love, i hope we can be
"i wish the sky would rain down roses, as they rain from off the shaken bush. why will it not?"

It’s not all bad. Heightened self-consciousness, apartness, an inability to join in, physical shame and self-loathing—they are not all bad. Those devils have been my angels. Without them I would never have disappeared into language, literature, the mind, laughter and all the mad intensities that made and unmade me.
Moab Is My Washpot, Stephen Fry
goodbye to all that

then: there is no standout or immensely affecting event that i can put pen to paper about, rather last year has been peppered with things to keep very quiet about, with insights and realisations that have quietly changed me, shook layers upon layers of rigidity that define me and collapsed them to what i feel as stillness and certainty. it is quite a bold thing to say because i don’t know very much and it may be when i am writing this and where (funnymen and the influence of Ms. G’s desserts) that have amalgamated to impart this sense of contentment so liberating that i am compelled to make it last forever.

now: the past year has seen ruthless winds blow me unsteady and sorry situations test the strength of my heart, but i have come to terms with the unchangeable: i am a wavering soul and i always will be.

hello: someday, this year, possibly, i will stop detaching so easily from myself, that is to say no more separations and departures, and instead grow to admire my repertoire of strengths and the sheen, not the sigh, of my heart. i must learn to untake things for granted and grasp the meaning of loving oneself (before loving others).

goodbye: to my garden of shrinking violets, to ghosts that come and go, stranded beginnings and never ending feelings, goodbye to doubt and the undesirable, goodbye, goodbye. life’s impatient eyes are infinitesimally gleaming at me; the future is here and it never looked more promising.

you gotta know when it’s time to turn the page

at some point in your life you will be anchored to the past, sometimes despairingly, miserably and to something unfinished or regrettable, but you will wake up with flutters in your chest that make you question, above all, the way you have chosen to live through that undefined amount of time. that day is the triumphant day your heart’s bell tolls and summons you to listen, if that is the last thing you do before your bones are scattered among the flowers, to the sounds of your own finite heartbeat, to realise that your dreams are attainable only if you let them be, that beauty does not equate to goodness nor contentment, and that fake happiness (for me it took on a human figure and tricked me terribly) is an illusory pleasure bound to be lost just as you experience it.

patatas bravas

today was lovely.

how warm the afternoon sunshine felt on my arms that for a moment i heard firewood crackling, and the taste of spiced potatoes and our words, the clutching of hands and cupping over mouths, our neck pulses, fluttering lashes and rising, falling chests all synchronously alive, until the flowers around us fell quietly into slumber and the coffee went cold and the chairs were stacked one by one by one.

i love you! you make me forget and recall, sad only about sad things and happy and happier every time. still, life tends to remind us, in the clouds that cast shadows upon our eyes, that in due time this fair, spiteless happiness will slip away and people will forget, like the many times we have left our keys on the key table, slipped our shoes clumsily on and ran out in a rush, but when we grow old - promises are promises - we will always remember.

(for r & j)

If you’re dating a writer and they don’t write about you - whether it’s good or bad - then they don’t love you. They just don’t. Writers fall in love with the people we find inspiring.
Jamie Anne Royce
I’m still writing about you and you haven’t read a word.
Travis Grandt 

(Source: larmoyante, via fawnes)

when you have a crush on someone you can just lie around for hours

One of the cruellest things you can do to another person is pretend you care about them more than you really do.
Douglas Coupland

(Source: fleshscars, via ohwonderland)

he can kiss me if he wants to

certain strangers are beautiful. at first when you meet them you are drawn to their eyes, and you don’t realise your own shimmering like moonstones until they tell you.

this night-time i am wholly able to hear the sweetly singing emotions of my volatile heart, and even if i am tired of feeling so much all the time, i still wish to feel with the intensity of spewing lava (and the softness of silk), and to never become numb, especially, so that the things dear to me shall remain so for a long time and never once lose their dearness.

half of my heart is happy while the other half dangles in fear (after all this time i still struggle with fear), as it manages to always do to hurt itself over and over. oddly yet i feel slightly, oh maybe tremendously happy that i have redness in my veins and memories of faraway places, like that place with the castle where i wore my butterfly wings, surreptitiously, and i might have collapsed if anyone had tried to touch me.

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