we're not kids anymore.
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
cherry valley forever
dirt enthusiast
AnasAbdin

Origami Around

#extradirty
đȘŒ
noise dept.
KIROKAZE
tumblr dot com
Cosmic Funnies

oozey mess
DEAR READER

if i look back, i am lost
Keni

ç„æ„ / Permanent Vacation
trying on a metaphor
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PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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@ser-crer-sendo
David Turnley. Two elderly women visiting the graves of their dead parents in the Appalachian Mountains sit on the headstones and talk. 1983.
âMeeting of the Atlantic and the Pacific â The Kiss of the Oceans.â, postcard, 1923
People often ask me questions that I cannot very well answer in words, and it makes me sad to think they are unable to hear the voice of my silence.
Inayat Khan (via mertseger)
My creative writing professor told me to stop writing about love. I asked him why and he said, âBecause you have turned it over and over in your hands, felt every angle, every fault, every inch, every bruise. You have ruined it for yourself.â I spent the next 3 weeks writing about science and space. Stars exploding. Getting sucked into a black hole. How much I wished I could sleep inside of that nothingness without being annihilated. What an exploding star would taste like. If it would make our stomachs glow like fireflies, or tingle and shake like pop rocks under our tongue. My creative writing professor told me that those poems werenât what he was looking for. He tells me to stop writing about outer space. Stop writing about science. Again, I ask him why. Again, he says, âYou have ruined it for yourself.â I spend the next three weeks writing about my mother, how we are told we canât make homes inside of other human beings, but the foreclosure sign on my motherâs empty womb tells me that women who give birth know a different, more painful truth. My creative writing professor tells me I am both talented and hopeless, that everything I write is both visceral and empty, a walking circus with no animals inside but a beautiful trapeze artist with a broken hip selling popcorn in the entrance-way. He tells me to stop writing about my mother. I donât ask why. I pick up my books and my notepad and I leave his office with my war stories tucked under my tongue like an exploding star, like the taste of the last person I ever loved, like my motherâs baby thermometer, and I do not look back. We are all writing about our mothers, our lovers, the empty space that we will never be able to breathe in. We are all carrying stones in our pockets and tossing them back and forth in our hands, trying to explain the heaviness and we will never stop writing about love, about black holes, about how quiet it must have been inside the chaos of my motherâs belly, inside the chaos of his arms, inside the chaos of the spaces in every poem I have ever written. None of this is ruined. Do not listen to them when they tell you that it is.
Caitlyn Siehl, âMy Creative Writing Professor Told Me to Stop Writing About Loveâ (via alonesomes)
Writing is like breathing, itâs possible to learn to do it well, but the point is to do it no matter what.
Julia Cameron, The Right to Write: An Invitation and Initiation into the Writing Life (via seabois)