the musings of a writer

(m.w) 'kwiekeb' means 'stars' in Maltese.

[writingitdown]

it’s an impossible game and i’m expected to win but it’s getting so dark i feel the walls caving in. i see the light shining in  but i can’t open the blinds what if i never know the warm feel of the light?

a.m. // what if i’ve lost it?  (via writingitdown)

[writingitdown]

i can’t shake the feeling that i’ll always either be too much or not enough. too much to handle, but never enough to satisfy. 

[kwiekeb]

everyone over reacting around me makes me wonder if i’m just under reacting

i feel like slipping into my comfortable black hole and ignoring everyone for days on end

[kwiekeb]

This afternoon a man on the bus stop tried to touch my thigh. I shook my mane back and roared "COULD YOU PLEASE STOP TOUCHING MY THIGH" in front of all the people waiting. Later, I called you and told you all about it, angrily but with a hint of pride at my lion strength and my mighty roar. And you said: "it's okay baby, it's fine baby, just stop thinking about it." You could not understand my fury at this statement. It's NOT okay, it's NOT fine and I will NOT stop thinking about it, Fire burns in my very veins and the itch in my vocal cords begs to be scratched. I REFUSE TO NORMALISE SUCH HAPPENINGS ON THE GROUNDS THAT "MEN ARE PERVS" AND "IT'S NORMAL" BECAUSE THESE ARE BOTH UNTRUE FACTS. MEN ARE NOT PERVERTS BECAUSE PERVERTS ARE MERELY PERVERTS AND DO NOT DESERVE A HUMANISING TERM. IT IS NOT NORMAL BECAUSE EVEN IF PERVERTS ARE PERVERTS, ONE WOULD BEG THE QUESTION WHY SUCH CREATURES EXIST; PERHAPS IF WE DIDN'T NORMALISE THE SITUATION OF THE 17 YEAR OLD GIRL BEING TOUCHED ON HER THIGH ON A SWELTERING SUMMER AFTERNOON, PERHAPS PERVERTS WOULDN'T EXIST. PERHAPS THEY WOULD FEAR SOCIETY'S WRATH MORE. Perhaps you were dating someone else. Perhaps she was meeker. Shyer. Quieter. Perhaps she would have told you about the situation of the 17 year old girl being touched on her thigh on a sweltering summer afternoon three months later, in a breathless whisper, at 1a.m, the time when secrets seem to flow out like wine. Perhaps she would have told you how his slippery fingers felt on the smooth skin on her thighs. How his manicured fingernails dug into her flesh. How she looked away and bit her lip and imagined it not happening, pictured someone stopping it. How her entire mind screamed"NO, NO, NO, NO" like a siren with flashing blue and red lights and then finally, a small white flag fluttering desperately amongst the broken panic. The trembling afterward. The quiet sitting on the bus. The mute buzzing in her ears. Maybe it would have broken her that she didn't have the will to stop him. And maybe you would have told her: "It's okay baby, it's fine baby, just stop thinking about it".

stop normalising these things, they are unacceptable and meant to be treated as such (m.w)

[nap-city]

[vangoghgurl-blog]

honestly i kind of need school bc it keeps my life together. i see friends everyday, get out of the house, sleep normally, and remember to eat dinner

[bookwyvrn]

the mortal instruments

[lasylphidedubolchoi]

Svetlana Zakharova and Artem Shpilevskiy in Bolshoi’s Class Concert

Photo by Damir Yusupov (?)

[kwiekeb]

SEXY COCK

THANKYOU MY FRIEND

[pigmenting]

Each time I’m asked to tell about myself, I find myself starting the same way: “My name is Kelsey and I’m nineteen..” but what I’d really like to say is: “My name means island of the ships but once I found a translation that said I’m a burning shipwreck- not a burning ship but a ship that has caught fire after the wreckage and well, I’d say that’s more fitting.” I’ve learned that people don’t have time for about me’s. They need two things: a name and an indication you’re someone special. The doctors, they want facts not details. “I broke my leg when I was three, it’s a funny story actually-” The right or the left? Conversation over. The teachers, they want interests, hobbies. You’re sad, yes, but what do you like to do? The adults are a spew of questions. What school do you go to? What classes are you taking? What do you plan on becoming? Got a boyfriend? No, stop. People my own age are the worst. “I’m planning on an English degree with a concentration in creative writing.” Yeah, aren’t we all. So how many times have you, you know,done it? I’m pulled apart, my interests travelling highway 2 my goals at a stop light at traffic hour, my medical history on a billboard for the world to see. But what about me? Where’s the chance to say, “I hang on to fistfuls of poetry like loose change in my pockets, and I keep waiting for the day that the world turns upside down so I can swim with the stars. I’m not afraid of darkness, it’s a loneliness I can empathize with it. It’s the blackholes like cigarette burns inside of me that get troublesome. I walk through graveyards and read the dashes between years, each a story I’ll never know. Sometimes I create my own.” No wonder none of us know who we are anymore.

Kelsey Danielle, “I Was Told to Write an About Me and This is What Happened” (via pigmenting)

[kwiekeb]

an experience gap is so difficult to get over even when it’s just a year... I haven’t done so many fucking things in my life

[thottieauntie-deactivated201604]

Never stop learning about your partner. Never lose that wonder that made you want to get to know them initially because we are constantly growing as individuals.

[erubescence-deactivated20190421]

Preach.

[be--blissful]

I opened the windows and saw the night and the cold stars and the pine trees below the window and then got into bed as fast as I could. It was lovely in bed with the air so cold and clear and the night outside the window.

Ernest Hemingway  (via expeditum)

[colin-vian]

  Anselm Kiefer (b. 1945) Leonardo Pisano, 2004-2008

[jenalogie-deactivated20150831]

i write you so unkind i never mean it

[amargedom]

[dictionaryofobscuresorrows]

vellichor

n. the strange wistfulness of used bookstores, which are somehow infused with the passage of time—filled with thousands of old books you’ll never have time to read, each of which is itself locked in its own era, bound and dated and papered over like an old room the author abandoned years ago, a hidden annex littered with thoughts left just as they were on the day they were captured.