H E R T E L E S @herteles-blog - Tumblr Blog

I’m going to tell you something: thoughts are never honest. Emotions are.

Albert Camus, Notebooks 1951-1959 (via wordsnquotes)

#✫ ¦ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ʜᴏʟᴇs ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴠᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs ⁽ᵐᵘˢᶦᶰᵍˢ⁾

✫ ¦ @alaatum ʟɪᴋᴇᴅ ғᴏʀ ᴀ sᴛᴀʀᴛᴇʀ.

“ALRIGHT. This is very important. Pick a card for me.” He brandishes a GENERIC HAND of red-backed PLAYING CARDS, holding them some distance away from himself and very carefully, as though some undesired jolt of the arm might transform them into LITTLE PAPER DEVILS. His glassy eyes gleam with encouraging promise (THEY WON’T HURT YOU! JUST PLAYING CARDS!), accompanied by the slant of a well-polished smile. Surely it is worth a risk?

#alaatum #✫ ¦ ɪᴄᴀʀᴜs ɪs ғʟʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏᴏ ᴄʟᴏsᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ sᴜɴ ⁽ᶜᵃᶰᵒᶰ ᵛᵉʳˢᵉ⁾#[ hi ! ]

ifveniceissinking-blog

The cosmos unravels from my mouth, all fullness, all vacancy.

Margaret Atwood, “Half-Hanged Mary” in Morning in the Burned House (via modernprophetic)

#✫ ¦ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ʜᴏʟᴇs ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴠᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs ⁽ᵐᵘˢᶦᶰᵍˢ⁾

sea-zora

#✫ ¦ ʀɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴀᴛ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴇᴅɢᴇ ʙᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴀ ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀᴘɪᴇᴄᴇ ⁽ᵐᶦᵉᶰ⁾

wnq-writers

During the day, I burn down bridges; Every night I try to swim back across.

B. Damani || Mending (via wnq-writers)

#✫ ¦ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ʜᴏʟᴇs ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴠᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs ⁽ᵐᵘˢᶦᶰᵍˢ⁾

stridah

There’s a difference between being alone and being lonely; I may not have been completely alone in my life, but I was definitely lonely.

Brent Hartinger, Geography Club, Russel Middlebrook (via xnitori)

#✫ ¦ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ʜᴏʟᴇs ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴠᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs ⁽ᵐᵘˢᶦᶰᵍˢ⁾

villaincousland

If you’re terrified that everyone you love is going to realize that you’re a horrible person and leave you clap your hands

#✫ ¦ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴇᴡ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴀɴᴅ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴠɪʟ ⁽ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ⁾

liamrimmington

#✫ ¦ ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴄʜᴀsɪɴɢ sᴛᴀʀʟɪɢʜᴛ ⁽ᵃᵉˢᵗʰᵉᵗᶦᶜ⁾

larmoyante

Light thinks it travels faster than anything, but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels, it finds that darkness has always gotten there first, and is waiting for it.

Terry Pratchett, Reaper Man (via larmoyante)

#✫ ¦ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ʜᴏʟᴇs ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴠᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs ⁽ᵐᵘˢᶦᶰᵍˢ⁾

herteles-blog

your sister never tells you but she loves you so (you said your mother only smiled on her tv show). you’re only happy when your sorry head is filled with dope, and they hope you make it to the day you’re twenty-eight years old. you’re dripping like a saturated sunrise ; you’re spilling like an overflowing sink. you’re ripped at every edge but you’re a masterpiece, and now you’re tearing through the pages and the ink. (everything is blue – his pills, his hands, his jeans – and now you’re covered in the colours ; he’s pulled apart at the seams. and he’s BLUE.) (everything is grey – his hair, his smoke, his dreams – and now he’s so devoid of colour, he don’t know what it means. and he’s blue. HE MAKES YOU BLUE.)

#✫ ¦ ɢʀᴇɴᴀᴅɪɴᴇ sᴜɴsʜɪɴᴇ ; ʙʀᴇᴀᴋ ᴛʜɪs ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ᴏғ ᴍɪɴᴇ ⁽ˢᵉᶫᶠ ᵖʳᵒᵐᵒ⁾#drugs mention cw

lukepasqualinx-deactivated20181

Let’s make our move before I kill someone.

#✫ ¦ ʀɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴀᴛ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴇᴅɢᴇ ʙᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴀ ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀᴘɪᴇᴄᴇ ⁽ᵐᶦᵉᶰ⁾

deathwaking-a-deactivated202302

expression STEMS into keen awareness, countenance shifting at the cacophony—— && then strawberry embouchement BLOOMS into a dimpled simper, apple cheeks dusted with SUN DROPS lifting to scrunch the skin ‘round her eyes. hymnals of recognition sing && beat against the drums of her ears; a voice, once it catches her, finds difficulty in being forgotten, && he especially was unlikely to slip out of her memory.

she shifts && a hum, at first, is the only indication of acknowledgement at all. smile widens unconsciously, an evocative heart she lacks CONTROL over. she’s not a glacial thing, more silk than she is steel, && all that sweet softness is directed at him in a grin, full && bright.

“did you? && here I was left WONDERING! but no matter, not matter. let’s walk.”

herteles-blog

ONE MUSTN’T leave blooms of f i r e wondering too long, nor ever dreadfully WAITING. Such inactions are truly too MUNDANE, and this one -- isn’t she quite the FLAMETHROWER, bursting with s p a r k s beneath rosy moonflower skin? His smile doesn’t BUDGE, destined for now to be a promise but never a true divulgence ; empty hollow cavernous echoes where that PESKY HEART should be. But for what little he TRULY FEELS, he savours each and every moment. She is a photograph preserved in careful memory. He would never leave her wondering.

So he STANDS FIRST, but that is only to, INEVITABLY, bend from his tall height and offer her his arm. He behaves archaically as he is influenced by ARCHAIC ENVIRONMENTS, but he hopes he only takes INSPIRATION from the best of fairytale habits. Glassy eyes glint and s p a r k l e in captured sunlight, head canting in a COME HITHER! WE HAVE SUCH FUN TO GET TO! sort of way. What’s made him switch his tune so suddenly, then?