Lost Thoughts

random thought produces...

[museiums]

lina gordievsky

[frachella]

[nightlyquotes]

“Isn’t it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?”

— L.M. Montgomery

[moon-stars-and-ink]

One of my favorites from Lang Leav's Memories 💜

[mylosthoughts]

I saw a coyote, I thought I was toast

I was already slipping on the icy slope

testing my chances, I was sure

a bit of nature would surely cure.

‘Frighten yourself’ they say gives meaning

but I turned away, barely breathing

so close to something that could easily ensue 

hard sharp teeth right through my sinew.

I imagine it’s behind me creeping like a stranger

taste of nature comes with its danger.

We are not animals, just act out the simile

I would have dunked into the icy river dismally.

My heart still thumping, my mind still racing

I come back inside, all I’m allowed is pacing

one taste, one drop is all we ever needed

to convince ourselves to cage up our legions.

The sorry state, everything to waste

is all to bait our vulnerable mates

guard our gates, our states, our mistakes,

to the world not the earth;

our miserable mirth. 

[new-poets-society]

Home

“Every family has a history of heart disease” says the man on the TV.

A clash of metal as my mother drops a pot full of soup on the floor and swears.

From the radio, the Mandarin singer wails, “Do you know I am waiting for you?” 

The oven open, a soft yellowish glow.

Light means heat means love.

Every family has a history of heart disease.

I read once that a man committed suicide by sticking his head into the oven,

But he put a pillow down to rest on first. 

I wonder if it was comfortable.

I wonder if it mattered.

The shape of my mother’s body has become a part of our couch. I can feel the shape with my body as I lie there; no matter what I do, it doesn’t match up. 

Sometimes I lie in my bed for hours, eyes open two round quarters in the dark, then day, then dark again.

“Do you know I am waiting for you?”

The man on the TV adopts a cynical tone,

White noise.

Every family has a history of heart disease.

Sometimes I look at her and her expression is so blank her face looks featureless. 

We have the same eyes: dreamer eyes. 

We have the same heart.

When we go into cardiac arrest, we do it as quietly as possible so no one else can hear.

Every family has a history of heart disease.

My mother sighs, wiping cracked red hands on a rag of a dish towel.

“What, you think that makes you special?”

Izzy // @izzywritespoems

[mylosthoughts]

If you're not fighting, what are you loving these days?

[books-n-quotes]

Something in me wants more. I can’t rest.

Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via books-n-quotes)

[mylosthoughts]

Gaping Chest, No time to Rest Creeping Crawling things Draw up to me Caught in my skin Pulled with gravity No bandages dress This mess, see Colours sooth Oh, they ooze Sickly green And blackest blues Night hues do Make more evident The shades lent To the gaping Chest.

[mylosthoughts]

[mylosthoughts]

WIM WENDERS: AN INTERVIEW (1984)

by Katherine Dieckmann After ranging over death valleys, desolate highways and the disinterested skyscrapers of Houston, Paris, Texas comes to a halt in two tiny rooms of a peepshow palace called The Keyhole Club. There men talk to girls by phone through a one-way mirror. There Travis (Harry Dean Stanton) finds Jane

by Katherine Dieckmann After ranging over death valleys, desolate highways and the disinterested skyscrapers of Houston, Paris, Texas comes to a halt in two tiny rooms of a peepshow palace called The Keyhole Club. There men talk to girls by phone through a one-way mirror. There Travis (Harry Dean Stanton) finds Jane

[mylosthoughts]

The Freedom, The Power

She looked like she was flying.

Coming, flowing around the bends. Unplugged to time & space. She felt nothing but a surreal calm. Couldn't feel her heart beat, couldn't feel her legs. Just the echoing, distant sound of her patterned breathing. She felt deceased and alive in one.

And then a call, more muted than the breathing, telling her what was left. Her muscles responded in a successive symphony as would an orchestra to its conductor's signal.

Her lungs expanded, her legs stretched. She was no longer touching earth. She was made of the stuff air is. She flew.

[chroniclebooks]

There is no replacing the experience of reading a text. The very private interaction, the intimate communion of reading, sitting down with a book, living with it, having the book dwell inside of you—there is no substitute for that.

Junot Diaz (via chroniclebooks)

Living in you

[thelovejournals]

Forgive everyone for your own sins and be sure to tell them you love them which you do.

Jack Kerouac  (via thatkindofwoman)

[mylosthoughts]

[fofanna]

 Sylvia Plath. 1932-1963

 “I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I  want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the  skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades,  tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in  life. And I am horribly limited.” 

[mylosthoughts]

Violence & Violets

Tears have dried in their place Such pain, that is no more Just go on, though she doesn’t have the plan. Hoping someone will speak straight to me, Even though I’m sore. Does this life contain a safe place for me? Someone that won’t question the violence and the violets in my eyes? Moments in those soft eyes of yours lyingly say yes. But I just cut my friends for it. A push or a pull, a give but always a take. The stories tell me I’m a spirited, restless soul But I’ve got more ground beneath me than that. So what do I do with the vestiges of shame? Never on time and always poignant. . Like a fire too big for its hearth. How do the Graces fit this much power and life into the Art of a soul? Wash the face, I don’t have answers to give this girl. Go on, just go on, you’ll live till you curl, So go on till you will.