˚₊‧꒰აBri.໒꒱‧₊˚ @chaoticmoonbeams - Tumblr Blog

Grief

There are certain absences that behave strangely. Most things leave and remain gone. They obey laws of distance and ending. They become smaller, quieter, with less desire to reach you.

These do not.

A house swallowed by a forest of trees, glows faintly between them. I encounter them everywhere. There are entire worlds that once existed inside of me that have since collapsed into themselves, becoming as dense and unreachable as dead stars. Sometimes I imagine them gathered somewhere beyond sight. Pooling into a stream of consciousness. Collecting like old stardust in a dusty pile.

Dust settles over everything there. While candles continue to burn without consuming themselves. The air remains thick with the feeling that someone has temporarily stepped out and will return at any moment.

But no one ever does.

Somewhere amongst, drifts a particular type of ghost. The one formed from all the ways I once knew how to love. Not an object of devotion, but the architecture of attachment. The cathedrals and gardens whose ruins remain. Vines have claimed their walls, and moonlight pools where stained glass once turned everything into color. But still in their eerie form, their refracted shards of broken glass glitter.

Some nights I feel those lost worlds orbiting beneath my skin. Dark satellites of forgotten kingdoms. Entire eclipses wait patiently inside of my body. And I wonder if grief is the shadow they cast as they pass.

For a moment I am overcome by the terrible knowledge that none of it has passed and only has become inaccessible. The cruel reality of becoming a stranger to your own ruin. Not exactly mourning, but trespassing a place you no longer belong in. There are shadows and impressions everywhere and the warmth left behind by a hundred vanished suns. Futures that once stretched so far in the distance they seemed infinite are now hanging in the air like smoke from a fire; I watch them burn. And what stings the most is not the loss of what I loved, but the loss of the one who loved it. Because there existed a formula for moving through this world that I can no longer replicate on my own. A particular recipe of faith; I search for it in the sand of time, brushing away years, hoping to uncover something intact. Instead I’m left with fragmented reality. Never enough to reconstruct anything but only enough to prove it once existed within. My hands catching onto broken shards and bleeding lines of crimson into that void. Leaving behind traces of myself too; present fingerprints of red. It’s favorite flavor.

There are nights where the knowledge becomes an unbearable curse. To know that entire universes can perish without anyone ever really noticing the screams of all who inhabited as everything goes up in flames. Versions of me that vanished so completely that the only evidence remaining is the ache they leave behind in my hands as I prick myself on beautiful roses with hidden thorns. And yet that ache carries a gentle phantom that touches me softly and kisses my wounds. The ache that echoes in the hollowed out parts of my heart where there is a jagged empty vase full of dust, and a shelf still left for it; it leaves its flowers for me there. Holes that were created as they tried to claw their way out of captivity. Everything still smells of metal, flowers, and deception. Tasting on my tongue the bitterness of remembrance. It reaches me like a star whose light continues to arrive even centuries after its death. The screams; it sounds exactly the way a prayer would, that still echoes into an empty cathedral with no voice to be found. Lingering like the scent of pressed flowers in books, their blooms hopeless and trapped in stories that will never be read.

I have discovered that aching is capable of preserving things beyond their natural expected life. They become flower petals dropped into amber, fading its color but preserving its form. And the dead is actually submerged under the surface of belief; a dark water where their outlines are only visible as light reaches them at the perfect angle or until you are completely aware. I am their final sanctuary and that is why I find them so often. I collect them like seashells that continue holding the sound of the ocean. I put my ear to them softly and listen to them speak. They are my relics suspended in the amber of my becoming. Long after the garden dies in the frost of the winter, the soil remembers every root that once reached through it in search of water. And it seems hearts are no different. Mine includes a glass case of expired constellations and dried flowers that carry the shape of forgotten seasons. I run my fingers across the dust. Devotion cannot distinguish between what is living and what is gone because it was never taught how. Therefore it doesn’t know the difference.

There are days where I suspect preservation is not a kindness, and that to keep something intact is a form of violence. I have begun to notice the cost of memory when it accumulates and the sins I have committed to self. I wake up some mornings already grieving something I cannot name. Something beautiful that hurts to perceive it correctly. There is a strange reversal that happens when grief stops being an experience and starts becoming the environment that chokes you. A mere illusion. You catch yourself listening for echoes instead of voices as if it proves that something hasn’t fully ended. But everything I find is partial. Intercepted words and stolen glances. I continue collecting fragments that cut deep, pulling them out of my skin for safekeeping. And I wonder if this is what it means to survive instead of escaping. Because what I preserve also keeps me sound. Memory itself does not remain still. It continues expanding in between breathes. And i am a passageway of locked rooms that I still insist on keeping lights to. In those rooms nothing will decay. Even the dead continue their motion here. Endings never actually behave like endings.

This is why it feels like trespass. I still walk through spaces that no longer belong to the present tense. Some kind of quiet erosion happens in this condition. I notice it in the smallest of ways. The way grief no longer feels like something I experience, but something that completes itself through me. Possessing my body and moving me the way it needs until I have submitted to all of its desire. Making me its passageway to the next destination.

There is no exit, but it continues to leave me. Not all at once because nothing here is merciful enough for that. Warmth withdraws itself from the edges of me like light that abandons a room it no longer intends to return to. It disperses itself so evenly through everything that I cannot point to where the loss begins. Everything that enters me is already on its way out. It drains through the same invisible fractures it created in me. Some moments I mistake this emptiness for relief, but it is not. It is absence continuing its infection.

In the end, nothing ever resolves. Nothing ever closes. And even loss cannot find the courage to stay.

It leaves too.

Bleeding me out and staining all of my clothes in a deep red forever.

#♡

pissmamiii

“my pretty girl”

RAW next question

ceren2

chaoticmoonbeams

Home

The evening arrives slowly here. The sky, melting gold and amber into the sea, loyal to keeping its own time. I always thought fate would feel dramatic if it ever found me. I imagined thunder and lightning. Certainty. Some type of unmistakable sign written across the sky.

Instead, it feels like this.

Standing in your presence while daylight slips quietly into the ocean. Slowly discovering that peace has a face. Realizing that what you’ve been searching for isn’t actually ahead of you at all, but silently walking beside you with salt on their skin and sunlight trapped in their eyes. Slipping into something so endless, so bound to nothing.

I’ll never reach the end of it.

But I don’t want to.

Because there is something so sacred about being unable to figure out where the shoreline ends. But still bringing your offerings to it. Something so sacred about loving what cannot be measured. Looking in front of me, I see every wrong turn; every closed door; every single one of my prayers that were spoken into empty rooms; every single wish that surrendered itself into the night when no answer came;

I wonder if none of them were actually unanswered. It seems like they might’ve been taking their time to reach me.

A lot of people make me believe in coincidence. But you make me believe in God himself.

Your existence. Like evidence of quiet intention. Like I was being led here without even realizing I was being led at all. Some kind of deliberate divine intervention. And I’ve learned that nothing arriving is ever loud. Change happens quietly. Like the tides that reshape the shore without asking for permission.

There is something almost unexplainable about being near you. As if all of the questions I carried for so long have not been answered, but dissolved into the sea. Carried away by the calm of the waters that lets me know it’s okay to breathe. They were never meant to be solved anyway.

And for once, I stop asking for proof. Just presence. This moment, stretching itself out like the last light of the day that refuses to disappear. Only you, here beside me, making the silence feel like a lullaby meant to be listened to with your laughter.

I naturally stop resisting it. I let the questions go. I forget the need to ever understand every little thing as gold folds itself into cobalt, which deepens into a smooth indigo. Setting the tone for a darker sea. Quiet, like it is holding its breath. And yet you are still here. Close enough that I don’t have to look too far to find you. The idea of distance feeling unreal, like something that only exists when you’re not near.

I don’t know when it happened for sure - the soft shift from looking at you to feeling you. But curiosity turns into something quieter. Something deeper. And I don’t ever want to let go.

And suddenly I’m aware of everything.

How the air feels so much warmer where you are while I keep forgetting to breathe every time I look at you for too long. The stars continue multiplying up above, careless and constant like they’ve seen this kind of thing before and know better than to interrupt. They feel much closer here. You’re still beside me too. Everything is starting to blend.

Amber into indigo.

The evening into night.

The ocean and the sky.

You and I.

I stop trying to separate what feels spiritual and what feels like you. Because the two blur in a way I can’t untangle without sacrifice. It isn’t worship in the way I once imagined it. But closeness that feels too honest to truly look away from.

I look at you and something in me stops performing. Like devotion isn’t always reaching upwards. Sometimes it’s just staying still and letting yourself be changed without resistance. I don’t think I’m looking at you the way people usually look at another person anymore.

And if there is something truly divine in this, it isn’t above us or beyond us.

It’s right here. In the way I don’t feel consumed by it.

Only held. Only here. Only certain.

In the quietest way I’ve ever known.

Which brings me so much comfort.

#♡

perfectquote

“I want to be with you, it is as simple, and as complicated as that.”

— Charles Bukowski

flowers-in-book

i would kiss your soul if i could

ceren2

chaoticmoonbeams

Warmth

There are parts of me that only seem to bloom in your direction. Strange silver-lined petals as thin as moth wings that open at dusk and close when spoken to. They spend their brief lifetime reaching for a light they cannot touch.

I’m not sure what to call that.

There is a kind of peace in being lost by something so beautiful. The strange thing is that I’m never afraid. Even when I realize I have wandered far enough that I no longer recognize the way back.

If I were to place you anywhere in nature it would not be among the flowers. Flowers are too eager to be seen.

I think that’s what unsettles me.

And perhaps that is why I keep returning.

There is something so cruel about beauty that asks nothing of you and still manages to rearrange your entire sense of direction. I thought I had myself anchored. But I stand at a presence that feels like standing at the edge of an ancient doorway and realizing it’s been open all along. As if the ground itself had been quietly arranging into a welcome, folding into a path that meets me gently. It already knew I would arrive. Like falling without end and discovering just before silence takes you, that you were always being held.

The troubling thing is that every metaphor eventually becomes too small. Perhaps that is why I cannot name exactly what I feel. Languages were only invented for ordinary things.

Time gathers strangely in your presence, stretching and folding like the waves of an ocean. The clock remains faithful to itself but everything else seems to drift. Twenty minutes stretch as thin as a thread. By the time it breaks I have lived through enough of you to mistake it for a century. I am struck by the impossible sense that both no time at all and far too much time has passed.

You linger like the scent of rain in an empty room. The subtle bending of gravity around a star. Phantom impressions of fingertips against skin that are entirely gone when I go to reach for them but somehow still there. Our hands meet and something quiet passes between us. Like two tides briefly recognizing the same moon that pulls them.

I now find traces of you everywhere. In pauses between where two breaths meet. I tell myself it’s nothing but my body seems unconvinced. Sometime later and it still echoes through me. Not where I was touched, but somewhere deeper. Somewhere beneath language. Beneath thought. Untouched by reasoning.

I cannot explain it.

When the space between us closes, the universe, for a heartbeat, becomes smaller than it was before. Perhaps what I’m left with then, is the echo of proximity.

Not you exactly, but.

I stop trying to name it. Stop trying to measure what it does to me. Because sometimes I think there are some things that are not meant to be held directly. Only encountered.

It’s light that changes a room without ever belonging to it. And maybe that’s the closest I’ll ever get to understanding. I let it remained unfinished. I carry it anyway. Carefully. Like something that never went cold.

it still brings me warmth.

You make me warm.

I want to be changed by someone.

I want a person whose existence makes me curious about the world and myself. Someone, who challenges me to be better each day without sacrificing my perceived worth. Someone who challenges the way I think. Not to prove me wrong, but to show me perspectives I would have never understood on my own. Someone who inspires growth without ever making me feel like I have to earn my place beside them.

I want the kind of connection where conversation never runs dry between us. Where we spend years asking each other questions, sharing stories, dissecting art, people, culture, and everything in between. Where curiosity becomes its own form of intimacy.

I want someone who loves me loudly when the moment calls for it, but also in the quiet ways that often matter more. Someone whose core values feel familiar, but their mind remains entirely their own. Someone willing to disagree, to challenge me, to let me see the world through their eyes. But someone who treats my mind like a place worth revisiting.

I want to spend a lifetime looking at the same things and finding different meanings in them, trading perspectives until neither of us remembers where our understanding ends and the other’s begins.

I want forevers, and I love you’s that don’t feel rehearsed or borrowed from another’s story. I want them to feel lived in. Not words spoken because they’re expected, but because they’re true. I want a love that doesn’t rely on grand gestures to prove itself. One that lives in the mundane; conversations that bleed into midnight. One that never stops asking, never stops listening, never stops finding new things to discuss; new things to admire. The quiet certainty of being known and chosen again and again and again.

I want the kind of forever that feels less like a promise, and more like a decision we keep making together. A conversation that never ends, even decades later when we continue to discuss it over and over, having dinner.

I want to be loved by someone who is still in the act of becoming. Blossoming like a flower I tend to daily. I will love every version of them and they will love me through all the versions of myself that I have yet to meet. To feel a love that feels alive. Not because it’s dramatic or difficult, but because it keeps evolving.

Personal Journal + Manifestations

#♡