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[perriaeyjeve]

[perriaeyjeve]

[perriaeyjeve]

[perriaeyjeve]

[warmfigure]

maybe my favorite bunch of the season

[elhuda]

Dear Lenin,

"I feel anxious mom" that's what I said to her few hours earlier on the phone, "I miss you mom" that's what I didn't say.

Yours, fondly

[winedark-maverick]

i love you green. i love you forests. i love you smell of damp earth. i love you feeling before the storm breaks. i love you moss. i love you rivers. i love you streams. i love you thunderstorms. i love you sunlight shining through leaves.

[heartlikehome]

[aboonoor]

Bishr bin al-Harith used to commit a lot of sins.

He once saw a paper on the floor that had the name of God on it, so he took it and he bought perfume for 2 dirhams (which was the only money he had) and perfumed the paper and placed it on a high place.

That day he had a dream where it was said to him: You elevated our name, so we will elevate your name.

Bishr bin al-Harith became one of the great scholars of his time.

al-Hilyah of Abu Na'im

[warmfigure]

[achillesinhighheels]

everyone is becoming way too comfortable about being horrible people

[bercesteruh]

[perriaeyjeve]

[dunhilll]

[inthequietinthecrowds-deactivat]

[leseptiemecoeur]

hiding

[residancylog]

November 5th, 23:58

Dear Lenin,

“I don’t wanna talk about things we’ve gone through, though it’s hurting me, now it’s history…”

ABBA’s song plays softly in the background for a very sensational reason, me, typing this letter on my laptop. The ambiance is warmly lit; Loulou, the big cat, rests a few meters away, feeding Kiwi, her four-day-old kitten. Beside her, the electric heater works hard to keep me normothermic.

I was in bed, all ready to sleep, greedy for ease, wanting to soothe the migraine, to hush the guilt-trapping voices shouting in my head. I squeezed my eyes shut, begging them to drift into a state of physiologic unconsciousness. But do you listen, there!

“The winner takes it all, the loser standing small…”

These words are haunting me, my dear.

I fail'ed, I fall, I felt.

Oh my dear Lenin, 'here', I point toward my heart and say again, 'exactly here', it hurts.

I am awake now. I’m out of bed. I’m not hiding from my somatic pain, proving that it is all sensational.

I left.

Yours, hurt.