peggy in the twilight

var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-8836514-5']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); Peggy spent half of each day trying to wake up, and the other half preparing for sleep. Around five, she would mix herself something preposterous and '40s-ish like a Grasshopper or a Brass Monkey, adding a note of gaiety to her defeat. This shadowlife became her. She always had a glow on; that is, she carried an aura of innocence as well as death with her.

[bnmxfld]

[5tn]

[peggyinthetwilight]

I Never Had Much of A Green Thumb

This seed had grown inside me before I learnt the language of flowers, before the rose garden bloomed only orange mock, the farm fresh blueberries picked along the Coromandel, ripe and ready, left to rot. the Fridays I lost count of losing you.

So it never mattered, not really,  but just so you know, I wanted it to be you. 

I wanted it to be you the way I want rain, when I can’t sleep, its heavy downpour licking leaves and branches outside my window. I wanted your mouth to be the last to grow into mine, leaning into the folds, thirsty and desperate; 

Your fingers to be spread out like ivy along my rib cage. A love where we planted all seasons; unexpected buds rising up at the end of each winter frost.

But isn’t it always that way with things that aren’t meant to be held in my two hands. Things that need to be lifted, need to be worked from the soil and held close. Nurtured, potted, rooted,  but yet refuse to grow. 

I stand in the middle of the field I’ve toiled, for season after season, and finally begin to recognize death. 

Splaying palms wide, bargaining, pleading, praying — just a little longer, let me carry them for just a little longer.

[tristamateer]

I miss you so much it feels gross. It feels wet. It feels nauseating. I want to rip out my heart and shake it like a magic eight ball.“Is this okay, is this okay, is this okay or does it make me weak?”

“Ask Again Later” Trista Mateer  (via thatkindofwoman)

[theshinysquirrel]

[stoicremains-deactivated2017102]

Today, this day was a brimming cup, today, this day was the immense wave, today, it was all the earth. Today the stormy sea lifted us in a kiss so high that we trembled in a lightning flash and, tied, we went down to sink without untwining. Today our bodies became vast, they grew to the edge of the world and rolled melting into a single drop of wax or meteor.

Pablo Neruda, September 8th (via whyallcaps)

[nitabea]

Never underestimate the importance of fresh flowers, clean linens, and sunrises.

Small happy things (via curlycarolina)

[a-joyfuljourney]

[peggyinthetwilight]

I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, "This is what it is to be happy."

[wnq-anonymous]

I now see how owning our story and loving ourselves through that process is the bravest thing that we will ever do.

Brené Brown  (via thatkindofwoman)

[magicsystem]

(by FeedingTheBeetle)

[subfalencia-blog]

[peggyinthetwilight]

Some days I get disheartened because I still can’t control it. I feel full until I am empty. I feel strong until I am weak. I'm walking in a field with purple lupus blossoms lighting up under streaks of sun patches until I'm not. Then it's white washed walls with the sort of background chatter that puts you on edge and my mouth tastes like metal.

[stylerain-deactivated20150608]

[observando]

[shopruche]

[quoted-books]

You forget what it was like. You’d swear on your life you never will, but year by year it falls away. How your temperature ran off the mercury, your heart galloped flat-out and never needed to rest, everything was pitched on the edge of shattering glass. How wanting something was like dying of thirst. How your skin was too fine to keep out any of the million things flooding by; every color boiled bright enough to scald you, any second of any day could send you soaring or rip you to bloody shreds.

Tana French, The Secret Place (via quoted-books)