Happy birthday, John Knowles (born on this day in 1926)!

Andulka
AnasAbdin

Kiana Khansmith

PR's Tumblrdome
almost home

titsay
🪼
dirt enthusiast

Love Begins

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
wallacepolsom

oozey mess
we're not kids anymore.
No title available
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
styofa doing anything
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
h
cherry valley forever
YOU ARE THE REASON
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from Brazil
seen from United States

seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Canada
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Lithuania
seen from Tunisia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Canada

seen from Malaysia
seen from South Africa
@breckaddison
Happy birthday, John Knowles (born on this day in 1926)!
If
you start with "don't take this the wrong way, but..." do not follow their reaction with "I don't know why you're so upset about that." If you have a feeling they might take it "the wrong way," the you do understand why they are upset.
…I cannot continue in this condition! I have to remind myself to breathe–almost to remind my heart to beat!
Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte (1847)
Wuthering Heights + Short Sentences.
“What did I say when you kissed me?” “You said it didn’t work for you.” “I lied.”
― Benjamin Alire Sáenz, Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe
I’m in awe right now
This.is.so.goergeous.
THANK YOU
I’m upset I spelled gorgeous wrong so I shall reblog it again because it is truly beautiful
23 Emotions people feel, but can’t explain
Sonder: The realization that each passerby has a life as vivid and complex as your own.
Opia: The ambiguous intensity of Looking someone in the eye, which can feel simultaneously invasive and vulnerable.
Monachopsis: The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place.
Énouement: The bittersweetness of having arrived in the future, seeing how things turn out, but not being able to tell your past self.
Vellichor: The strange wistfulness of used bookshops.
Rubatosis: The unsettling awareness of your own heartbeat.
Kenopsia: The eerie, forlorn atmosphere of a place that is usually bustling with people but is now abandoned and quiet.
Mauerbauertraurigkeit: The inexplicable urge to push people away, even close friends who you really like.
Jouska: A hypothetical conversation that you compulsively play out in your head.
Chrysalism: The amniotic tranquility of being indoors during a thunderstorm.
Vemödalen: The frustration of photographic something amazing when thousands of identical photos already exist.
Anecdoche: A conversation in which everyone is talking, but nobody is listening
Ellipsism: A sadness that you’ll never be able to know how history will turn out.
Kuebiko: A state of exhaustion inspired by acts of senseless violence.
Lachesism: The desire to be struck by disaster – to survive a plane crash, or to lose everything in a fire.
Exulansis: The tendency to give up trying to talk about an experience because people are unable to relate to it.
Adronitis: Frustration with how long it takes to get to know someone.
Rückkehrunruhe: The feeling of returning home after an immersive trip only to find it fading rapidly from your awareness.
Nodus Tollens: The realization that the plot of your life doesn’t make sense to you anymore.
Onism: The frustration of being stuck in just one body, that inhabits only one place at a time.
Liberosis: The desire to care less about things.
Altschmerz: Weariness with the same old issues that you’ve always had – the same boring flaws and anxieties that you’ve been gnawing on for years.
Occhiolism: The awareness of the smallness of your perspective.
Untitled Short
Alone in the city, I wandered aimlessly. Light could still be seen above the buildings, but darkness had crept down to the streets. Nightlife had yet to resume, leaving the narrow pathways relatively devoid of foot traffic. Decorations proclaiming the holiday season had disappeared or might never have existed at all, but the winter chill was as present as ever. I tightened the scarf around my neck, buried my hands in my pockets, and walked with the wind.
With only a few days left before I had to return home I was desperate to absorb my surroundings, but my senses were being overloaded. So many foreign sights and smells cluttered the street. Even the sidewalk beneath my feet felt somehow different, and the air titillated my tastebuds. I was drunk on the atmosphere. Occasionally I had the opportunity to smile at a face as it passed–each one new. A few smiled back.
Ahead of me I saw a table burdened with books. Unable to resist the urge to acquire more novels than I have space for, I continued forward hungrily. The table was standing in front of a wide, paned window that peered into a dream-like second hand bookstore. Inside I could see cramped aisles drowning in shadows cast by towering shelves of some ancient dark wood and another heavy laden table on the opposite side of the glass, giving the illusion that the shop was so stuffed books were pouring into the street. Also visible, was a small counter that stood just past the impossibly narrow door through which all patrons must pass. I assumed it must be the shop owner who sat behind the antique cash register reading a dusty paperback, unaware that he was being studied. He was old, with a shock white beard cascading down to his chest. He looked happy to be there, and I thought that maybe one day I would be so happy to sit and read and not care so much about the world outside.
I looked away and glanced over the volumes stacked haphazardly across the top of the table in front of me. I reached for a tattered copy of This Side of Paradise, and my hand grazed that of another book lover, whose arrival I had not noticed. I looked up and met his gaze. His eyes were, for lack of a better word, beautiful–a deep, majestic blue that gave way to minuscule flecks of green and inner circles of grey.
I smiled stupidly, self-aware. He smiled back, a beautiful, radiant smile.
“Go ahead,” he said in the deep, smooth voice that fills my head while reading Isherwood novels.
I tried to refuse with an addled shake of the head, but this mystery man was persistent. “I’ve already read it,” he said as he picked up the book. He reached out and took my hand. He placed the paperback in my palm, and I accepted it.
My heart quickened it’s pace, and the cold seemed less cold. The wind died down, the light from the window grew brighter, and the city’s noises hushed into distant rumblings that might have come from some forgotten television.
“Is it as good as they say?” I asked, finding my voice.
“Depends on whether or not you’re a romantic. I’m afraid a pragmatic person would find it absolutely drab.”
I sighed. “Isn’t romanticism just a word people use to beautify a diseased mind?”
“You’ll love it,” he answered, with that smile. That smile made me smile.
I wanted to say more. I wanted to know his name. I wanted to crack him open like a book and let his stories spill out. But I just smiled and thought what a perfect story this was, and how one day I might write it down.
He extended his hand as if to say, “It was a pleasure to meet you”. I mirrored his action thinking, “The pleasure was mine.”
As my fingertips brushed his palm, a zap of electricity cracked the still air. This caused him to laugh aloud. I laughed too, embarrassed for no discernible reason. He backed away with a salute and that smile, and those eyes danced in the glowing light from the bookstore window.
“‘When the lightning strikes one of us, it strikes both!’” he sang before turning into the night, still laughing quietly to himself.
Like all my other great love affairs, this one lasted the space of a few heartbeats. I clung to the book in my hand and watched my nameless lover disappear, before I finally turned and walked through that narrow bookshop door, disturbing the quiet old man’s reading.
-Kyle Beard, 11/20/2012
I will never be over him. Though I can go days, weeks, or months without thinking of him, I can’t go one night without dreaming about him. And the dreams are really nightmares. He never wants anything to do with me. It's really all about desperation.
tsundoku (n.)
Ghosts (an 8 part story)
“A town sat beneath the shaky secrets and forgotten years, It is a place to die afraid.
The house is all shadows and shutters, Rotted floors and haunted doors guard like soldiers through her home.
Twilight roams the gardens like a dark winter that no human touch could kiss goodbye. He couldn’t breathe.
He disappeared into the shadows and returned a stranger.
She’s dancing with a ghost.”
Stop.
Just stop. You are better than that. Stop trying to be someone so far away. You are you, and so gloriously you, that you become unrecognizable when you become someone else.
Thinking about some of those old books we read.
"Listen. For me to get to this point means a great deal. I wouldn't have come this far if I didn't see it going somewhere good. I am a hesitant person; always have been, probably always will be. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is--I've kind of fallen in love with you."
Her troubles were rooted deep within her mind, hiding behind eyes that dimmed when she remembered.
The only time I'd ever contemplated suicide was on the happiest day of my life, and only because I felt I would never experience such bliss again.
Finally organized a lot of what I've written over the years.