Reblogged
daily-spooky
It is evening
There is a child in the park
Playing in the sand pit
The last of sunset
Makes the grains on her hands
Glow like stars
Her face, filled with glee, gazes
At the particles of stardust
In her palms
She remembers her mom saying
We are made of things
That stars are made of
Her mind wanders
Somewhere to the edge
Of a cosmos so bright
It hurts her little eyes
A spaceship floats through it
And she is the sole captain
Her crewmates are the kids
She plays with in the sandpit
They build castles
Of the content in the galaxy
They are filled with wonder
Somewhere in her veins,
A lost particle
Belonging
to the cosmos in her head
Starts pulsing.
Reblogged
All images: VIVINOS, Alien Stage // Rixa White // Cassandra Clare, Clockwork Prince // S.K. Osborn, "A Hunger Like No Other" // Sing Shong, Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint // Sylvia Plath, "Dialogue Between Ghost and Priest" // Park Byungdae, STUDIO LICO, Yongsu Choi, & Manju—Cure // Renée Vivien // Tina Tran, "Until I started choking on our memories" // Mary Ruefle, "The Cart" // Jenny Slate, Little Weirds // Pablo Neruda, 20 Love Sonnets and a Song of Despair // Hozier—Francesca // Richard Siken, "Saying Your Names"
Reblogged
“You're asking me what I want for breakfast and I'm telling you about how when the worst thing happened, I didn't even cry. You're handing me a receipt from the laundromat down the street and I'm passing you a bundle of letters that I wrote to God when I was fourteen and scared. You're passing me the milk after you drip it into your coffee and I'm half laughing about the psychiatrist's office and how there's actually a couch and it's made of blue tweed. You're trying to do the normal things and I am throwing up dull pieces of truth onto our kitchen table. I can't lie anymore. These are the things I've done and they're mostly sad. These are the places I've been and they're mostly awful. This life has woven itself into the notches of my spine and I hear it creak every time I stand.”
— Fortesa Latifi; Dull Pieces Of Truth
Reblogged
“I exist. In thousands of agonies - I exist. I’m tormented on the rack - but I exist! Though I sit alone in a pillar - I exist! I see the sun, and if I don’t see the sun, I know it’s there. And there’s a whole life in that, in knowing that the sun is there.”
- Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov
There are so many stories left barren in the crevices of my mind due to the complexities of my life. The vastness of the world amazes and scares me at the same time. The fact that I am capable of engraving so much of it into the folds of my brain is wonderful but the tragedy is that all of it lost once I am gone.
All the places I have seen, the memories I have had, the moments I have lived are photographed into myself in a way that cannot be lived by another. They are the little treasures I have kept as souvenirs.
Once death embraces me, all my treasures are blown into the air the way a dandelion is scattered into the wind. It is comforting to know that all my worries are but a strong wind away but worrying to know that all my successes are too.
The way sunflowers face the sun and turn their back to the overwhelming sky of clouds, perhaps, I am but a sunflower trying to ignore the fantastically spacious universe and focus on a minute part of it. Perhaps, it gives me joy in doing so. In imagining that I am slightly bigger than I really am.
I crave for the knowledge that may come centuries after I am buried six feet deep. I weep in realization that I won’t ever get a taste of it but soothe my heart with a cool pack of “What if things are worse then, than they are now?”
I wish to write all of these sorrows and all of these fears but do not find the strength in my arm. My throat forms a lump whenever I try to speak and my tongue gives away. My vocal cords constrict as if I’m under a spell that forbids me of speaking my insides out loud.
This is the reason that the words left on the inner side of my skin burn like scorching hot fire that threatens to incinerate me. I try time and time again to spit them out but it is as if they have swore an oath of burrowing their phalanges deep in my raw skin and refusing to let go, much like a parasite that derives what it can from you and leaves you labouring for breath.
Sometimes, my words eat me alive.
- quoetree
Ophelia- Friedrich Heyser
White peonies and a jar- Kami Mendlik
Sunflowers- Jacki Newell