Hermit @lehermit - Tumblr Blog

Joke.

One day, I saw a bird learning to fly. I was a child. I thought flapping your wings was like learning to ride a bike, that maybe someone could give you a push or hold on to you so you wouldn't fall riding down the hill.

It's funny.

What is?

Remembering.

Remembering is funny. It's like telling yourself an old joke.

When I was young, I thought it was the coolest thing to see older people smoking long cigarettes. Now I'm trying to quit. After a few days without nicotine, the headaches begin.

No one can teach you.

It's funny.

What is?

Human beings. We always think we can save someone or something. We think we can interfere with the nature of things.

Isn't that funny?

Trying to save someone from drowning while each of us is already living through a different shipwreck.

I think it is.

What is?

Funny.

Le Hermit

Noir.

Forgive me for my harsh words.

They are as hard as the bones that keep this body upright, refusing to let it collapse into the earth like dead cells forgotten at the bottom of a basin.

Forgive me for the part of me almost no one knows. The part almost no one ever sees.

This is my monster.

I spent years trying to kill it, until I realized it was the only thing keeping me alive.

So I taught it gentleness.

Now we walk side by side.

Sometimes it growls louder than I'd like. Sometimes it steals my voice before I can breathe.

But it has never betrayed me.

When I lose myself, it is the one that reaches for my hand.

It keeps my heart, soft enough to bruise, soft enough to burn, from falling into hands lined with thorns, heavy with venom, beautiful with promises they never intended to keep.

Forgive me for the part of me that feels impossible to love.

Half of me is panic, forever expecting abandonment before anyone has the chance to stay.

The other half is simply tired.

Tired of carrying armor that has long outlived the war.

It only wants to lay its weapons down.

To rest its head in someone's lap without fearing the silence that follows.

To learn what it means to stop surviving,

and finally,

to begin living.

Le Hermit

Radio.

One day, I read that you know you've truly loved someone by the way they sound in your life.

With the wrong people, everything is static, the hiss of an old radio searching for a station it will never find.

But with the right one, the signal settles.

A melody begins.

It moves as naturally as the wind.

At fifteen, I didn't understand that.

At thirty, I do.

You were always my favorite song.

Le Hermit

Wall.

The only sound in this room now is the clock.

I can hear the second hand moving without pause. I fix my attention on its rhythm so completely that, for a few fleeting moments, my eyes begin to blink in time with it.

Beyond the frontier of suffering, there must be something gentle. There has to be. It cannot be that all there is to this life is pain and walls held high.

I do not know peace. I do not know peace. How deeply I long to.

But I am only a frail creature, impossible to love. Those who draw near are wounded. If I allow myself to feel, I wound myself in return.

So let it be.

Surely there is something good waiting beyond these guarded walls, somewhere I may finally lay my weary heart to rest without fear, without vigilance.

Perhaps.

Le Hermit

Your writing, your words are beautiful.

Thank you so much for sharing them.

🩶

#ask

pngblog

Honey Moon

One day I will die, and I know that until then our paths will never cross again. You'll never read these words, and if you somehow do, you'll never know they were written for you.

By now you've probably built a life of your own. Your castles, your loves, your new heartbreaks. The things that hurt you today are no longer the things that once hurt us.

But once, there was an us.

Not as lovers.

Just… something.

Friends, perhaps.

The kind of friends who knew the taste of each other's lips.

I hope that one day, somehow, in a dream or through some impossible telepathy, you'll know this:

you made me.

A good part of who I became was built by your hands.

You pulled laughter out of a place inside me that has never quite existed again since you left.

We used to smoke together.

I'd play the guitar for you.

We'd sit on the rug in your grandfather's house and laugh for hours at the smallest, most meaningless things.

I like remembering.

When life becomes too heavy, you are the memory that hurts beautifully.

And if one day you ever feel as though you were never loved,

please,

let the full moon of July remind you

that I loved you

until my very last breath.

I hope that, on some ordinary bad day, something about me makes you smile.

Maybe.

Le Hermit

Under the codename Lily,

you have no idea how I see you.

I hide you inside every poem, every verse, every quiet corner of a page.

You never notice.

Blind like a night bird caught beneath the morning sun.

I loved the taste of your coffee. I loved the way passion fruit jam found perfect balance in your hands.

And somehow, so did I.

God, let this be my madness. Let me be the only one who ever felt it this deeply.

My calendar overflows. I sign another stack of papers. Traffic keeps moving. The coffee grows colder and more bitter.

Still, I miss you.

The cruelest thing I have ever learned is that my worst enemy has always been myself,

because I could never stop loving you.

Le Hermit

Nine

How dare you say you loved me, look at me that way, then swear I was never yours before you walked away?

This isn't rage, or wounded pride. It's my voice, choking in the dark, begging: come back tonight.

What do you want? My blood? My soul? My bones beneath your own?

Here. Take them.

Tie me to the edge of your life. Find me in the rain, keep me through the light.

You were a fool to think I'd never fall. I did. God, I still do.

Now I'm older, working, coming home to every sound except your voice.

One day, kick down that damn door. Drag me by my collar.

I was never anyone else's. My heart has never known a home without yours.

Two states apart, half a lifetime apart. still loving someone who lets the wind carry me away.

Le Hermit

Oh, I am alone, but not the kind that wears loneliness like a flag and waits for rescue.

I am simply alone.

I count the hours until the world grows quiet enough to hear my own breathing.

I pray. I truly pray. One by one, I make peace with my sins.

No one has ever learned the geography of my chaos.

I loved someone once. But loving and knowing how to love have never been the same thing.

Perhaps that is why I remain here.

Once, I was made of a thousand different selves.

Now I am almost nothing.

And somehow,

almost nothing has become enough.

Le Hermit

Anatomy.

I do not know how poets ever found words for the ones they loved. I imagine they tore through thousands of pages and emptied countless pens, trying to translate a soul into language. I no longer remember the moment itself. I remember your scent. I remember your hands. I remember the shiver that traveled from your fingertips to the deepest corner of my mind.

I remember there were colors everywhere, and noise enough to swallow the world, yet all I could see was your eyes. I had never known so many beautiful colors could live within a single iris. I remember your accent. It was different from mine, and after all these years, it is still the loveliest sound I have ever heard. I was young, almost childlike. I thought love was the panic inside my chest. Time taught me otherwise. Love was always kind, always patient, quietly finding its way home. And whenever I write about love, I almost write your name.

Le Hermit

The door.

If I let you through this door, then what? Tell me who you are. Tell me where you come from, and ask me where I come from. Tell me about the crooked roads you've walked, and I'll tell you about mine. Tell me about yourself, stranger.

Don't come knocking on my door, disturbing the quiet I've so carefully stitched together while I sit here mending the worn edges of my soul. What is it you want from me? Do you truly wish to know me, or are you only here to see whether the stories told by the weary travelers of the long road were true? Don't mistake my silence for an invitation. Don't take my solitude from me like a cup of coffee served warm, only to be abandoned on the table until it turns cold.

Do you really want to know me? Truly? Why? Am I a gamble? A curiosity? How many coins could a pocket full of holes possibly offer for the patched-up remains of a tired heart? Do you really want to see my scars? I don't need you to heal them. I've been carrying them, and myself, for longer than I can remember.

Ask me about who I am, and I'll ask the same of you. But don't knock on this door if all you intend to do is unsettle my mind. I'm running out of needles. I'm running out of thread. I'm running out of paper. And I'm running out of ink.

Le Hermit

Rise.

Rise from this cold, accursed ground. Stand. Steady your feet. Lift your head.

Look around.

No one.

Good.

Your game begins now.

Listen.

The murmurs.

The scattered applause.

Listen again.

Beneath the noise. Beneath the silence.

Remember.

Remember who you are.

Remember who you came here to become.

Do not dare to doubt.

Do not.

Doubt is a blade that devours the hand that wields it.

I would sooner see your flesh torn away than watch your purpose surrender to fear.

Now tell me.

Water.

Fresh or salt?

How does it move?

Does it yield to the river's current,

or throw itself against impossible stone,

breaking,

roaring,

rising,

only to flow again?

You believe in everyone else.

In kings.

In heroes.

In dreams.

In strangers.

In everyone

except yourself.

How dare you,

child?

Wake.

Here.

Choose your weapon.

A sword.

A bow.

A harpoon.

Or wings upon your heels,

swift enough to outrun fate itself.

Rise.

Do not let fools mistake your silence for weakness.

Do not let their footsteps become your chains.

Stand.

Be what you are.

Become what you choose.

Walk.

Dry your tears.

Stitch your wounds.

The ones that bled into the velvet carpets

while they feasted,

while they laughed,

while they never once noticed your pain.

Enough.

Tighten your grip.

Lift your chin.

The drums have already begun.

The curtain is rising.

The world is watching.

Let it watch.

When they speak your name,

let it fall from their lips

like thunder.

Le Hermit

The Banquet of Broken Things

Don’t do it. There is no notebook where things are written down. Stay at peace. From one broken soul to another, don’t do it.

We will never exchange numbers or share coffee, never take the same train anywhere, but still, don’t do it.

I know. I know. I know. I know. But no. No. No, you are not a burden. They are lost too. Aren’t we all, in some way? We keep going. We keep going.

Fallen angels, centuries of open scars, I know. But look how the wind whispers answers to you. Look at the moon, shining without caring for any wounded soul.

Hey. Hey. Hey. Don’t place this dish on the table of that banquet.

Le Hermit

No Name.

We are winter babies. I like to think our souls found each other long before we did.

Remembering is for those who forget. You never left my mind. My favorite dessert whispers your name. My favorite color is the color of your eyes. Fool yourself, my dear, if you think an ordinary mortal like me could ever erase you from memory. Not that I never tried. Desperation has a way of making us run, even when there is nowhere to go. But there is a selfishness within me that refuses to let go. I cannot ask my heart to stop beating, nor can I persuade my mind to erase you. Some people do not stay because we choose to remember them. They stay because they have become part of who we are.

Le Hermit

I don’t know how to answer, little one, what moves me, or how this life works. There is no paper handed out somewhere explaining how to heal a heart, how to close a wound that does not bleed. Kneel by the riverbank, look at the water. What do you see? Not your face. You do not see your face. You see the reflection of how you see yourself, but it is not your face. Love. I used to say I knew love well, but the one I loved most I let go in absolute silence, a reflection of what I believed love to be. I still smell it after years of never meeting it again. To know someone is like reading a long, good book: every chapter not yet read is still part of the book we think we know. A reflection of what we understand. Reflection. Everything is reflection. I did not see this in any paper handed out in the street. I saw it in the reflection of things.

Le Hermit

Nothing.

The first time I kissed you, I felt nothing. Nothing. No sound in my body, no sign of something. Soft were your lips, a quiet kind of wrong. In the dark of that room, it was just us all along. The city was singing, I heard no sound, lost every sense, no trace, no ground. You, always you, calming my pain, turning my heartbeat into a refrain. Little did you know, foolish one, you left when the breaking had just begun. You packed my calm and vanished from sight, into the hollow of the night. So burn. Let the world burn slow. If you are gone, I don’t want to know. You get under my skin, you stay in my mind, you unravel every nerve I can find.

le hermit

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

Hermit