raptorific:

Let me make a few of my assumptions clear before we start:

  1. The love triangle is important.
  2. In the context of the love triangle, Peeta and Gale are not people, they are literary devices used to represent the two paths Katniss could take as a character.
  3. The story could not have ended any way…
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There’s 7 billion 46 million people on the planet and most of us have the audacity to think we matter. Hey, you hear the one about the comedian who croaked?Someone stabbed him in the heart, just a little poke, but he keeled over ‘cause he went into battle wearing chain mail made of jokes. Hey, you hear the one about the screenwriter who passed away? He was giving elevator pitches and the elevator got stuck halfway he ended up eating smushed sandwiches they pushed through a crack in the door and repeating the same crappy screenplay idea about talking dogs ‘til his last day. Hey, you hear the one about the fisherman who passed? He didn’t jump off that ledge. He just stepped out into the air and pulled the ground up towards him really fast like he was pitching a line and went fishing for concrete. The earth is a drum and he’s hitting it on beat. The reason there’s smog in Los Angeles is ‘cause if we could see the stars. If we could see the context of the universe in which we exist and we could see how small each one of us is against the vastness of what we don’t know no one would ever audition for a McDonalds commercial again. And then where would we be?
No frozen dinners and no TV. And is that a world we want to text in? Either someone just microwaved popcorn, or I hear the sound of a thousand people pulling their heads out of their asses in rapid succession. The people are hunched over in Boston. They’re starting app stores and screen printing companies in San Francisco. They’re grinning in Los Angeles like they’ve got fishhooks in the corners of their mouth but don’t paint me like the good guy ‘cause every time I write I get to choose the angle that you view me and select the nicest light. You wouldn’t respect me if you heard the typewriter chatter tap tap tapping through my mind at night. The same stupid tape loop of old sitcom dialogue and tattered memories of a girl I got to grind on in high school filed carefully on rice paper. My heart is a colored pencil, but my brain is an eraser. I don’t want a real girl, I want to trace her from a catalogue. Truth be told I’m unlikely to hold you down, ‘cause my soul is a crowded subway train and people keep deciding to get on the next one that rolls through town. I’m joining a false movement in San Francisco. I’m frowning and hunched over in Boston. I’m smiling in Los Angeles like I’ve got fishhooks in the corners of my mouth and I’m celebrating on weekends. Because there are 7 billion 47 million people on the planet and I have the audacity to think I matter. I know it’s a lie but I prefer it to the alternative because I’ve got a tourniquet tied at my elbow. I’ve got a blunt wrap filled with compliments and I’m burning it. You say to go to sleep but I been bouncing off my bedroom walls since I was hecka small. We’re every age at once and tucked inside ourselves like Russian nesting dolls. My mother is an 8 year old girl. My grandson is a 74 year old retiree whose kidneys just failed and that’s the glue between me and you. That’s the screws and nails. We live in a house made of each other And if that sounds strange that’s because it is. Someone please freeze time so I can run around turning everyone’s pockets inside out and remember, you didn’t see shit.
― George Watsky; Tiny Glowing Screens Part 2 
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