Like an Avalanche

A slave of music, literature, and the arts. Laughs in the face of doom, chuckles at catastrophe.

[dystopiandreamdiary-deactivated]

You have to stand by yourself. You have to make amends for your mistakes as far as you can and forgive yourself. You have to put your arms around yourself. You have to love every version of yourself, even those you can’t believe you were, even those you hope never to be again. The mistake I’ve been making is thinking I can love myself now, because I’m “better,” because “I deserve it,” whilst neglecting the versions of myself who still haunt me, desperate for love. I love you, Finn, when you’re thirteen and lying in bed weeping because your best friend just told you she’s moving to another country. I love you when you put “Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots” on at her leaving party, even though you know it will make you both cry, because you don’t know how else to say “I love you, thank you for being my friend.” I love you, Finn, when you’re fifteen and in the depths of adoration for someone who will never feel the same way about you. I love you when you finally tell your parents about your panic attacks because you simply cannot bear it alone anymore. I love you the first time you get drunk and kiss someone. I love you when you’re sixteen and lying to your parents on an almost daily basis. I love you when you hate yourself. I love you when you try to fix yourself with other people. I love you when a boy tells you you are special and you say you are not. I love you when he tells you he loves you and you leave. I love you when you break him. I love you, Finn, when you are broken. I forgive you for being so cruel. I love you when you know no better. I love you through therapy, through a year and a half of eating lunch alone in the toilets, through the constant despair, through the seemingly unending loneliness. I love you, Finn, every time you hurt yourself. Every time you feel there is absolutely nothing else you can do. I love you when you’re eighteen and you fall for someone within two minutes of knowing them. I love you through the nine months you spend pining after them. I love you when you’re nineteen and you meet the first person you will fall truly in love with. I love you eighteen months later, when you end it for good. I love you when you’re twenty, when you’re back on medication and on your worst day, you book a trip to Japan even though you’re terrified of flying, and even more terrified of flying alone. I love you when you have nothing to lose. I love you when you’re twenty one and someone hurts you for what feels like the first time. I love you when you quit drinking for two months. I love you when you get drunk again and do stupid things. I love you as you’re writing this. Finn, I forgive you for everything. And I love you when you laugh. 

[aamidala]

I love you, Elizabeth. Even when I think that I don’t. 

Or can’t.

[thereticentraconteur-blog]

For You and Your Selective Filipino Hospitality

We cry foul when foreigners belittle us for our culture, our quirks, the idiosyncrasies that we strongly take pride in as a people. Some (calm down, I said some) rape our women, stake their claim on our islands, break our laws, call us brown-skinned monkeys just because. We used to be tolerant, attributing it to kindness and meekness, and the proverbial Filipino hospitality. But haven’t we come so far? Now we take a stand and form part of revolutions, albeit tiny, to assert our national identity. In every global platform we cry ‘Filipino Pride’ and beat our chests, refusing anyone to degrade us. But what’s funny is how the very ones who lash out when discriminated against are the first to judge those who live in other developing countries. With our almost fanatic sense of nationalism and self-worth, aren’t we supposed to know better? But no, we laugh at Indians for getting their grammar wrong, the Arabs we stereotype as terrorists, the Nigerians drug couriers, and Thais for eating what we won’t eat. We think we’re better than most because we’re given Spanish last names (which, according to popular belief, means you have Spanish blood. Hate to break it to you, but most probably your ancestors chose these names off the Catalogo Alfabetica de Apellidos in 1849), or because we’re America’s lapdog. We think of them as caricatures instead of as people. To us a mispronounced word is funny, and living without deodorant is comical. Aren’t we f*cking perfect. We’re really no different than those who think that the criteria for global respect is skin color and an American accent. It’s even funnier when we try to worship the ground every freakin caucasian tourist walks on, but turn up our noses when dark-skinned foreigners wash ashore. Try watching people trip over themselves to assist an American, and the very same ones yell to an Indian as if he doesn’t understand a word of English. Filipino hospitality has never felt so contrived. Oh please, get over yourselves. Might I remind you where you live, where kids live in squalor, where its better to be a rat than be homeless, where politicians mooch off us like mosquitoes feast on a fat arm. No matter how many times you Instagram your food or relate to #whitegirlproblems, you can’t deny where you’re from. You’re from a long line of ancestors who fought long and hard to be free from the very person you’ve become–a bigoted citizen who thinks she deserves everything and that she’s the greatest gift to mankind.

[pretty-supernatural-vampires]

[bruisedkneesclub]

“How do we forgive ourselves for all of the things we did not become?”

“14 Lines from Love Letters or Suicide Notes” by David ‘Doc’ Luben  (via bruisedkneesclub)

[aftoiasis]

[candlelion-deactivated20140107]

nothing feels better than winning monopoly. not love. not sex. not free pizza. nothing

[iamtheironrain]

I’m sorry, have you tried pizza…?

[candlelion-deactivated20140107]

yes and it doesn’t compare to owning half the board and watching the light die from your friends eyes as you take their money and feel your friendship slowly deteriorate

[mitski-miyawakis]

story time.

[beyondplusultra]

the look in your eyes is what gets me.

[updatepls-deactivated20180722]

“so i return to my body.. from the other plane of existence.. in which i scream”

DEAD

[bojacks-deactivated20201214]

[boredpanda]

[furstyphoto]

[memeguy-com]

[willnotcomplytonorms-deactivate]

“Your makeup looks really natural today”

[hol-ohcene]

[pattyfingersintheholywater]

She’s a professor at my school.

[stability]

flirting with your crush like

[aamidala]

HAHAHAHHA!

[melodypoet]

Cirque du Trois  You had plastered patterned paper in the bedroom and a three-year old had scribbled between the flowers in black ink. The room with the piano and the Renoir— painted pink behind The Luncheon on the boat and the Seurat in dots of zinc. We found a spider in the bathroom as big as my hand— and where I used to sit and peek at the parties held below— at plates of food and at the cellist in the corner— and dad kept a jar of pennies in the shed by the garage— where the kids stomped on a sea of balloons after the night had ended and the guests went to get their coats. But we moved to the other side of the state and went house to house as strangers occupied our home. They let the weeds and grasses grow high and creep into the gazebo and their junk accumulated in the yard. I could see in the window— they had soaked the screen-printed garden in water and peeled it off in strips and shreds. I wondered what had happened to the Ethan Allen beds. I said I bet you had returned to be at rest here when you died and you might meet me by the mailbox should I also have to set my life aside. Music by @wind-some-light Writing by @diffidentdelusions

[okyeahwrite-deactivated20190309]

Check out the piano piece composed by @wind-some-light on the blog @melodypoet, based on the poem I wrote to encapture the nostalgic melancholy of a childhood home left behind.

[jehovahs-deactivated20170218]

we can all agree that autumn is a nicer word than fall

[galacticfunk]

Autumn Out Boy

[egypt-san-deactivated20150318]

[millenniumitem]

u have been visited by the S of 90s kids nostalgia. u must reblgo this if u are a true nineties kidd or time will crumble around you

[squided]

Not risking it