emilya writes

[emilya-writes-blog]

When you say "Hitler never used chemical weapons on his own people," You subscribe to the idea that native German-born Jews (and German homosexuals, and German political opponents) were not also "his people." Like the leader of a nation gets to pick and choose who is a "true citizen." Comparing terror to terror To diminish this ideology, where everyone loses. Perhaps you are right and Assad and Hitler are not so very alike, but your swastika mouth makes me think perhaps you belong in this equation as well.

Spicer vs Assad vs Hitler ~ Emilya

[emilya-writes-blog]

Creation and chaos are often the same. Beginnings and endings, Apocalypse and rebirth. Think volcanoes, molten and spewing ash but raising islands up from the depths of the ocean. Think Big Bang Think the banks of the Nile flooded and fertile I refuse to call sickness the little universe within me too powerful for my body. It always feels better to let it out, It always feels better to let it out.

April 3rd ~ Emilya

[emilya-writes-blog]

What is the greatest threat to love? the girl asked. Pride, the woman answered. But needn’t we love ourselves, the girl queried, before we can love others? Oh yes, the woman said, but pride can kill that, too.

Before the fall ~Emilya (via emilya-writes)

[emilya-writes-blog]

What springs forth among the frozen? Those indignant little crocuses— Small, bright, purposeful: Teach me how to break through the weight of death. Show me how to make my presence known when the world wants me most hidden. Let me learn from you. Tiny flecks of purple dotting the snow, A small army of resistance— Do not let the cold, wet silence win. Teach me how to bloom hope for those buried in ice.

Floral rebellion ~ Emilya

[emilya-writes-blog]

What is the greatest threat to love? the girl asked. Pride, the woman answered. But needn’t we love ourselves, the girl queried, before we can love others? Oh yes, the woman said, but pride can kill that, too.

Before the fall ~Emilya

[emilya-writes-blog]

Appreciate the humdrum despite yourself. We know how to lose the sun. Monotony can sometimes be a solace, a roadside shrine whose nostalgia enfolds you like your favorite blanket when you are out of sorts. How many times I have wished for the dull. A coffee cup. A rainy window pane. The still as plates dry in the dish rack. Do not confuse novelty and masochism: There is always another hurricane waiting, Remember that.

Notes from a Retired Storm Seeker ~ Emilya (via emilya-writes)

[emilya-writes-blog]

Appreciate the humdrum despite yourself. We know how to lose the sun. Monotony can sometimes be a solace, a roadside shrine whose nostalgia enfolds you like your favorite blanket when you are out of sorts. How many times I have wished for the dull. A coffee cup. A rainy window pane. The still as plates dry in the dish rack. Do not confuse novelty and masochism: There is always another hurricane waiting, Remember that.

Notes from a Retired Storm Seeker ~ Emilya

[emilya-writes-blog]

Step right up, my dears, Witness heartbreak live! For a nickel, for a dime— see the passion play of my betrayal; a lover who was conspiring my ultimate demise. But for a quarter more, see how I rise! Murder! Jealousy! Suspense! A dollar and a half, It’s all true, every word- No pretense! My great love of seven years threw me o'er, Went straight— Straight into hiding. Oppressors fear the courage of their victim The strength it takes to cut puppeteer’s cord. How brave am I to flee before contention,to leave her hateful, angry charges ignored. I have letters here from countries apart, see the dagger taken to my tender heart! Her name is the filthy mat upon which I wipe my feet, so that you should know her great resent if ever you should meet. And here I glide above it all, forgiving, merciful, wise- And yet another quarter still, I’ll admit I feigned my rise. Had I kept this street opera a personal event, Without the public I could not heal And would not have made a cent.

Blood Money ~ Emilya (via emilya-writes)

[emilya-writes-blog]

I'm sick of being faulted for finding real love. Misery loves company and maybe I was over all the pity parties.

I'm not sorry ~ Emilya

[emilya-writes-blog]

We were discussing what creature we would be from Lord of the Rings. I said I wanted to be a Hobbit. "Why? Be an Elf for God's sakes. Hobbits don't do anything." It seemed like such a trivial matter, but it was then I realized there was no coming back from this. All I wanted was a happy cozy home, food, and family. I have very little need of "adventure," as the world sees it. Simplicity, purity, joy. This is all I desire. Sorry my dreams were too small for your taste.

Reflections on old conversations.

[emilya-writes-blog]

This + 🍁🔥 + 🍷+ 🎶 + 💏 = awesome night

[emilya-writes-blog]

[emilya-writes-blog]

Lol my aesthetic

[emilya-writes-blog]

Eye sex Lazy jazz on a record player Candles and candles and warm dark Peeling paint and hiding in bed Running hand in hand to the car A wet dress clinging to my thighs and your palms pressed against them Baking something fruity and bright and soft Your arm around me, windshield wipers, and our song Tea and sweaters Realizing that perhaps the storms of this life can be weathered with the right set of rain boots and the right kind of love.

Rain boots ~ Emilya

[emilya-writes-blog]

Under colored lights I catch your eye— Our friends ash their cigarettes, discuss art, discuss scandal, but the lazy guitar sways in tempo with my hips, and you are bright, luminescent with a sanguine spirit, shining like where sunlight meets the ocean, and the horizon disappears, and you cannot tell where one ends and the other begins, and I cannot tell where you end and I begin, Under colored lights, I catch your eye— —and like a child, ear to ear, grinning like a fool. Aging jades; Cynicism is all too often the helpmate of the old soul. Under colored lights, I catch your eye, and— My God, this is the secret to eternal youth.

Still life on a balcony ~ Emilya (via emilya-writes)

[emilya-writes-blog]

The sound of a dog lying down, the way a child nestles into your arms, a copper kettle calling me to tea, candles in the bathroom, blankets and warm dark on a rainy day, the smell of fresh bread, family photos on the wall, my favorite spoon, and my forehead against your lips.

Comforts of home ~ Emilya

[emilya-writes-blog]

Under colored lights I catch your eye— Our friends ash their cigarettes, discuss art, discuss scandal, but the lazy guitar sways in tempo with my hips, and you are bright, luminescent with a sanguine spirit, shining like where sunlight meets the ocean, and the horizon disappears, and you cannot tell where one ends and the other begins, and I cannot tell where you end and I begin, Under colored lights, I catch your eye— —and like a child, ear to ear, grinning like a fool. Aging jades; Cynicism is all too often the helpmate of the old soul. Under colored lights, I catch your eye, and— My God, this is the secret to eternal youth.

Still life on a balcony ~ Emilya

[emilya-writes-blog]

It was you who made me realize what it is to be full without ever making me feel as though I was ever empty.

Valentine hymn ~ Emilya (via emilya-writes)