me that her name is Perle, and I immediately connect, feeling as though I remember the thousands of years it took for her to grow inside an oyster to become beautiful and hard and strong. You can tell she’s been around and knows a few things and I am a full and absorbent vessel.
Scars, sure. There were scars. There were plenty of scars.
What did you expect? That it would last forever? That you could experience these things and put them in our pocket, and take them with you like obedient pets? Did you think they were lying to you, those robed degenerates lounging on marble?
You hirsute madman, stumbling from the wet jungle, clumps of mud in your beard and eyes. Where did you expect the path would lead? Through all this dripping verdant life, expiring and reforming eternally before your eyes, to a clearing with Spanish marble and Roman statues, catching the sun like the plaza you left? And in the center, a beautiful fountain of gold? Wreathed in the divine consideration of angels, created from the stories you left? Waiting for you, built for you, with life for you to take, exactly as you hoped it would be?
The plane had crashed on a mountain range far to the north, and I thought I was the only survivor. I was wrong. As I dragged my body across the wreckage, my legs fighting against me, I could see a body thrashing against melted metal and alloy. I managed to free the old man from the debris, and as he wept, I held his warm and broken body against my shattered ribs.