I don’t have to forgive to heal. This anger has healed me in more ways than forgiving a person ever could.
A person heals in different ways | n.b (via sickly)
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I don’t have to forgive to heal. This anger has healed me in more ways than forgiving a person ever could.
A person heals in different ways | n.b (via sickly)
She always had that about her, that look of otherness, of eyes that see things much too far, and of thoughts that wander off the edge of the world.
Joanne Harris (via wordsnquotes)
how to be an adorable divorced couple 101.
The Little Drummer Girl (2018—) Created by John le Carré
forgive and forget?? haha no resent and remember
( @shanncs )
“it is a sunny day–no matter how cold it is–and i, for one, am bound and determined to enjoy it.” ahna’s arms are crossed defensively across her chest as she spoke with conviction to the horses, as they grazed lazily near the campsite. she was growing stir crazy in the encampment and sick to death of milling around the campsite like a prison cell. sure, there were plenty of ‘em worried about the law encountering them out in the wilderness. part of her thought that, perhaps, she’d be happy to be caught. she could play at hostage and have that bastard who cut diego down brought to justice, but that didn’t work for two reasons. the first of which was that not all the folks in the hounds were all that bad. the second and, by and large, the most important was that if anybody was going to bring that man to justice, ahna was going to be the one to do it. “before you say anything, shane, don’t you tell me you’re gonna be like noa and get your britches in a tizzy about it. if you want to throw a fit, you can stay here. if you want to enjoy the daylight while we have it, you can join me on a ride.” that was maybe the best part of being on the road. horseback riding had its way of making even those with a price on their heads feel free.
* SHAKESPEARE AESTHETICS
Macbeth:
the howl of wolves. moonless nights. dirt under fingernails. stained silk. chattering teeth. voices hoarse and cracked. rotting fruit. echoing drums. dry heaving. hanging cobwebs. stifling humidity. bloodshot eyes. the roughness of rusted steel. wild rosebushes. muscle cramps. the sound of splintering wood.
A Midsummer Night’s Dream:
crackling fires. ivy crawling on stone. the faint music of running water. petrichor. dirty, bare feet. tattered clothing. thistledown. wilted wildflower crowns. late evening birdsong. curling leaves. a symphony of croaking frogs. drifting feathers. the eerie sound of windchimes at night. humming bees. beds of clover.
Romeo and Juliet:
warm golden lamplight. worn shoes. crumbling brick walls. whispered poetry. embroidered satin. cool, hazy mornings. tousled hair. rosewater. flushed cheeks. distant orchestras. unfinished marble statues. cobblestone streets. loose threads. ink smudged on parchment. tapping fingers. dust illuminated by sunlight. poison vials.
Hamlet:
shattered glass. a cluster of fraying ribbons. unanswered knocks on doors. lingering dampness. white noise. inexplicable drafts. migraines. bleeding ears. the taste of metal. reflected mirrors. dry, cracked lips. the sound of tearing paper. fogged windows. memories of dreams. tarnished silver. protruding veins.
And at night, tears replaced anger, making her feel lonelier than she really was.
L.R. excerpt from a book I’ll never write (via holaitsliza)
( arthur ).
HE’S NOT VERBALLY reluctant at the start, but he had never quite mastered his own questioning features, “i’m not doubting that,” he’s being truthful with her, he even sees her point, watches it set a fire in her tiredly as if the one before them was feeding off her. “..but you’re being reckless. recklessness and a weapon tends to accumulate less than promising results,” the craft had always felt personal to him, like a part of his body, the quick push and release came in passing like a harsh wind or a chaotic memory. his words are unwilling and stained with something, he wonders what it must seem like to anyone but him. AN OLD MAN’S STUBBORNNESS, DEFENSE — the thought ails him quickly; and he wonders if his father would have let her have it; shown her the what’s and where’s. he wonders what she must think of him now, shutting down her intent; the possibility of him, disregarding her potential, swimming in her head as easy perception itches at his skull, prods at his morals; and he’s worryingly tempted now.
“..wielding a weapon takes patience and focus,” he speaks carefully, retreiving his gun and staring down into the barrel that she had so gracefully borrowed for her conquests. he recalls cleaning it earlier that day, sprucing up the barrel with a torn cloth attached to a smoothed stick, “..and i’ll be honest with you as you’ve been honest with me, you’re not displaying much of that right now.” if anything all of this is just another rock on the dam of her ambition, her vision; destined to swell and break with all that fierce want. half of him wants to feed it, like his father did to his own, but it feels ill fit and misplaced matched with such mischief. he’d prefer not to be the one to introduce her to that uncomfortably in reach sliver of god’s perspective, taking a life, any life. it shouldn’t be him — yet he turns to her, face somewhat slack with something stubborn, “have you ever shot an arrow?”
“i’m not reckless.” she protests with such little conviction that it’s obvious she agrees with him herself. “i want to be good at it.” her teeth clench, setting her jaw in frustration because she can’t quite get the words out. because even if she can who the hell is he to hear them and maybe, even if he does listen, he won’t understand them and she’ll be back in the same place anyway: misunderstood and empty.
there’s a part of her--maybe the biggest part--that wants to scream at him that she doesn’t have time for patience and focus. the smarter part, the one that genetically belongs to her father, perhaps, tells her to shut her damn mouth. it’s her eyes that do the arguing for her. those same eyes once belonged to a dreamer, who sometimes still fights to come through. now she clings onto her anger because grief is too complicated and healing means letting go of an identity that feels like the only thing that’s hers.
“i want to be good, but if i stop and think and focus and any other synonyms you’ve got brewin’ in that brain of yours--” her teeth pull in her lower lip to keep it from pouting because she’s so sick of being herself when that woman was put in the ground with diego quintanilla along with his name that had once been hers too. “and i can’t just stop and think--” because then maybe i’ll just fall apart. that’s too much honesty, so she doesn’t say it. instead she adjusts her posture and recovers. “--because i’m too damned cold and hungry !” so were the rest of them. it was a good excuse for her worst moods that had, at one point, been unimaginable to her. if diego could see her now, would he recognize his pretty wife? the question filled her with conflicting pride and sorrow.
“no.” she’s never so much as held a bow, let alone learned to use it. “you feel like maybe i ought to learn to fill a man with arrows rather than lead?” her brow raises in question, but more than that curiosity. “you think you could teach me that art easier than point and shoot?”
( samson ).
“Put out the fire, red. Ain’t no use in bein’ pissed at me,” he said, somewhat dismissing the woman. But he looked at her a moment, listenin’ to her. His face softened, and he listened. He weren’t the best man for a lecture, but he sure could deal em out like no one’s business.
He took the gun when she handed it back, holstering the weapon and placing a calloused hand on her shoulder.
“Little lady, you shouldn’t…have to take the life of…of anythin’. The first thing I killed was a rabbit. I was eight years old. Threw up all over my pa’s boots. Second thing I killed was a man holdin’ a gun to my head. I had nightmares for weeks. Third thing I killed was a man who stood between me ‘n money. These sorta things got ways of escalatin’, and you take it from me. You don’t want that violence.”
He paused and looked at her a moment longer before shrugging out of his duster coat and yanking a dagger from his belt. “You do need to defend y’rself, though. Here.” He offered her the dagger before lifting his shirt and pointing at his chest. “Between these two ribs. You can’t get the ribs, go for the throat. You can’t get the throat, get whatever you can reach.”
“ain’t no–” her voice sounding shrill, she paused and began again. “ain’t no use in being pissed at you?” she scoffed, curls falling over her shoulders. “didn’t figure i needed a use in it to begin with.” anger wasn’t rational and, despite her best efforts at keeping a cool head, it certainly didn’t need kindling to get started. still, he was right–samson wasn’t any perpetrator of offences real or imagined to ahna, but it didn’t much matter when the fire got to burning, did it?
“shouldn’t’s got nothin’ to do with it.” she told him firmly, rotating her shoulder to softly escape the hand place on her shoulder. it was too fatherly and it made her feel sorrow for the life she’d given up with her folks for some man who’d lied through his teeth about a land of milk and honey in good ol’ oregon. “seems to me i didn’t ask for violence and yet it found its ugly eye trained on me anyhow. i watched the man whose children i was supposed to carry gunned down like a stray dog before my very eyes by a member of this same camp and you mean to lecture me on losin’ your lunch over a damn rabbit?” she could feel her chin wrinkling–a telltale sign she was near tears, which only served to make her angrier. poor samson had caught her at the bleak end of a empty day.
and, yet, he surprised her. wind all but robbed from her sails, she stared wide-eyed at the dagger before lifting a soft-skinned hand gingerly to reach for it. turning the blade towards herself, she pressed the hilt of the dagger between the two ribs he pointed at her before asking, with curiosity more than anger. “and what if they’ve a weapon trained on you and you’re too far for ribs or a throat.”
“i can learn to shoot a gun same as anyone.” ahna’s voice was sharp, forgetting to make herself smooth in her annoyance. it had been long enough toiling around the camp like some common scullery maid; she was sick to death of playing camp wench while some of the other women got to have a taste of buckshot. “you think i don’t have the mettle to take the life of a damn fool deer?” she gritted her teeth. “i watched my husband bleed out in front of me over nothin’ more than a star of fool’s gold; i can take the death of a prey animal.”
diego was her husband and she mourned the loss of love, but he was also a liar and a fool. there was no debating that. sighing, she made to hand the gun over to its owner--face softening as she remembered to quell the fire that burned brighter than love or grief ever had. “’m sorry. i just can’t go livin’ like some caravan laundry maid forever.“ she was more remarkable, more powerful than a governess for the unforgivable and unwanted. that was for damn sure. “don’t you think it stands to reason that a girl ought to know how to defend herself--living out here like this?”
❅ . ˚ ◝ –––––– ❛ RHIANNON NANKOVA ❜ / TD.
❅ . ˚ ◝ –––––– ❛ i am not a bird or a symbol◝ i am a woman burning ❜ / musings. ❅ . ˚ ◝ –––––– ❛ the jasmine is a water without blood ` and the girl a nocturnal branch ❜ / visage. ❅ . ˚ ◝ –––––– ❛ the one with violets in her lap◝ mostly goes astray ❜ / aesthetic. ❅ . ˚ ◝ –––––– ❛ freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose ❜ / answers. ❅ . ˚ ◝ –––––– ❛ she rings like a bell in the night◝ wouldn’t you love to love her ❜ / music. ❅ . ˚ ◝ –––––– ❛ girls grow into women◝ by locking secrets inside themselves ❜ / history. ❅ . ˚ ◝ –––––– ❛ she is whiskey in a teacup◝ a diamond that wants to be coal ❜ / mentions. ❅ . ˚ ◝ –––––– ❛ i touch the clothes you left behind◝ that still retain your shape and lines ❜ / family. ❅ . ˚ ◝ –––––– ❛ new moon floating white as a rib ` at the edge of the sky ❜ / edits. ❅ . ˚ ◝ –––––– ❛ your love is not a cage for wild hearts ❜ / headcanons. ❅ . ˚ ◝ –––––– ❛ players only love you when they’re playing ❜ / memes. ❅ . ˚ ◝ –––––– ❛ she was all rose and honey ❜ / ooc. ❅ . ˚ ◝ –––––– ❛ there is a charm in the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable ❜ / hellhounds. ❅ . ˚ ◝ –––––– ❛ yippie queue yay motherfucker ❜ / queue. ❅ . ˚ ◝ –––––– ❛ the wolves have a way of arriving at your hearthside; we try and try but sometimes we cannot keep them out ❜ / wanted connections.