old words

"I write only because There is a voice within me That will not be still" - Sylvia Plath Two confused girls with ink smudged on their finger tips, writing out their own maps of the world.

[thisfoldedmind]

Mind Map #5: [Why tea is so very magical]

[etatisverba-blog]

Natasha

Journal: 8/4/12, 12:27 AM EST  (Warning: a massive amount of rambling follows!) 

I've been too numb to write lately. I force myself to journal descriptions of life with hope that I can link them to something more, but have had no luck. Either way, I still consider myself a writer and will continue to write with faith in the idea that this block will one day float away. 

Eight days from today will mark two months since I finally rid myself of Colorado. I know the word "rid" is harsh in this context, but everything was wrong there. The air I breathed was stale, most of the people I surrounded myself with were too consumed by something else to care, and, in the four years I lived there, I never once lived in a place I could call "home". 

I need to stop summarizing.

It's been six weeks and I've managed to commit myself to four hours a day of precalc. I'm managing to keep a solid B. But sometimes I panic. A lot of the time I panic. If I can't work my way through a problem, my body tenses up and I grip whatever I'm holding on to and if there's nothing to hold on to, I scratch, straight through the skin. So the doctor has pre-diagnosed me with Generalized Anxiety Disorder.

I've been at the beach for the last week. The water was cool and salty, but sand still managed to burn the soles of my feet while the sun worked on coloring my skin red. I held a baby, one of the new generation, in my arms and cocooned her against my chest as the waves slapped our skin. She touched the ocean for the first time in my arms. After evenings on the boardwalk filled with people and ice cream, we retired to the couches of our rental and flipped to the Olympics. The fifteen year old swimmers and gymnasts ricocheted their way to the top and I still have yet to make sense of where they find the willpower and motivation to get there. 

I've forgotten how silent it is underwater. A person can be surrounded by thousands of people, each talking louder than the next, but as soon as they're submersed, the noise is subdued, muffled, corked away and barricaded. I spent my time aligning myself with the sandy floor of the ocean today, digging my nails into the grains as each wave rumbled over my head. I longed to open my eyes and see the silence I had molded myself into, but the salt and the sand combined had whirled up and created a foggy wall, kilometers long. The secrets hidden in the crevices beneath the sand are hidden well.  I was a talented swimmer at 12 years old. I'm leaving Ocean City for Pennsylvania tomorrow. 

[leeraah-blog]

[etatisverba-blog]

natasha

They say that swollen, pus-filled patches of green lie beneath those bandages of yours. Remnants of the lonely nights you spend listening to the bubbling of the tea kettle, protecting your palm with a ragged towel as you slosh piping hot water down the length of your forearm. As your skin, boiling, sizzles down the drain, you lay naked in your tub, tears plopping into the heightening water in time with the spurts of cold you release upon the newly formed wound. The pain, that lovely, familiar, securing sting you've acquainted yourself with, leaves fuzzy black clouds eating away at your vision. You're dizzy and high again, all of the energies in your body focused on fighting the intentional mutilation throbbing on your arm. 

Your love's kiss marks leave DNA on the scars decorating your wrists, but it'll never be enough. Your razors, wrapped within a leather pouch, are nestled behind the vinyls, beckoning you with the whistling kettle on the stove. 

We all know. We're watching you deteriorate from afar, awaiting the brave soul who dares to bring attention to the mysteries under your wrappings.

He kisses your wrists day by day, begging for somebody to rescue his beloved from this deepening hole of addiction. 

[limilee]

Swedish Cupboard Bed

[broken-walls-blog]

Always wanted one of these…

[artpixie]

[etatisverba-blog]

lilli

we're transforming this to fit more of a personal feel.

so you're feeling doubtful. maybe this is the insignificance of each one of the 7 billion people here with us. maybe this is what it feels like to be a lost cause. i know i've felt that all too often.

sometimes i feel that way too. sometimes the world caves in and there simply isn't the kind of strength to heave it off and uncover myself. sometimes i am unimportant. sometimes i feel that way too, but then i think about what sort of capacities we have to think and to feel, and how amazing it is that we can interact and love and talk and drink tea, or take our cars for illegal joyrides or call our dog and have them understand. to drink until we feel stars and breathe until we feel fresh. we can sleep and cry. we CAN can can can can. all of these things come from little seeds, and everything balances, and so the miracles might not have happened if i hadn't jumped in the air or you hadn't climbed into a tree or he hadn't fallen asleep underneath me or she hadn't won a race or they hadn't touched skies. and souls are important. i concentrate on the few things i still believe solidly, and then i believe a little more than i had at first. i think all of those things that we CAN, those are worth something. they have to be.

we're on a spherical floating thing in nothingness so we can't feel like nothingness because we are something from nothing.

we are lights.

[humblewonder]

[dionsuars]

[say-anything-is-a-real-girl]

[xwelpx]

Visit Original Link

[etatisverba-blog]

wye oak - civilian 

[etatisverba-blog]

lilli

suddenly i was overcome with the feeling that everything needed to be touched, and carefully. everything cried to me for a caress and i moved about my room doing so. dirty clothes were plucked from the floor and the creases smoothed away, only to be placed into the hamper with a certain politeness that one usually would not reserve for musty clothing. my fingers ran along the borders of my shelves, collecting the dust because it all needed to be touched. i sat there face to face with my jewelry box and brushed the tips of my senses down the sides, falling into the chips of paint and the chunks of wood, and for no reason at all i got a good look at this box that does not mean anything at all.

and it was the type of not meaning anything at all that truly does not mean anything at all. it does not even hold anything that means anything at all. it is just a purple box in my room. touching it and reading it and learning it did not make it mean anything at all. a lot of things don't mean anything at all, in the way that they truly just do not mean anything. they are just there, and they don't say words or tell you stories, although they might sit right next to something that does.

this began to confuse me. i looked at a mirror and for once i saw the mirror rather than the reflection. i saw that it too had chips and stains and blemishes, although i seem to be so focused on my own chips and stains and blemishes that the ones on the mirror seem to escape quite often. and this provoked a strange thought; what color is a mirror if all it does is reflect?

my clothes began to seem completely wrong. horrendously wrong. i did not want to wear them but i did not want to tear them off. it seemed i had to peel them off with a softness and let them collect around my ankles. it seemed i had to stand there with starkness in a room of cold air and let my body really truly feel the air. to let my skin truly absorb the cold so it could appreciate coming warmth.

i'm not quite sure what it is about sunday nights that makes everything so colored indigo.

[obessways64]

Visit Original Link

[etatisverba-blog]

the a team - ed sheeran

[goldenscreens-blog]

[idblowtompetty-deactivated20120]

[etatisverba-blog]

Visit Original Link

"Falling" - The Civil Wars

[etatisverba-blog]

Natasha

Tonight, I speed around my house draped in poly fiber cloth and no underwear, babbling to myself about failure and loss as I absentmindedly spin sugar into hot water. I collapse on the floor of my living room, my face aching and my heart bubbling underneath my chest. I can't help but scream, breathing in hiccups and gripping the carpet. My torn lips bleed and red streaks curl down my arms, poetry filled paper growing damp underneath my face. I run blindly into my room, trying my and failing to suffocate myself with pillows. My wailing is uncontrollable, and remnants of charcoal trail down my face, carried by the streams pouring from my eyes.

The tea is cold by the time I can finally lift my face to check the time, wiping my eyes. I get up, gripping the skin on my scalp and I squeeze my eyes shut in frustration, tearing the dress off. I'm splayed, exhausted, on my desk chair. The lack of caffeine crushes me, leaving me unable to do anything but stare off into blank walls. Coldplay echoes off of my monitor. 

So here I am, left naked at 2:43 A.M. on a Monday morning, sleepless hours the only thing near enough to accompany me.

My mother should know never to leave me alone at night.