caves

Elaine Tsui, 17. Hopeful writer, chaotic bibliophile and seasoned Idealist with an (unhealthy) obsession with words and stories. Feel free to give feedback on my writing xx

[itakephotosofallthethings]

Holding Onto Light

North Cascades, WA

View it on Flickr

More photos by John Westrock on Flickr.

[defiantely-deactivated20181027]

(5) Tumblr on We Heart It.

[quotethat]

I think I fall in love a little bit with anyone who shows me their soul. This world is so guarded and fearful. I appreciate rawness so much.

Emery Allen (via aserenia)

[shyshounen]

内田佑朋

[seafolds]

Chernobyl

People always say others are their sources: you're my source of inspiration, you're my source of strength; source of love, energy, life. And if we get energy from our relationships, what would our relationship be? Would we be the relationship between sun and earth? The giving constant? Or would be be like the torrential wind and water, ebbing and flowing; thundering with the rumbles of vibrancy? Would we be like coal or oil? Allowing for leaps and gains together; industrialization and technological developments: achievement after achievement? Yet our time is short, limited - burning bright knowing we will eventually burn out. Or would we be like a nuclear reactor? The tentative one hanging in the balance of greatness and disaster? I think we are nuclear. We straddle the precarious situation of being both good and bad. We are at once: both. We were never good nor bad. At the same time we are this: a nuclear meltdown waiting to happen. A close to cataclysmic event waiting to happen. We are nuclear. So when our relationship goes toxic; will we go down like Chernobyl in my heart? Killing all the flower instantly, collecting hatred in the fauna that inhabit me? When our relationship does meltdown; will you take me, and all of me, down with you? The radiation of you will last in me for thousands of years and you won't know it.

[seafolds]

Home

When home doesn't have an address, I use my fingernails and palm lines as a map to guide me back to you

[seafolds]

Folding

It's about time I stop folding myself inwards into swans, flowers and stars to be appreciated by you. It's about time I un-crease my folds to start taking up space. I'm not going to fold myself around you, hopefully making sure you're happy. I'm letting go.

[weissewiese-deactivated20181206]

What if you paused for a minuet instead of a minute? The dark might sky, the blue might star, the always could open, the close might earth.

Angie Estes, from “Kind of Blue” (via weissewiese)

[jericosilvers]

[wordsnquotes]

Poetry is a sort of inspired mathematics, which gives us equations, not for abstract figures, triangles, squares, and the like, but for the human emotions. If one has a mind which inclines to magic rather than science, one will prefer to speak of these equations as spells or incantations; it sounds more arcane, mysterious, recondite.

Ezra Pound, The Spirit of Romance (via wordsnquotes)

[delicatepoetry]

I am a tsunami and you’re a calm sea, yet some how your love has crashed into me.

i.c. // oceans (via delicatepoetry)

[hellanne]

Some people, no matter what you give them, still want the moon. The bread, the salt, white meat and dark, still hungry. The marriage bed and the cradle, still empty arms. You give them land, their own earth under their feet, still they take to the roads. And water: dig them the deepest well, still it’s not deep enough to drink the moon from.

Denise Levertov, Adam’s Complaint (via hellanne)

[wildflowerveins]

Marie in church, tugging the spine of her Bible, threads fraying. Olive taps her thigh, light drifting through glittering windows, virgin Mary with her mouth wide open. They are like that too: crushed glass, pressed together, stained. Olive tucks clover between the pages, and Marie smears her honey-coated thumb across the bind. Marie before the pastor, Olive’s hands on her back, pushing her forward. Her tongue dry before she even swallows the wafer, drops of wine like an split lip. She imagines Him inside of her, blood brought to the soft surface of her belly. His body swelling like watermelon seeds, teeth biting the meat of her shoulder. A cross, dragged across her neck, the pastor whispering absolution. Marie blinks and suddenly, Her face.

Yasmin Belkhyr, Mosaic  (via wildflowerveins)

[nowinexile]

Oh rascal children of Gaza. You who constantly disturbed me with your screams under my window. You who filled every morning with rush and chaos. You who broke my vase and stole the lonely flower on my balcony. Come back and scream as you want and break all the vases. Steal all the flowers. Come back… just come back..

Khaled Juma, a Palestinian poet from Gaza.  (via castnuri)

[larmoyante]

Don’t call me more than once, you hear me? When you do, I’ll hear it ring and I’ll let it go. Don’t forget to leave a message. Breathe so the static catches onto your lungs and makes that silvery rasp I love. Tell the silence you need me. Tell it you’ll be fine if I don’t need you back. Tell it you remember the way I smoked like everyone was watching, like every kiss was the one before quitting. Tell it you miss me. Tell it you’re not lying. Stop when the beep sounds.

Ramna Safeer, Instructions For Him (via larmoyante)

[larmoyante]

You have witchcraft in your lips.

William Shakespeare, Henry V - Act 5, Scene 2 (via larmoyante)

[seafolds]

Conversations with My Grandmother II

My grandmother and I don’t speak, We sit across gulfs yet again,  I wonder why she does not look at me  I don’t know how it’s possible to argue with someone when you haven’t spoken to them in 3 months. Maybe it’s the way I’ve my hands have offended her. Maybe I think that it is because I have bleached my vocal chords the colour of snow  that this country will never see. I turned the radio am-fm to white noise,  static blankets the room like fresh snow.My home is channel 8 serial dramas,  bad lighting.  Awkward camera angles.  I opt to read the subtitles instead. Conversations are frantic copy past google translate scenarios in my mind. I whip back and forth between languages so fast I give my brain stem whiplash. Is it wrong I cannot have conversations with my grandmother,  I cannot speak to my mother in mother tongue?  Every-time I open my mouth.  A white cave of snow, avalanches out of me. She doesn't hear my words, she can only feel them.  They are cold, ice cold.