The Bright Sessions
noise dept.
Keni
Mike Driver
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
No title available
if i look back, i am lost
art blog(derogatory)
YOU ARE THE REASON
Cosmic Funnies
Origami Around
Product Placement
One Nice Bug Per Day
Fieri Frames
Love Begins
ojovivo
Monterey Bay Aquarium
Jar Jar Binks Fan Club
Cookie Run:Kingdom Official!
seen from Bangladesh
seen from Pakistan
seen from Canada
seen from Malaysia
seen from Singapore
seen from Germany
seen from Bangladesh
seen from Indonesia
seen from Malaysia
seen from Uzbekistan
seen from Azerbaijan
seen from United States
seen from Indonesia
seen from Colombia
seen from Indonesia
seen from South Korea
seen from Canada
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
@alternative-literature
from 2012 until a few weeks ago i didn’t enjoy reading
this was very troublesome to me
i wondered things like if i had grown stupider
or ruined my brain with TV or the internet
maybe i started liking reading again because i am currently unemployed and now i no longer have to read as part of my...
Every time I see that PM instead of an AM depression strikes; but there are even worse times when AM is even later than PM.
i live with such sadness sorrow fills all the cracks and leaves me hollow. shallow thoughts gain depth over an embankment sliding to the match not yet met, ive sweat deliberating the permeation of any and all contaminations poisoning my brain, even the sound of the falling rain falls...
Today has been the kind of day where I was aching to get high,
Before you approach me with your holier-than-thou attitude,
Just know I’ve been under the influence about 4 times in my entire life. (Ohkay. Maybe 5, but who’s countin’)
Anyways, I wanted to skyrocket & number the stars, smiling at...
How I Learned to Choose My Battles
The truth was, I never should have returned to New Haven.
It was a bad deal from the start and I knew it. In spite of the all signs point to no, like some cosmic magic eight-ball rattling in my head—like a former dorm room buddy bailing on me, like the last minute decision to live with a junkie—I pressed onward like a square peg into a round hole.
Who’s to say whether things would have been different if I went to an accredited community college versus returning to a non-accredited art art school (which I never did anyway). that things would have turned out differently? Life is mysteriously idiosyncratic in that come hither way.
Alternate outcomes to parallel timelines were God’s territory.
Like a bad chemical reaction, I boarded a train to Grand Central. My singular need to be with this woman—always and forever self-professed to be my soul mate—overpowered any and all reason to do what was necessary for me. But that was addiction: denial of the habit.
Somehow I never left that train, looking out at the dusk from fluorescent-stained windows, believing myself to be a harmless, self-centered bastard. But I was the furthest thing from harmless, as she found out days later following an ill-advised suggestion for me to remain in her company.
That week-and-a-half smacked of us being two lines intersecting to make a crux of two lives destined for heartbreak. But I needed to be in her presence anyway. I couldn’t get enough of her eyes, her hair, her breathless voice. I was willing to dare whatever followed.
If only my mind was a little quieter. Jealousy was an evil thing, skulking the corners of my thoughts as the remainder of my time slipped away like grains of sand through an hourglass. The child of me told her in all the ways I wanted to be with her. The lover of me was impotent with every attempt.
By the end of my stay, even I knew how my touch repulsed her. My fingers had ensconced an eternal sunset they’ve never been able to shake. Almost as if the home they tried to build spread with a contagion lost to every medical encyclopedia ever written. I’d become a sick soul.
The last day was heavy like tarpaulin weighted with rain water. Every fiber of my being moved as though in super slow-motion. It wasn’t until many years later I realized this was how heartbreak manifested physically upon the body. Not with heart palpitations but with chains.
We never even kissed a proper goodbye when I boarded the train back to whatever future lay in front of me. Poughkeepsie had become a naked twilight closing its doors on me forever, and for the millionth time in my life I’d become a child before the eyes of the world. My presence was irrelevant.
But what if I’d chosen to swallow my jealousy like a sword? It would have ripped open my insides worse than the sickly pallor my evil emotion granted me in those last few days, that’s what. I’m no mathematician, but even I could see there was no way to solve that equation, then as now.
The experience was a quotient of something far more complex than my heart refused to accept (and still does to this day) because we weren’t the result of a math problem or a chemical reaction. We were just two kids on the precipice of a vast and uncertain future we desperately tried to avoid.
Silly kids, Trix were (and always have been) for kids.
What I took from that experience for many years was the pain of losing someone who was perhaps the single most vital aspect of a life worth fighting for, and one whose loss stole the very fight from my essence. Its effect spanned the next fourteen years and culminated in an equal fashion.
That quotient I spoke of was a result of an echo reaching from the past, reminding me to choose my battles wisely but not to give up the fight altogether. A year of solitude was the best teacher because I learned how to fight for myself and those I loved.
It was only when you learned to fight for yourself were you allowed to fight for the ones you cared for the most because if and when love found me again, there was no evil I’d ever allow to touch our temple. Not even that which my own heart was capable of inflicting.
One day Jabba the Hutt is going to come up to you and swallow you in the pit of his crime.
"Why do I think about ending us so often?” (r.i.d)
Today while I was in the laundromat, I caught a girl staring at me like I had an entire dead mariachi band somewhere inside my body.
It was a very specific stare, not to mention a very disorienting stare to catch.
I didn’t know what to do with it after I had already caught it so I decided on...
I like when tits are hanging out.
USAUSAUSA
My mom asked me what my political leanings are. I said “anarchist.” She said are you serious. I said yes. She said is that violent? I said capitalism is violent She said that’s true.
my original blessing was not to declare everything wrong but to say something else is also true and something else and something else and something else and so forth unto those mothering stars
You won't believe what happens when I am sleep
I miss the even numbered hours. 2pm, 4pm, 6pm, 8pm, 10pm, 12am, 2am, 4am, 6am, 8am, 10am, 12pm. I miss them all. Are you the same? Ever watch the clock tick over from 1:59:59 to 3:00:00? I saw that once, late one night. Stuff happens during those missing hours. It seems like I do things, but I don’t remember it. It hasn’t stopped me from holding down a job. Skipping forward into the middle of a conversation can be confusing. I’ve built up a habit. Ten minutes before an even numbered hour and I start telling myself what I will do for the next hour. At the next odd hour I double check I did it. I always check, though I have always completed what I planned.
Last weekend I bought one of those cameras you hang around your cat’s neck to see what they get up to. I didn’t get up to anything. I just pottered around the house. Watched some tv. Took a leak. Checked Facebook. Then I set up my laptop to record myself sleeping. That was a mistake.
Turns out during those even numbered hours in the night I don’t sleep. On the turn of the hour I stand up and *unfold* into a faceted, crystalline mass that hangs frozen in the air, perfectly motionless until a single spine grows from its top, and at its tip a red shimmering expands into a vortex from which slender limbs extend to stroke the facets, coaxing them to produce a torrent of hair and teeth, skin, entrails, blood, that spills upward into the vortex. The milking, for that is what it appears to be, continues until the minute before the hour. The limbs withdraw, the vortex closes, and the crystalline mass unfolds itself to reform my body and I get back into bed and return to the exact position I had been in, to sleep another hour.
i'm sorry for thinking about you the way most people think about divinities or their grandparents
sometimes i think about sitting across from you at a cutesy cafe halfway up to montmartre before i realize that this ground had first been appropriated by american expatriates, and now we’re eating brie, i’m staring at your grateful dead t, you at my irises.
i say ‘hey, i wanna be with you for some time’ and you, halfway through your pepsi, don’t even reply because you’re wooden, a mannequin i dressed up earlier in the day, the sterile part of my imagination— in dreams like these we only dialogue with ourselves.
'i'm sorry, i didn't mean it, please go away now,” but you stay and you continue to glance at my slits and i’m rock hard and my phone is buzzing, in real life too, and it’s you saying ‘goodnight man’ and i’m still hard.
abandon shi- abandon book! we jump but we do not land — there are invisible men on a black and white beach; tiger stripes? no, zebra I left my tiger ones at home but I can still find fury — i’m still hip to the game who commits suicide in a doll house? dolls I suppose — I can’t take the devil seriously with that clown nose on; that sound that trumpets through is adventure calling you have fangs, make like the police are dead — go.
Emmanuel Njomo Jr., Mattress in the Forest, Life of Dog
Sleep is just the taking of a breather
Blinking Screens Versus Books {2014}
I love how although I see so many people on their devices all the time, the subway in San Francisco is more of an even split. Almost half on devices, a few sleeping or staring blankly into space, and the rest of them reading books. Books with lovely pages with ink running into more ink. Stories waiting to be read as lives are continuously lead.
We will be slightly disinterested in each other while very interested in ourselves appearing disinterested to each other while being interested in each other being secretly interested. We will sit in coffee shops while bored. We will talk about alternative medicine and veganism and agree we are not committed enough. We will not be committed. We will be annoyed with each other sometimes. We will talk about music. And we will hold each other’s hands in the wintertime and continue feeling sad but we will be sad together which we decide is ultimately better than being sad alone. And we will visit city parks and we will visit libraries and we will visit bookstores.
