Thoughts.💭

♡ Future Sailor.⚓️ ♡ Mommy to a winged angel. ♡ Ashlynn Mackenzie. ♡ Navy Wife, 5/27/15. ♡ Artist, Singer. ♡ 1/24/14,IWALY.

[deepsauceblr-deactivated2017022]

And You hedge me in with skin all around me I’m a garden enclosed A locked garden Life takes place behind the face

Misty Edwards, Garden (via deepsauceblr)

[naturaekos]

“Study me as much as you like, you will never know me, for I differ a hundred ways from what you see me to be. Put yourself behind my eyes, and see me as I see myself, for I have chosen to dwell in a place you cannot see.”

Rumi (via naturaekos)

[poupon]

Purrsephone 

[timotaychalamet]

The Object of My Affection (1998) dir. Nicholas Hytner

[heartsnmagic]

[bookmarksandbrushpens]

Handwriting video requested by @safffiaa. Please excuse my terrible filming and editing 😁, I ended up leaving the audio in just because I like hearing the pen scratch across the page.

[lolipopwithrain]

[iglovequotes]

http://iglovequotes.net/

[betasyo]

[krewellagrace]

Wondering, Pondering. (Spoken Word)

“Wondering, Pondering.”

I always wondered, pondered, dreamed what it would be like to touch you for the very first time. I always slept those harsh lonely nights with one arm strung over the side of a stuffed animal I had been comforted by since the very first time I had learned how to create a companion in another coexisting object or person if you will. I always spent my nights trying to give you this unique twist, always giving myself this beautiful image of you in my heart, letting it sit upon my restless mind, in my ever so perfect fairytale dreams. The taste of you, so as to make your daydream personality as vivid as possible, tasted much like the love I had made to you months later, dancing on my tongue long before I knew you had purchased my plane ticket to visit you. I had died each day passing, grew weary of waiting, became sickly emotional, lost all desire to eat, drink, sleep, talk, feel, love, Because love had been absent from me. Absent. Love. When love becomes absent, we grow sick. We crumple within ourselves like the ember and ash of an old burning home, the outer appearance growing a different shade of orange, something the world had never seen before. And when spotted at a distance from a bypassing eye, the girl who screamed “fire!” whose voice broke the silence, crying out “Save me!” had gone unnoticed, when all that she needed was someone to notice, that someone to be love, for love to extinguish and silence the flames. She burned within herself, resembled death at its tragic worst, until her home had collapsed to nothing. The walls crashing and falling with each small simple act of movement. She was afraid to move. She stood still. Stillness. Stillness as silent as the voices that had been quieted during 9/11, stillness as empty as the aftermath of a miscarriage. Stillness as painful as the loss of a mother, stillness. Stillness still exists. I was the stillness that fell upon the room, the cold that chilled the air causing the milliseconds to freeze in time, the soft short hairs on your arms to stand straight up, the goosebumps on your body to form…(To Be Continued.)

[krewellagrace]

Turn On The Lights

“Turn On The Lights.”

Imagine this…
The lightening strikes, the thunder cracks, the electricity dies.
In that moment, silence falls upon the room, you’re in sudden fear and left in unexpected darkness.
No light switch to flip, no outlets to plug into, no sound.
Just your heavy breathing, blood rushing through your veins and the movement of the rise and fall of your chest.
The world becomes such a lonely place, and in that moment you become irrelevant. A world beyond your darkened room is lit, but yours is left dead.
This… This is when you turn on the lights.
Not physically, not by a switch or a push of a button. But by realizing,
In that state of silence, you have the power to change it. With your words, with a guitar, with your eyes and mind. With your hands and feet and how you go about it. 
There are two options. To either lie in bed, throw the covers over your head and wait for the storm to pass, or simply get up and do something with the silence that has been rewarded to you, and count it as a blessing of peace and a sheer reminder that sometimes being alone with the silence and ourselves is something we need to take time for rather than letting it hit us unexpectedly.
It’s such a peaceful thing to sit in complete stillness and be at peace with the world rather than rushing into the chaotic business that lies in the busy streets of the universe.
To dig into an old book with crinkled pages and dusty edges. To write to your hearts content and all that may flow from it.
Silence.
It’s an acceptance of our capability without electronics and social media.
Without lights, without plug ins. Without another’s opinion on whether you should change what you’re doing or not.
It’s just you, the silence, your hands abilities, your voices confidence and the walls in between.
That is a world that which I desire to live in.
One where we aren’t afraid.
But accept what has come and make of it something that somebody thought was impossible.
After all, everything is impossible until somebody does it.
Turn on the lights and see our complexed world in a different light.

[krewellagrace]

Who Knows Poe Like Goth

“Who Knows Poe Like Goth. Who Knows Goth Like Poe.” I’m not much of a fan of “gothic” things. I wasn’t goth but one of the many raccoon makeup, black nail polish, angry at the world, skinny jean wearers of 2006-2009.
I know gothic.
I know gothic enough to know that that wasn’t gothic.
That was ridiculous.
My interest in heavy metal music was also lacking true sense of “goth” (Although Evanescence overall displays darkness when it comes to modern goth). I’ve come to the conclusion that nobody knows true goth like Poe.
Poe was a first. His passion embodied spirituality and goth, the darkness of each piece of writing that came with that. From spiritual omens, such as black cats and crows, to his almost balletic wording, Poe is a gothic emblem for many of us to rally under. He expresses pure emotion sometimes overbearing, such as the caregiver who heard the beating heart, or the utter contempt exhibited in the Cask Of Amontillado. Everything he wrote was mysterious, kept you guessing until the end, leaning on the edge of your seat, thumbing through pages to find answers. Most importantly, it was dark. The darkness of his works, the twisted abominations from his mind are what draw in many of us. 
He knew true darkness,
Something many of us have never heard of before, have never laid honest eyes on. 
He embodied what a majority of us could never attain. And for that, Poe has my lifelong admiration and passion for poetic writing and other mysterious masterpieces.

[status-excessu]

[27-06]

[itschinyere-deactivated20200201]

http://iamchinyere.tumblr.com

[zzzze]

Nobuyoshi Araki, Flower Stem, 1990

[starkkarim]