There was something beautiful and strange in vulnerability, she decided. In the moment when it felt as though every occurance in the world, every tiny interaction and experience was drilling into your skin, the feeling when you believed you were the entirety of mankind- Atlas bearing the world on his shoulders.
The peculiar blossoming pressure in the gap between your spine and shoulderbones, a weight where wings should grow.
There was a relationship to be had in self-reflection, in those times of existence when consciousness was filtered and drained through a lense beyond ones own, a lense of the intermost soul.
She knew her own emptiness, the bones in her that were still blank slates, awaiting their fate to be etched in by time. She decided she was glad she didn't know what the words would be.
The faint echos of the music that would trickle into her future was playing somewhere, softly.
She let a finger fall into her reflection, sending out tiny ripples that fluttered and shook the image.
Just like that, she thought, it all could change.
When the pieces floated back her image shone like she had never seen,
the sun had slipped into the right place in the midst of the chaos.
It was time for a change, she decided. It was time to be stronger.
To step out of the pool of self pity, step away from the dangers of selective memories, all of the good moments looping through her head, every disapointment erased.
It was time to see the beauty in her breakdown, time to emerge as something more.
"Attachment brings suffering"
She remembered the words that had been whispered to her as she hiked through the forest one day. An elderly man, a faded green cap on his head had asked her to stop for a moment. He said he had learned one thing in life, and had nobody to tell. He asked if she would listen.
That was the first thing he taught her, to listen. To hear his intention beyond the words. To understand him. He was letting her, a complete stranger, into his life. How beautiful, how achingly raw! She wanted to rejoice but knew that was not his intention. Instead, she opened her heart and mind...and heard.
Now she was listening to herself.
Her heart beating, the nerves in her mind and body humming as she moved her fingers, her toes. As she walked. Now she knew who she had to be. She had to let go of the person that hurt, she had to let go of the person that was clinging desperately. Moving forward meant moving out, like a snake slipping out of its skin. She would grow in new ways, change it all.
There are more beautiful people in the world than there are bad people. You don't hear about them on the news, their faces aren't pasted on the fronts of magazines, but they are there. Maybe you know one. And now imagine, that that one person knows one more. And one more. And on and on it goes.
Sometimes the beautiful in people is hard to find. In those people, remember that they are probably struggling with something invisible, intangible, indistinguishable to you or I, but to them it is a constant fight. They are using all their beautiful in that fight at that moment, so you can't see it. But it's there.
I remember one year I met a boy who was angry all the time. My most vivid memory was when he went into a fit because a group of us were playing cards and he was delt a bad hand. When we asked him to calm down, he screamed as though he was dying. It was a hidious, horrific sound-the kind of blaring noise that twists your insides and makes your heart afraid to beat. He knocked over a jar and the glass shattered everywhere. He kept screaming.
Three years ago he began coming out to people, telling us he was gay. Today he is one of the sweetest people I know. He explained to us what had happened with his old rage one day, telling us that the screaming was his struggle. It was a fight he could never win, because he was competing against himself. Trying to change himself.
Half of him constantly winning, half of him constantly losing.
Beautiful people are everywhere. They are your companions as you walk down the street, they are the man serving you your coffee, they are the person holding the door. Be a beautiful person. Do something more for these people today. Smile a bit bigger, give away some spare change, call an old friend and remind them you love them.
Believe in the world. It is a beautiful place, abundant with beautiful people.
Maybe because it's so simple but so true. Maybe it's because I'm scared to death I can't be with you in this life, but I haven't given up hope on the next. Maybe it's because I read this right after we talked about praying mantises. Maybe it's because now that I know the answer I don't think you care.
Maybe it's because that's how poetry should be.
The words should stalk your days, the ideas coiling around your dreams.
An Entomologist's Last Love Letter, Jared Singer
we have to get a divorce
i know that seems like an odd way to start a love letter but let me explain:
it’s not you
it sure as hell isn’t me
it’s just human beings don’t love as well as insects do
i love you.. far too much to let what we have be ruined by the failings of our species
i saw the way you looked at the waiter last night
i know you would never DO anything, you never do but..
i saw the way you looked at the waiter last night
did you know that when a female fly accepts the pheromones put off by a male fly, it re-writes her brain, destroys the receptors that receive pheromones, sensing the change, the male fly does the same. when two flies love each other they do it so hard, they will never love anything else ever again. if either one of them dies before procreation can happen both sets of genetic code are lost forever. now that… is dedication.
after Elizabeth and i broke up we spent three days dividing everything we had bought together
like if i knew what pots were mine like if i knew which drapes were mine somehow the pain would go away
this is not true
after two praying mantises mate, the nervous system of the male begins to shut down
while he still has control over his motor functions
he flops onto his back, exposing his soft underbelly up to his lover like a gift
she then proceeds to lovingly dice him into tiny cubes
spooning every morsel into her mouth
she wastes nothing
even the exoskeleton goes
she does this so that once their children are born she has something to regurgitate to feed them
now that.. is selflessness
i could never do that for you
so i have a new plan
i’m gonna leave you now
i’m gonna spend the rest of my life committing petty injustices
i hope you do the same
i will jay walk at every opportunity
i will steal things i could easily afford
i will be rude to strangers
i hope you do the same
i hope reincarnation is real
i hope our petty crimes are enough to cause us to be reborn as lesser creatures
i hope we are reborn as flies
so that we can love each other as hard as we were meant to.
She was beautiful in a way most wouldn't understand. They could see her symetrical face, they could observe the graceful indents of her waist, the arch of her back and curve of her hand, but that all meant nothing because they couldn't see her. It was as though she lived in the awkward pause of existence between being and not, as though the society was her sea and she was constantly struggling to come up for air. She could accomadate this world, but not live comfortably within its bounds.
Perhaps it was because she was too harsh. People couldn't understand her honestly, couldn't take in her bitter flavor, couldn't swallow her words that seemed to be drenched in alcohol and lit on fire. Her casual conversation was most people's 3 am drunk phone calls to a detested ex-husband.
But she didn't know how else to exist. How else to be human, how else to survive. It was her honesty that made her beautiful, she decided., When she looked in the mirror she knew exactly who she was looking at. Her sculpted arms, the sharp dash of her collarbone-there was never a question. Looking in the mirror gave her answers.
But she was the only one who would ask the questions. She filled her life with wants and needs, lists of goals to fufill and clothing to buy. She stoked her closet with corsets and lace, with dresses that fell upon her hips like waterfalls, and heels that punctured the earth mercilessly. But they did nothing for her. Everybody looked, but nobody cared. And eventually she stopped caring too. And forgot why she had begun collecting in the first place.
Collecting things because she couldn't collect people.
And all she ever really wanted was to be loved. And for somebody to say so.
A girl who likes to love and live and laugh and sing and dance and wear glitter and stay up too late and watch movies and read and write and eat ice cream and travel and shop and design and wear mismatched socks...this is her adventure.
The writing on the blog is mine. Please please pleaseeee give credit if you repost, and I would especially love it if you commented and let me know! (:
The photos on this blog are not mine. Most are found online through tumblr, and I will give credit to the photographer when known. If a photo on here is yours, please let me know so I can give proper credit.
"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."
"Happiness only real when shared"
"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!" "