NITWIT

maestro of the mundane, photoshop explorer, art enthusiast, word adventurer, cinephile and lover of other solitary hobbies

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Now, I realize I cannot function like this. I was born to appreciate beauty. Perhaps I am incapable of doing anything but love. I have to look above and see the moon and the stars. The moon that always seems to be missing me, that’s calling out to me with its comforting light. And the stars that wave a friendly hello. They’re wonderful, and I wish we could live on gazing at clouds and stars through our measly lives.

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some sticker designs i made for MEA based on food puns

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I feel educated

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Where was this when I was in calculus

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why am i only seeing this now like

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The question we writers are asked most often, the favorite question, is:

Why do you write?

I write because I have an innate need to write. I write because I can’t do normal work as other people do. I write because I want to read books like the ones I write. I write because I am angry at everyone. I write because I love sitting in a room all day writing. I write because I can partake of real life only by changing it. I write because I want others, the whole world, to know what sort of life we lived, and continue to live, in Istanbul, in Turkey. I write because I love the smell of paper, pen, and ink. I write because I believe in literature, in the art of the novel, more than I believe in anything else. I write because it is a habit, a passion. I write because I am afraid of being forgotten. I write because I like the glory and interest that writing brings. I write to be alone. Perhaps I write because I hope to understand why I am so very, very angry at everyone. I write because I like to be read. I write because once I have begun a novel, an essay, a page I want to finish it. I write because everyone expects me to write. I write because I have a childish belief in the immortality of libraries, and in the way my books sit on the shelf. I write because it is exciting to turn all life’s beauties and riches into words. I write not to tell a story but to compose a story. I write because I wish to escape from the foreboding that there is a place I must go but—as in a dream—can’t quite get to. I write because I have never managed to be happy. I write to be happy.

Ferit Orhan Pamuk, “My Father’s Suitcase”, Nobel Prize for Literature lecture, December 7, 2006.

Edited by A. Abraham (wordsnquotes) 

Voice By Adnan H 

Music: Ludovico Einaudi - Nuvole Bianche

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She danced along the universe with grace, carefully stepping over each star with lightness, collecting in a bit of light along the way. She glowed a bright blue in contrast against the vacuous darkness, and we trusted the paths she trailed. 

We followed her from down below. We kept our head up as we traversed the barren ground she peppered with flashes of light. We abandoned our bags leaden with ambition and duty, and we choose not to look back. Because those who do find themselves stumbling, crushed by the incapacitating sadness from infinite stars. It was a beauty that lies always far beyond the reach of their fingertips, and all that is left for us is a dream so far removed from our skins. 

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Song of the Sea (2014) 

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One Direction (minus Louis) Aesthetic 

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I’ve always envied their eyes made of stars and dust their voices carrying me to worlds beyond, far and high their hearts heavy, dripping with the thrill of the smoked and intoxicating wind the easy way they hold someone’s hands their furtive smiles and frilly and silly romances the screams and yells from those who feel it all too much. I’ve envied those strewn upon the clouds, looking down on us– the lowly, the grounded, the dead. It is only the bitter and the brittle in me hoping you’ll be blown by the wind, scorched by the sun, dragged by the planes of my design.