She cries at sunsets because she doesn't believe in sunrises.
Sunsets - JR

shark vs the universe
almost home

izzy's playlists!
Monterey Bay Aquarium

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
art blog(derogatory)
🪼

★

PR's Tumblrdome
cherry valley forever
todays bird
Sade Olutola
RMH

Love Begins
Peter Solarz

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
No title available
d e v o n
NASA

roma★
seen from Italy
seen from Türkiye

seen from Chile
seen from Germany

seen from Portugal
seen from Poland
seen from Australia
seen from United States

seen from Brazil

seen from United States

seen from United Kingdom

seen from Brunei

seen from United States

seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
@aggressivelypretentious-blog
She cries at sunsets because she doesn't believe in sunrises.
Sunsets - JR
Mistakes
Do you want to know the truth?
I know that her and I would be a mistake, but I also know, given the opportunity, that it’s a mistake i’d make ten times out of ten.
4 AM
We were sat together, the music of the club still ringing in our ears; you always said it was a bit loud. The drunken murmurs of passers by provided the backdrop to our muted conversations. A friend asked, what do you want to be when you’re older? ‘Happy.’ I responded, as if it was something tangible. I couldn’t tell him how I was going to achieve that, but I looked over to you and smiled, ‘That’s a good start’ I thought to myself.
Dear Distance,
Fuck you.
Forget
I know you can’t forgive me. I hope, for your sake, that you can forget me.
18. I don’t speak to you any more, the cards in the mail left unanswered; the messages left on ‘read’ It may seem heartless, to give up on my father but you gave up on me a long time before.
18. I'm often asked if I miss you, on such occasions I rack my brain for some positive memory, something to hold onto, and I only ever find the hurt, the pain of you’re actions.
18. I have finally come to accept that you’ll never be the man I wish you were. Today is my birthday, 18, an adult supposedly, but you've never taught me how to be a man.
17. I’m driving home with my Mum when she finds out the divorce has finally come through, we turn on the radio, we sing and we laugh before I realise It’s been too long since is saw her smile. I realise that you could never touch her again, she was free of you.
17. Why is it so hard? I thought moving out of the house would fix things, I thought I could forget the way you made me feel.
17. I slip into a depression without being able to tell my Mum because how selfish of me to burden her with my troubles when she has so much to carry, so I silently battle demons in my mind; hoping one day someone will understand.
17. My brother and I are loading the moving van to leave our childhood home, but you sit drunken on the sofa, three bottles of wine lay across your lap, your favourite accessory. We argue as you refuse to move before you get up and menacingly try to hit me, I step back and with one strike send you across the room. I cry later that night, not because I hit you, because I know longer care that I have to.
17. I tell my friends that my parents are getting divorced, they offer words of sympathy but I could never tell them the true story, because how would they understand the ways you've failed me?
16. I come home and find you asleep on the sofa for the 3rd time this week, you’re drunken snores have become the anthem of my childhood, the depressing symphony of paralytic groans.
16. Mum’s quick to anger and shouts at me often, I know she’s upset at you, so I allow her to release the anger.
15. After a long night of arguing you tell us how you are going to kill yourself, before I have the time to process it, you stumble to the bedroom window and try to climb out of it, my heart pumps out of my chest as I watch you struggle to fit before giving up and collapsing on the floor.
15. I am scared to bring friends home because I am terrified of them meeting you, I am terrified of them understanding how I live my life.
15. I struggle to tell anyone how I feel, you make me feel as if no-one is going to understand, you’re lack of attention has left me feeling weak as I don’t realise that people would help me if I just reached out.
14. I heard you arguing with mum, I went upstairs because I was scared. This led to me entering the argument and before long you lean forward and try to grab me, I lean out and hit you. I’ll never forget the image of you stumbling back and hitting your face on the side of the door. You will never understand the psychological impact that had on me, fighting my father at just 14; it wasn't fair, but I didn't expect fair any more.
14. You had taken me to see a rugby game, this is the one connection we had. As the game went on you kept going to the toilet and coming back increasingly drunk. I had to borrow a stranger’s phone to ask mum for a lift, you insisted you weren't drunk before driving off and leaving me alone in the dark to wait.
14. On holiday you told me you were going to kill yourself, it took me a few years to consider the question, what if you did? how would my life have changed? I don’t feel comfortable answering these questions but it’s the life you’ve made for me.
13. My first few years of secondary school are spent shyly hoping no-one talks to me because you've made me trust few people.
13. I make excuses because there must be some reason you are like this, you do really care about me really.
12. I first start to understand that you’re an alcoholic, it pains me to grasp the concept that you enjoy drink more than you care for me.
11. I don’t understand why Mummy and Daddy keep fighting.
10. You fall asleep on the sofa every night, I think it’s because you’re sleepy.
9. I convinced myself that Mummy and Daddy fought because I was naughty, it was myself.
8. I still looked up to you.
7. One morning you asked me whether you and mum should split up and my little heart stopped beating.
6. Why does daddy smell funny?
5. I wanted to grow up to be just like daddy, he was strong and tall and good at sports.
4. Daddy looked after me
3. You were still drunk but my innocent mind was unaware and still saw you as the hero you should have been
2. 1. 0. I wish you weren't my dad
Please god don’t let me end up like you.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This is very different from most of my work and it is still very much a work in progress, but I decided to write something a little more personal; I will be making revisions but in the meantime if you have any thoughts please feel free to message me.
I took inspiration from the poem ‘21′ by Patrick Roche. Patrick is very talented and his story aligned with mine so I decided to somewhat replicate his work. Please go check him out :)
Mrs Unattainable
Mrs Unattainable let me be your Mr compromise? I know it's not going to happen, but what if it did? I could treat you like no one else could, inadequately. I could show you a good time baby, ever played Mario Kart? I could show you my rocking body, rocking from side to side as I nervously rack my brain for some form of wit; to save you from this encompassing silence. I could buy you nice things, well some things; not too much though mum doesn't give me much pocket money. I could write you beautiful poems, as long as you don't care for silly things like talent or plagiarism. I could compliment you every day, yet my charm is like human rights in North Korea; worryingly lacking. I could fight off guys who hit on you, ok I'll try my best. They should know I took a couple karate classes back in 08; I've probably still got it. I could buy you amazing meals, well on Tuesday's dominoes have two for Tuesday's so we can like spilt the cost and it'll be pretty cheap. Mrs Unattainable, why would you settle for Mr perfect when you can have Mr Doing His Best Despite The Lack Of Substantial Qualities.
Izzy
“I’m scared” lying helplessly in the hospital bed she has a right to be, she is facing the inconvenient crippling reality of death. And I don’t have the heart to tell her I am scared too, she needs me to be strong; something I am not. But I fight through the tears as I tell her “Wait for me up there.” I’m not religious, but right now I am clinging to any piece of hope that I’ll see her smile again; it’s already been too long. The slow beeps of the heart monitor and the distant coughs of patients occupy my mind as her eyes fill with tears. “You won’t love me when we meet again.” Her words cut deep and reveal the uncomfortable thoughts we have both been hiding. I have to coil my tongue to stop myself from speaking recklessly. I allow my eyes to wonder around the room, so I don’t have to meet her gaze. They say hospitals are where you go to get better, but this room is where people go to die. The faces of the nurses wondering the corridors tell a thousand stories, their pretend smiles hide memories of heartbreak, of the ones they could not save. The pleasant light blue shade of paint on the walls feels like a fabricated detraction from reality. The children’s paintings on the wall provide false hope, each happy house that’s drawn tells the story of a child who never returned to his. Sunshine’s drawn by children who would never see it again. Izzy speaks once more and I am drawn back to reality: “Don’t waste your life on me. You’ve been good to me, but you have your life ahead of you and I can’t let you be hung up on me.” I respond before I can catch my breath: “Izzy, i’ll never find someone like you.” For a second I see her grin, and the weakness in her lips breaks my heart as she wearily responds: “of course you won’t, I’m pretty fucking awesome.” I laugh and it feels like the greatest lie I have ever told. Before she sees through my poorly constructed evasion, she asks one final thing of me “Just promise me you’ll be strong for me? In the time we have left”
I will try Izzy
I will try
JR
Alternate universes
My friend told me today that there are an infinite number of alternate universes, my heart aches for the versions of me that never got to meet you.
JR
Sorry
I am sorry, the words never seem good enough do they? Like a morning without breakfast or a day without seeing your smile. I could make excuses, tell you how things have been tough; but that would not fix things. I have tried lying, not that I am proud of it. The way I acted was wrong, I know that now; but I can’t fix it, try as I may. I could beg for forgiveness but I do not deserve it. There is nothing I can do to make things OK, so I am sorry, I understand it is inadequate but It’s all I have.
JR
Sunsets
She cries at sunsets because she doesn't believe in sunrises. She’s afraid of attachment because no-one ever stays. Her brain doesn't trust her heart, because it has never been right. Happiness is a distant cousin, a lose acquaintance but tragedy, tragedy is a best friend. Light may leave her, but darkness is there with an uncomfortable smile and a shoulder to cry on. People have tried to save her, but she’s pushed them away; they’ll only leave like everyone else. My writing may not reach her but I’d feel defeated if I did not try, and my advise for you poor girl is to breathe.
Breathe.
And when your lungs are full, we’ll work on filling your heart. You will be upset, that’s the ugly truth of life. Though you will be hurt, you only have to look at the remarkable regularity of sunrises, and learn that things will get better; you just have to believe. So tonight, when you watch the sunset alone don’t be scared, it will arise as strong as ever; and so will you my dear.
JR
I had 6 days left to love you and I met each morning like a new year. On my last New Year’s eve I would know if my last 6 days could turn into 7. I had 6 days left to love you and 6 days to prepare myself for heartbreak, because on day 7 I realized: whether it be: 6 centuries, 6 decades, 6 years, 6 months, 6 weeks, 6 days, 6 hours, 6 minutes, or 6 fucking seconds… you still didn’t love me.
2/8/16, 9:40 PM (via morning-revivals)
The girl with the books
She was the sort of girl that would apologise to the rain cloud that followed her, not to be nice; she just always thought she was in the way. Her life was spent that way, never fitting in. She did not have any friends, apart from the characters in her books, yet even they left after 400 or so pages. So she has spent her life wondering from book to book hoping that one will fix the pain in her chest. Sometimes it works, she’ll connect with a character; yet she still longed for a real connection. Clinging to stories of ugly ducklings she hopes that one day she’ll be beautiful, one day she’ll be loved. Her head is buried in books as she dreams of being noticed; if only she’d look up.
JR
I hate that I still forgive you.
JR
Tell me a story.
Tell me a story. Take me away.
Tell me a story. Speak to me of dragons, mountains and the princess in the tower.
Tell me a story. But make it easy, my mind is too tired to think too much.
Tell me a story. Make it pretend, I need it to be fake.
Tell me a story. One with a happy ending, don’t tell me that’s not how life works.
Tell me a story. One where he ends up with her and they live happily ever after.
Tell me a story. Please don’t make it sad.
Tell me a story. Show me that all of this, it’s going to be OK
Tell me a story. Because I need to escape.
JR
“It’s sad really.” Amy looked confused “What’s that Ben?” “Your eyes have so much beauty, yet they’ll never get to appreciate it fully; no mirror could do justice to the deep blue masterpieces I see before me.”
JR
be kind to historians. they do a thankless job, digging through layers and layers of artifacts, letters, and dates, only to be told that their work is not as important as others’. their paper-cut hands don’t seem impressive to most, the sign of the leisurely scholar. but they carry the burden of mankind’s memory- shepherds of souls, they rescue the lost from lethe’s devouring streams. the doctor may scoff, the engineer laugh, the physicist sneer. yet no one has found immortality’s secret except the historians, who delve into textbooks and bring people back to life.
be kind to historians. they are a sensitive, though not fragile, sort. they have wept for those whom they can never meet, for those who have been dust for centuries before our time. in some ways these lives are meaningless to them, vague shadows of people who once walked upon the earth, perhaps something like the people we know them as, perhaps not. time snatches some details away, corrupts others. but the historians collect them all and say, you were a person once. let us get know you as best as we can.
be kind to historians. they are, as schlegel once wrote, like prophets in reverse. they cannot predict the future, not exactly; their knowledge is of the past. but unlike normal prophets, historians can explain their myriad visions. old happenings become not whats and whens but whys, and the historians tell us their tales of the past with an eye toward the future. they cannot exactly say what will happen, but they warn us of what might, looking where nobody else will to keep us as safe as they can.
yes, be kind to historians. because they are kind to us.