Everything & Nothing

A twenty-year old rogue who cries, loves, laughs, writes, reads, and lives and lives and lives and lives and lives and lives lives and lives and lives and lives and lives and lives and lives and lives and lives and lives and lives and lives and lives...

[love-personal]

[honeysighs]

I am trying to expose a secret told to nobody yet; I am asking you (as I stand with my back to you) to take my life in your hands and tell me whether I am doomed always to cause repulsion in those I love?

Virginia Woolf, The Waves (via honeysighs)

[aquaticwonder]

Bridges

[u-know-my-name]

[journalofanobody]

December. This heart full of tears and of night.

Albert Camus, from Carnets 1942-1951 (H. Hamilton, 1966)

[set-and-drift-deactivated2019]

[upclosefromafar]

~My Hidden Nirvana~

[metaphorformetaphor]

Time always pretends it’s something else. Sometimes it pretends to be a person. Time pretends to be people’s wrinkles, scars, saggy bits. Sometimes it’s faraway, unreachable roads. Time pretends to be a road that leads to the sea—over hills, past hidden places, past mysterious destinies that are never understood, over roofs, chimneys, castles and huts, fields of cow-wheat and forget-me-nots, and under the silvery smooth beech trees of manor houses. Sometimes it pretends it’s the sea itself. And the sky. Sometimes it pretends to be gravestones, children, the elderly. It pretends to be your veins, your teeth, your dentures, or eyes. In Mother’s eyes, these days time usually pretends to be the wall opposite her bed. The window is time. Day and night. Light and dark. Time is yellowed photographs—black and white, figures disintegrating under her failing vision (what time hides from Mother is that these figures are her own faces throughout the years, her children and her husband). Time is a clock that has stopped. Sometimes Mother’s fingers are time—she holds them up against the light and studies them for hours like a child.

Inga Ābele, from High Tide (Open Letter Books, 2013)    (via metaphorformetaphor)

[survivingsiblingsuicide]

Nothing will fit in that hole because what we want back, we can’t get, which is this one person. I’m not going to rush anything and scamper around like a mad person and make myself crazy. I’m trying to be respectful of the absence. I’m not trying to fill it up. It is what it is.

Michelle Williams, on the death of Heath Ledger. (via survivingsiblingsuicide)

[will5nevercome]

Out of time

(Buy a print of this comic)

[brutereason]

Let me be crystal clear: if you’ve faced a tragedy and someone tells you in any way, shape or form that your tragedy was meant to be, that it happened for a reason, that it will make you a better person, or that taking responsibility for it will fix it, you have every right to remove them from your life. Grief is brutally painful. Grief does not only occur when someone dies. When relationships fall apart, you grieve. When opportunities are shattered, you grieve. When dreams die, you grieve. When illnesses wreck you, you grieve. So I’m going to repeat a few words I’ve uttered countless times; words so powerful and honest they tear at the hubris of every jackass who participates in the debasing of the grieving: Some things in life cannot be fixed. They can only be carried.

Everything Doesn’t Happen For A Reason — Tim Lawrence (via brutereason)

[nevver]

[misadventure-rogue]

Love is watching someone die

October 21, 2015, Wednesday

Today we lost Mommy to colon cancer. The battle was brief but intense. She never told anyone until stage four. Actually, she never directly told us. I’m going to grieve you forever, Mommy. You loved me best and I know sometimes I didn’t know how to receive that love. 

I thought we’d have more time but whenever I think of your death as the end of your suffering and pain, I stop being sad. Rest easy, Mommy. Always watch over me. Thank you. I love you.  

[allmymetaphors]

[wrec]

The ideas and influences of the collection - 11 by Boris Bidjan Saberi

[stoickyle-deactivated20160312]

You live in the back of my throat. Folded up there. A memento. Your scent. Your memory. Muted and momentary. Heavy. The smell of sleep. Reminiscent. Bittersweet. Once I laid my head on you. Inhaled to match your rhythm. As if somehow that’d bind us close together indelibly. You live in my cavities. Empty spaces of my body. Your voice. Your memory. Planted deep. A pit inside me.

-Pity Sex (via sadkyle)

[misadventure-rogue]

It’s too late for me to sign up for GE class on Geography because I’ve already used up all my Social Science classes but it’s never too late to pin a Philippine map and a world map on my bedroom wall, right? I can memorize countries, cities, and seas this way. Self-education is the way to go. Everywhere is school. 

[urchinhowl]

A special place somewhere in Orkney.