have mass & occupy space.

dust & energy

[dispachio-blog]

writer’s block/ode to april

yeah, well i liked you when the moon was high but now... the sun in your skin burns when I hold you

[teded]

The mathematician Archimedes once said, “Give me a place to stand, and I shall move the Earth.” As it turns out, he was describing the fundamental principle behind the lever.

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[thegirlwithfernweh]

I don’t think I’ve ever had a cup of coffee that didn’t a little bit end up on my shirt and so naturally many items of clothing of mine are stained: by coffee, by grass, by curry, by the touches of lovers who forgot my name but left their trace all over me so I could never forget theirs. You refused to answer my “please talk to me” texts over Thanksgiving break, so I deleted your number, and washed your scent from my pillow case, and I tried to wash your touch from me too, but it was still there—lingering and ernest.  Sometimes I feel like lovers sew themselves into my skin, with thread so thin it is not visible to the naked eye, but I can feel it, laced up next to my veins. There’s no such thing as forgetting, only learning to live with another body within mine.

forgetting, n.m. (via thegirlwithfernweh)

[jericosilvers]

instagram | twitter | facebook 

[sadboyfactory]

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We’re Far too Young to Die

Nico De Angelo

[dispachio-blog]

don't believe me, just watch

[dispachio-blog]

...

It's fun to be a mess of hormones. Really.

[an0nym08z-deactivated20150915]

we are the best at exploiting weakness. the night you took a scalpel to my chest & fed my heart to the stars, you told me i could hate you if i needed to. with an exorcism i tried to cast you out of my body. i was contorted limbs: the language of tongues trying to find myself

[heldinhishands]

Curves morph as my palms roam down my body, not asked for but formed like God’s masterpiece, like a gift, shaped like a vision, stuck: in time in pose in the perfection we seek but don’t see. acceptance is a struggle in a society obsessed with bones and sticky skin that hides the pain of every day suffering through the ideal picture we search for and can’t find; but our soul is begging, do you hear? love me love me love me for who I am. love the lines that stretch for the complexity of your soul, everyone has their limitations on beauty and flaw, so soar by your heart and not the adoration you may receive if you changed.

i own my flesh - c.h. (via heldinhishands)

[houseofmind]

Thinking is computation, I claim, but that does not mean that the computer is a good metaphor for the mind. The mind is a set of modules, but the modules are not encapsulated boxes or circumscribed swatches on the surface of the brain. The organization of our mental modules comes from our genetic program, but that does not mean that there is a gene for every trait or that learning is less important than we used to think. The mind is an adaptation designed by natural selection, but that does not mean that everything we think, feel, and do is biologically adaptive. We evolved from apes, but that does not mean we have the same minds as apes. And the ultimate goal of natural selection is to propagate genes, but that does not mean that the ultimate goal of people is to propagate genes.

Steve Pinker, How the Mind Works (via houseofmind)

[dispachio-blog]

Years seated ahead of us

Sitting again on this couch, I remember the little fight we had over which color to purchase; you wanted red, I wanted black. The neutral color would’ve blended well in our small apartment but you kept telling me that the bright color would give life to the monochromatic living room the same way I brought color to you when I took you away from your pastor father years ago. I cannot remember how I succumbed to your choice. You have the innate ability of persistent persuasion with a curve that straightens out your thought. We are sitting once again in this couch with our eyes closed. I wrap one arm around your shoulders while you place your hand on my lap and I think of the things we have gone through together; electricity bills, eviction notices, weight gain, diabetes, hair loss, your mother’s passing, my brother’s melanoma. every night we ponder like this as though the couch is our space of dependence- 10 years ago we were newly weds finding some box of apartment to live in. We could’ve bought a bed first or kitchen cabinets but you chose this sofa as our initiation to a married life because you thought couches are the best places to cuddle. But time after time, the cushions and springs carried the weight of tears and our heaviness as we embraced each other in sleep thinking how life fell apart in the early phases of our beginning. There is no fairy tale. No happily ever after and as this couch shows signs of decay in its patches of torn fabric and peeping springs I am reminded that life goes on both in struggle and In hope. And I find hope with you seated here with me like this. I will remember us like this one day like a bitter treasure: Your hand on my lap my arm around your shoulders. *The poem was originally my friend's (it was for her lit class). She asked help from me to edit so I did. Afterwards I decided to take my own spin (but this still has bits of her in it because she's that good of a friend)*

[dispachio-blog]

I don't know where or who this came from, but this ain't mine and it hits hard.

[dispachio-blog]

It's been a year and so far I'm turning into the worst person I've ever thought imaginable. But for the past three months, I've been running out of passion and I fear that it's taking me alive minute by minute. To think that the only thing keeping me alive is dying in itself. I've been piling up mistakes, leaving things half-baked, cramming the hell out of everything and just not up for anything anymore. The heart that once pumped fire-blood now runs cold in my veins. Every flower in my garden has died and my notebook's crying for more poems. It just feels so horrible and I wish it was over. I just feel like a pile of organs without the soul. Please.

Now I realize why I want to leave this place. Why I want to run away unannounced and never come back. It's more than just the people. It's more than just the place. It's the atmosphere. The spirit. The entire being that crumbles everything while it stands. I'm not the ocean metaphor anymore. I'm buried alive in a deep pile of dirt. I just want to give up. This sucks. This feeling really sucks.

I can see it now: three more years rooted into this and I'll be dead sooner or later. I'll be a zombie: dead and walking on two feet. I'll be apathetic and shattered by all the people and their words, their words, THEIR WORDS. I JUST WANT TO SCREAM!!!

GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE PLEASE! Please let me transfer to a much more serene place soon. I'm not myself anymore and day by day I turn into a worse person. I don't want that to happen. I want to breathe. I want to vibrate. I want to smile. I want to be.

I want to live.

Whoever's reading this now, please understand that this is me venting out the negativity in me. If you feel like this too, please let us talk face to face. Maybe we could make each other better. :)

[dispachio-blog]

-_-

Are they worth my time? When this is all over I'll be happy as can be.

[dispachio-blog]

an infinite death

the spaces between my fingers is finite fitting them in someone else's space is finite the lifespan of this heart's finite. but when I close my eyes without opening and my breath reaches the limit, will the dark be infinite?

[dispachio-blog]

I am of the earth and with words I sing.

Pablo Neruda. Ode to the Dictionary.

[rupikaur-deactivated20170926]