The past hasn’t always been nice to me. Then again, neither has the present. But, the present ends up as the past, so that figures.
I’ve had a lot of ups and downs (more downs than ups, but there’s room for change), and it’s made me think a lot about who I am. I wish they hadn’t happened, but then again I think I might have been a different person were that the case.
She couldn’t move past it. The hurt was too raw. The horror was too mind numbingly real. She had seen his eyes, open, heard his cries. She had watched the truck fill up with water. She hadn’t found the wrench fast enough.
Once in a while, you should look back in your past and remember the good things and the bad. I know sometimes people have had so many bad things happen like abuse, divorces, breakups or even deaths and they don’t want to think about the past because it will bring back bad memories and make them miserable all over again. But sometimes things have happened in the past and you don’t want to let them go but people tell you, you need to because if you don’t its just going to make things harder. But you want them to stop telling you that because really, they are just making things harder for you by putting so much pressure on you. Sometimes, its really hard to let go of the past. Just do it when you’re ready, not when people tell you they think you need too. Just whenever you’re ready. Take your time.
When the first BANG fired I flew past everyone, I thought I was going to win, and at that thought I started to get slower and everybody started to go past me!
In the past things like appointments and busy time seemed to be exciting. Now I long for days with no appointments and nothing busy planned. Not to be a facebook meme but I hate BUSY. I’d rather have a list of things to get done as I can get to them than a list of MUST DOs.
past is nostalgia. It is no more an enigma but it has some enigma, it has a charisma. It is not beautiful, it may be ugly but it is your past. It is who you were and how it has made you. it is you. I
She breezed past him, leaving him dazed in her wake. Turning and laughing at the comment she heard over her shoulder, he remembered other instances where she took that expression. It was so long ago, really. But it seemed so present. Because she was so present. Could that be it?
The past is nonexistent. I’m kissing you in the shade of the tree, my hands on the damp grass. At the same time, you are standing over me, yelling about how I’ve been out too late. I stand up, and now I’m our kitchen floor with you stepping on me and the police are here taking my dad away for beating my mom.
The time has past. All my chances have past. I will have to just settle. Find contentment is this hustle. I was lazy and now I am paying for it. The time has past for my chance to take action, to take control of my own life.
the past will always haunt us. we frget about it but then we go to a club and we run into someone, face to face, who used to mean so much to us. suddenly the past is present again. it has caught up with us. we are transported back to the past as they open their mouth and speak, their lopsided mouth, their tone, the smell of their perfume emanating. time travel, that’s what she enables me to do. and it’s not necessarily good. she is in my past for a reason, not in my present.
I live in the past every day and all day of my life. I wish I could leave the past behind. It haunts me like it’s part of my future. I need to go of the past. But like memories it follows.
that thing that is now gone, or has it, a memory perhaps – but what is a memory, it’s a bunch of neurones and electric somethings in an organic brain…. that’s all the past is in reality… a bunch of electric something in a thing made of meat….
in the past, i love the story. play the music, love rock, nature, dance with my boy, love the tree and can get the star. Hope somday i’l remember the day we get together. Please remember the star, the past we got, we know about each other. Past is a great experience, past helps us growing up and enjoying the world. Never say goodbye with the past. Keep it in your heart, and say i love you “Past”.
chưa biết viết gì cả, đôi khi mình thấy mình thật cầu toàn. mình đang thiếu tự tin, thật nhiều.
Mình chưa nghĩ thấu về những điều mình muốn, nó đang là những điều ggif đó còn trong giấc mơ, thỉnh thoảng nó khiến mình giật mình, à thì ra là thê.
“That time is past. We are no longer enemies,” he pleaded.
The wind caught her hair and whipped it into her face. Impatiently she hooked a strand out of her mouth before replying with great disdain, “How dare you come back here! You have killed countless innocents and have been the cause of great destruction. You have never been anything but my enemy, and you never will be anything more.”
“I thought you were a merciful person.” He faltered. “Please, I’ve changed!”
She looked at him coldly. “So have I.” And she turned away.
Listen, darling. Listen to the way the water drips from the old faucet, the way pages rustle in the wind. There are ghosts in the cupboards, between dusty bottles of breakfast syrup and your old, chipped mug. When I look at you, I see time in your eyes and a quiet lingering in the sloping lines of your face. I think, darling. I think, listen. Here are the things that were once ours but can’t be found again.
Here, in the fleeting moments of now,
Having collected the debris of time gone by,
I stand, gazing at the reflection of one
Who is not who I was or am or will
Be again in the pool of eternity.
Within me, the cracks of darkness expand
Outward from their core,
Structuring the illusion of a presence
With soldered fragments the past
Has only had time to collect and hand off
Before Time has come
And demanded new beginning.
It was long past my bedtime, but I didn’t care. I found my mother’s pack of cigarettes in her purse. Right between her lipstick and her pocket mirror, just the way she always left it. Then I kicked open my window and shuffled onto the slanted roof, letting the smoke of my first lit stogie mingle with the fog of the autumn night.
Across the street from my house was Arthur’s house. He must have been asleep by now. The stars were particularly bright just the trees nearby, though I wasn’t exactly sure why.
Past and present, past the point of no return. Pass-words to pass the time between the insurrections. That “ssss” sound dripping from the lips, a delight to create but a pain in the ass to hear. Ass. Sycamore. See, you’re sick of it already.
It’s all in the past he said. Just leave it behind.
If only it were that easy.
It’s hard to forget all the pain and suffering from my childhood. I have tried to move past my past, but there it is, lurking at every corner, waiting to jump out and startle me, or drag me down that dark alley that I’ve tried my entire life to escape. The past isn’t just in the past.
in the past we all struggled. we hated it then but now?. now it’s something we can’t get. so we need it. a dime ain’t worth a nickel no more someone once told me. i knew that in those days we lived simply, ate beautifully.
The past is a strange thing. If you let it, it will stay with you like a plague, and creep up to haunt you in ways that will make you sick. Or it can bring memories of joy on days that you need it most. Strange.
Fourteen months left to serve. They were in lock down. Some idiot had stolen a packet of TimTams from the duty officer in the library and they had all been sent back to their cells. Wilco didn’t mind so much. He liked the time alone to write. He spent a long time making plans, scribbling out budgets and objectives, trying to make amends for what he had done. But it was hard to forgive himself and harder still to shake off the shame. It suffocated him.
He could smell the bushfires. It was hellishly hot out there and he could hear the crackle of the grade and breaking twigs. It was dry and windy. He knew that they would burn for days. He was grateful for the distraction, the reminder of the world outside.
I am painting again. I wish I could tell you that my work is original, but it is not. It is a little more than loosely styled on the work of an English artist. A real artist. Her work is breathtaking and at times confronting. She paints a lot of boobs and vaginas. So to pay homage, my latest work does include quite a prominent vagina, with flowers stems as pubic hair. The reactions from my friends has been quite hilarious. It is amazing how a bunch of middle-aged, middle-class citizens with a plethora of hedonistic baggage in their own closets can be so affronted by an image of something they have all seen thousands of times before. They make me laugh. Their vaginas are a little like their secrets. We all know they exist, but there is an unspoken rule, don’t reveal them, don’t release them, for we are all better off hiding behind a veil of virtue, pretending we are unblemished and not all driven by animal instinct.
He couldn’t forget it, no matter how hard he tried. The other timelines, all of those other faiiures, they haunted him. They would haunt him forever.
That was probably the point, wasn’t it? he realized with a start. That he had to keep reliving this was his own personal hell, but that child– they were doing it on purpose, weren’t they? This was all for his sake. It made his blood boil.
i’ll tell you it matters what you’ve been through
i’ve done it too
while you’ll be you
the inconsistencies scare me
that you’re never telling the truth.
It has become unmentionable my past. Seriously. It can not be mentioned. I made that decision one day earlier this year. It was January I think. Stinking hot, a typical summer’s day in Melbourne when the air is so hot and dry it burns your eyes. While I was putting on my red sneakers it dawned on me, finally. I can not think about them ever again. I can not talk about it anymore. I am sick to death of explaining myself. None of it helps me. None of it does an ounce of good, it just sucks the life out of me day after day. So that was it. Since that day my brother is dead. My dad is dead and all of the shit they served up to me is gone. Poof. Disappeared. Never happened.
The past was fun
I remember the past it was great, and fun, in the sun
The past hasn’t always been nice to me. Then again, neither has the present. But, the present ends up as the past, so that figures.
I’ve had a lot of ups and downs (more downs than ups, but there’s room for change), and it’s made me think a lot about who I am. I wish they hadn’t happened, but then again I think I might have been a different person were that the case.
its not the present or future its the past . something that happened along time ago
She couldn’t move past it. The hurt was too raw. The horror was too mind numbingly real. She had seen his eyes, open, heard his cries. She had watched the truck fill up with water. She hadn’t found the wrench fast enough.
Moving forward was very difficult, if not impossible. See, she’d developed a permanent crook in her neck from a lifetime spent looking back.
Once in a while, you should look back in your past and remember the good things and the bad. I know sometimes people have had so many bad things happen like abuse, divorces, breakups or even deaths and they don’t want to think about the past because it will bring back bad memories and make them miserable all over again. But sometimes things have happened in the past and you don’t want to let them go but people tell you, you need to because if you don’t its just going to make things harder. But you want them to stop telling you that because really, they are just making things harder for you by putting so much pressure on you. Sometimes, its really hard to let go of the past. Just do it when you’re ready, not when people tell you they think you need too. Just whenever you’re ready. Take your time.
When the first BANG fired I flew past everyone, I thought I was going to win, and at that thought I started to get slower and everybody started to go past me!
In the past things like appointments and busy time seemed to be exciting. Now I long for days with no appointments and nothing busy planned. Not to be a facebook meme but I hate BUSY. I’d rather have a list of things to get done as I can get to them than a list of MUST DOs.
past is nostalgia. It is no more an enigma but it has some enigma, it has a charisma. It is not beautiful, it may be ugly but it is your past. It is who you were and how it has made you. it is you. I
She breezed past him, leaving him dazed in her wake. Turning and laughing at the comment she heard over her shoulder, he remembered other instances where she took that expression. It was so long ago, really. But it seemed so present. Because she was so present. Could that be it?
The past is nonexistent. I’m kissing you in the shade of the tree, my hands on the damp grass. At the same time, you are standing over me, yelling about how I’ve been out too late. I stand up, and now I’m our kitchen floor with you stepping on me and the police are here taking my dad away for beating my mom.
The time has past. All my chances have past. I will have to just settle. Find contentment is this hustle. I was lazy and now I am paying for it. The time has past for my chance to take action, to take control of my own life.
the past will always haunt us. we frget about it but then we go to a club and we run into someone, face to face, who used to mean so much to us. suddenly the past is present again. it has caught up with us. we are transported back to the past as they open their mouth and speak, their lopsided mouth, their tone, the smell of their perfume emanating. time travel, that’s what she enables me to do. and it’s not necessarily good. she is in my past for a reason, not in my present.
I live in the past every day and all day of my life. I wish I could leave the past behind. It haunts me like it’s part of my future. I need to go of the past. But like memories it follows.
The past is past, cannot be changed, nothing to do about it, let’s embrace that and move forward, it’s the only way to live!
Damn! the stupid thing is I still want you even after all this time.
“Don’t judge me by my past, I don’t live there any more. The past is the past.”
that thing that is now gone, or has it, a memory perhaps – but what is a memory, it’s a bunch of neurones and electric somethings in an organic brain…. that’s all the past is in reality… a bunch of electric something in a thing made of meat….
I achieved a lot in the past, but I lost almost everything again in the past.
Nice memories I could be proud of.
in the past, i love the story. play the music, love rock, nature, dance with my boy, love the tree and can get the star. Hope somday i’l remember the day we get together. Please remember the star, the past we got, we know about each other. Past is a great experience, past helps us growing up and enjoying the world. Never say goodbye with the past. Keep it in your heart, and say i love you “Past”.
chưa biết viết gì cả, đôi khi mình thấy mình thật cầu toàn. mình đang thiếu tự tin, thật nhiều.
Mình chưa nghĩ thấu về những điều mình muốn, nó đang là những điều ggif đó còn trong giấc mơ, thỉnh thoảng nó khiến mình giật mình, à thì ra là thê.
Past the curving wall of tombs neatly slotted I wander, skimming the names, wondering if the person I seek is here already, filed like a catalog card.
“That time is past. We are no longer enemies,” he pleaded.
The wind caught her hair and whipped it into her face. Impatiently she hooked a strand out of her mouth before replying with great disdain, “How dare you come back here! You have killed countless innocents and have been the cause of great destruction. You have never been anything but my enemy, and you never will be anything more.”
“I thought you were a merciful person.” He faltered. “Please, I’ve changed!”
She looked at him coldly. “So have I.” And she turned away.
Listen, darling. Listen to the way the water drips from the old faucet, the way pages rustle in the wind. There are ghosts in the cupboards, between dusty bottles of breakfast syrup and your old, chipped mug. When I look at you, I see time in your eyes and a quiet lingering in the sloping lines of your face. I think, darling. I think, listen. Here are the things that were once ours but can’t be found again.
Here, in the fleeting moments of now,
Having collected the debris of time gone by,
I stand, gazing at the reflection of one
Who is not who I was or am or will
Be again in the pool of eternity.
Within me, the cracks of darkness expand
Outward from their core,
Structuring the illusion of a presence
With soldered fragments the past
Has only had time to collect and hand off
Before Time has come
And demanded new beginning.
is a great illusion, another ones future. another ones confusion. sitting and breathing. relaxing and weeping. eating my food. and glad to be seeing.
It was long past my bedtime, but I didn’t care. I found my mother’s pack of cigarettes in her purse. Right between her lipstick and her pocket mirror, just the way she always left it. Then I kicked open my window and shuffled onto the slanted roof, letting the smoke of my first lit stogie mingle with the fog of the autumn night.
Across the street from my house was Arthur’s house. He must have been asleep by now. The stars were particularly bright just the trees nearby, though I wasn’t exactly sure why.
Forward, I follow. Each step, an advancement.
Past and present, past the point of no return. Pass-words to pass the time between the insurrections. That “ssss” sound dripping from the lips, a delight to create but a pain in the ass to hear. Ass. Sycamore. See, you’re sick of it already.
The past is something I changeable, it’s not something we can change. I don’t lik this. It’s past.
It’s all in the past he said. Just leave it behind.
If only it were that easy.
It’s hard to forget all the pain and suffering from my childhood. I have tried to move past my past, but there it is, lurking at every corner, waiting to jump out and startle me, or drag me down that dark alley that I’ve tried my entire life to escape. The past isn’t just in the past.
in the past we all struggled. we hated it then but now?. now it’s something we can’t get. so we need it. a dime ain’t worth a nickel no more someone once told me. i knew that in those days we lived simply, ate beautifully.
The past is a strange thing. If you let it, it will stay with you like a plague, and creep up to haunt you in ways that will make you sick. Or it can bring memories of joy on days that you need it most. Strange.
PRISONER
Fourteen months left to serve. They were in lock down. Some idiot had stolen a packet of TimTams from the duty officer in the library and they had all been sent back to their cells. Wilco didn’t mind so much. He liked the time alone to write. He spent a long time making plans, scribbling out budgets and objectives, trying to make amends for what he had done. But it was hard to forgive himself and harder still to shake off the shame. It suffocated him.
He could smell the bushfires. It was hellishly hot out there and he could hear the crackle of the grade and breaking twigs. It was dry and windy. He knew that they would burn for days. He was grateful for the distraction, the reminder of the world outside.
STYLED
I am painting again. I wish I could tell you that my work is original, but it is not. It is a little more than loosely styled on the work of an English artist. A real artist. Her work is breathtaking and at times confronting. She paints a lot of boobs and vaginas. So to pay homage, my latest work does include quite a prominent vagina, with flowers stems as pubic hair. The reactions from my friends has been quite hilarious. It is amazing how a bunch of middle-aged, middle-class citizens with a plethora of hedonistic baggage in their own closets can be so affronted by an image of something they have all seen thousands of times before. They make me laugh. Their vaginas are a little like their secrets. We all know they exist, but there is an unspoken rule, don’t reveal them, don’t release them, for we are all better off hiding behind a veil of virtue, pretending we are unblemished and not all driven by animal instinct.
He couldn’t forget it, no matter how hard he tried. The other timelines, all of those other faiiures, they haunted him. They would haunt him forever.
That was probably the point, wasn’t it? he realized with a start. That he had to keep reliving this was his own personal hell, but that child– they were doing it on purpose, weren’t they? This was all for his sake. It made his blood boil.
i’ll tell you it matters what you’ve been through
i’ve done it too
while you’ll be you
the inconsistencies scare me
that you’re never telling the truth.
It has become unmentionable my past. Seriously. It can not be mentioned. I made that decision one day earlier this year. It was January I think. Stinking hot, a typical summer’s day in Melbourne when the air is so hot and dry it burns your eyes. While I was putting on my red sneakers it dawned on me, finally. I can not think about them ever again. I can not talk about it anymore. I am sick to death of explaining myself. None of it helps me. None of it does an ounce of good, it just sucks the life out of me day after day. So that was it. Since that day my brother is dead. My dad is dead and all of the shit they served up to me is gone. Poof. Disappeared. Never happened.
Things that have happened in the past are Thomas Edison inventing the lightbulb, NASA sending a man to the moon, and WW2.