bliss lane
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Jimmy Eat World
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Phantogram Three
sheepfilms
macklin celebrini has autism
Today's Document
oozey mess
One Nice Bug Per Day
The Bowery Presents
noise dept.
izzy's playlists!
h
pixel skylines
Cosimo Galluzzi
★
Sade Olutola
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Game of Thrones Daily
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@sevenreasonsadmires
I’ve learned to listen for
the laughter of the wind
that precedes the
affirmation beneath your
tongue, the fog that rises
around the promises that
should wear your hand,
sometimes I wake up
smaller than the comma
that inserts another breath,
sometimes I can’t find my
voice under the steps you’ve
taken without the sun, but
everything I could ever want
to love is
in your eyes
It’s like I slowly realized what was happening. I saw my brother go through it, I saw my uncle go through it, I saw my grandfather die from it, but that wasn’t enough. I started going to the liquor store the way that people go for groceries: like it was nothing, like routine. That’s why I just don’t get people. I don’t understand. How do we know a trap is ahead of us, and still walk into it?
Only the disturbed romanticize addiction via sevenreasons
But if they had learned anything together, it was that wisdom comes to us when it can no longer do any good.
Gabriel García Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera (via fables-of-the-reconstruction)
It still hurts. It’s not killing me anymore, But it still hurts.
(via serendipitousteenager)
“Write When You Find Work”
Young Orlo loved his family, but as one of thirteen children growing up in a squalid two-room dirt shack, he needed to leave. Now.
So once he was finally 12 years old and thus a fully grown man, he left a note for his parents that he was going to stop being such a ceaseless burden and head West to look for a better life. He snuck out before the sunrise with nothing but a hat he found on a dead hobo in a ditch, the clothes his mother stitched him, and his favourite stick and bindle.
He promised to write when he found work… he was going to make them proud.
As he had decided to do ever since he was a youthful and romantic 11 and a half, he hopped onto the first rusty freight train he saw and planned to ride the rails past the cornfields, past the deserts, all the way to the seemingly mythical Pacific Ocean.
Unfortunately, since the railroads didn’t take kindly to stowaways, he was routinely thrown off the train and beaten to a pulp, but Orlo didn’t let this stop him. It just slowed him down a bit.
In each town along the way he struggled to find work, and took whatever odd job he could find. Corn scrudger, spittoon licker, hay de-pile-up-er, race riot instigator, swallowing wasps for the amusement of wealthy land barons– it was all the same junk he could find back home. Barely able to even pay for fresh moldy dirt for dinner, he’d stay awake each night wondering why he ever left.
Orlo missed his family sumthin’ fierce, and wished more than anything he could know how they were doing… but he couldn’t dare write them yet, not with the nothing he’s accomplished. He simply didn’t deserve to, it’d break their hearts to know he was such a disappointment, and he’d rather die than do that to Ma and Pa and his 7 sisters and 5 brothers and whatever new siblings his parents had made during the time Orlo was away.
Inching his way West, Orlo sadly realizes that everywhere he went it was all the same. He denied that revelation to himself for a few years though, ever hoping but ever failing, with only menial labour and indentured servitude available to a boy of his ruddiness and phrenological cranio-bumpage.
Luckily though, The Great War began for reasons he was never quite sure about (but assumed they knew what they were doing), and Orlo decided to lie about his age so he could go serve and fight. “At last!”, he thought, “a chance to do something worthy”, as surely becoming a war hero would earn him the right to write home. It wasn’t “work” specifically, but it was close enough.
Soon after he survived his first encounter with trench warfare with only minor gunshot wounds that nevertheless caused the amputation of his left leg, Orlo finally felt accomplished enough to write home from the hospital room.
He heard back 3 years later. Turns out everyone is fine.
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what a visionary, david is.
Kids love black holes the way they love T-Rex. And I think it’s because each of these entities can eat you. And anything that eats you, you give your highest respect.
Neil deGrasse Tyson, The Inexplicable Universe: Unsolved Mysteries (via
sonnywortzik)
#THIS IS ACTUALLY A THING?#KIDS BELIEVE IN CONSUMPTION AS THE HIGHEST FORM OF CONTROL#THAT’S WHY THEY ARE OBSESSED WITH APEX PREDATORS
(via recursivities)
Single people want relationships, settled people wonder if they’re missing out on something, traveling types miss stability, stable ones are restless, old friends want new friends, new friends miss old friends, and basically almost everyone my age has some dangling worry trailing around after them everywhere that they’re somehow not doing everything, that what they’re doing is not altogether the right thing, that they are missing out. … Do not be ashamed. The doubt is natural, and everyone you know – yes, even that person – carries it sometimes too. Allow yourself to be peaceful. Allow yourself satisfaction in what you have. If you really don’t like it, allow yourself permission to make changes.
Lillian Schneider (via modernhepburn)
What’s the worst thing I’ve stolen? Probably little pieces of other people’s lives. Where I’ve either wasted their time or hurt them in some way. That’s the worst thing you can steal, the time of other people. You just can’t get that back.
Chester Bennington (via wordsthat-speak)
I have a thing for girls who can swear without flinching. I have a thing for girls who can beat me at Scrabble. I have a thing for the girls who have trouble saying sorry. Girls who burn dinner and serve it up avoiding eye contact. I have an even bigger thing for girls who have never read a whole book through, and who don’t think they have to just to talk about literature. I have a thing for girls who don’t brush their hair for days For girls who aren’t afraid to touch themselves. A thing for girls who get excited over special occasions. I have this great big thing for girls who walk out on arguments, pick up their shit and call quits on everything, only to have them smothering my face with kisses 5 minutes later. I have a thing for girls who read something and are brave enough to say, “what the fuck does that even mean?” I have a thing for girls who wear less makeup than usual. I have a thing for girls who kiss passionately. I have a thing for girls who get lost in supermarkets. For girls who lose their phones quicker than they lose their patience. I have a thing for girls who can’t sing worth a damn but sing anyway. And for girls who smile so rarely you want to marry them every time they do.
(Do not remove source.)
pink•noise
lost queen jaded by temporary dreams…if only I could write lyrics in the sky big enough to form a cloud in your backyard to lift you away from this madness I would; I wish I could erase those permanent scars sewn on to your arm and plant flowers in between those same red lines of make believe…I wish I had more pages of your book to fill me up with, I remember when I was the pen on your paper and you were the sugar in my coffee because no one tasted as sweet as you were…I put two and two together and realized you haven’t really gone anywhere, just like the scratches I left on your back because of the poetry you would write all over these walls, I don’t quite think you know how much of yourself is left inside me…you planted kisses on my lips that were warm like honey, smacked my ass and yoked me up from time to time cus’ you knew a woman like me could handle that, it’s funny because now you’re writing lyrics with your tongue on some one else’s canvas…tainted love stories end something like this, every little piece of you is still right here with me, let me take all those “could and would” types of rhymes back, because you’ll always taste me in your memory; I’ll be back one day to write the last page in your diary; because you can’t spell for without ever…
Lovely, deep, sexy, romantic. xo
“I made a painting inspired by a photo that a girl sent me of her masturbating. But my parents are visiting, and I don’t want them to see it. I feel like as an artist I need to express my truest thoughts. But at the same time, hiding those thoughts seems necessary to maintaining normal relationships.”
I hope you find someone who is brave enough to enter your storm, and respects you enough to love the size of your waves. I hope you find someone who will relish the calm you can have, and who is eager to set sail on the expanse of your mind. I hope you find someone that can’t escape the love they have for you, because now they have you in their very blood, always reminding them that you are the only sea worth exploring.
T.B. LaBerge // Unwritten Letters to You (via tblaberge)
"You ask profound questions,"
He said. “..in the middle of dinner, sitting in complete silence, or while you fold laundry” She looked at him, curious as to where this conversation was heading. ”You ask the sort of things that intrigue me because they are entirely new to me, and also, plague me, because I do not know the answers. ”You ask, not: ‘what are you thinking?’ but: ‘in what language do you think before speaking aloud?’ ”You asked: how do people intentionally betray the ones who love them? How do you sleep at night knowing someone loved you unconditionally and you used them? ”You ask: Why does it feel as though life would be easier if they were dead instead of them abusing the life they still have. ”You asked me something, that I most definitely, would never have the answer to: What are we here for? ”See, I don’t know, I may never know —” He paused. Her face was warm and her eyes were locked on him. “I do know, however, that I am profoundly in love with your entire being. You were my answer to something, even if I’m uncertain of the question, but a profound one; it is.”
When a woman becomes her own best friend life is easier.
Diane Von Furstenberg (via silk-dreams)
We don’t hate those of you that are white. We just want to stay black
Muhammad Ali
Anxiety at 3 am - or - Why won't my mind stop - or - who the fuck are you
Author: gigglyhuff
who the fuck are you?
who do you wish you were - that
kid from down the street with
a rich dad and stay at home mom?
who will you become - the classical pianist you’ve been
practicing for for 19 years or
the linguistic anthropologist like your
diploma says?
why do you care - when the
universe is so large like you heard in
astronomy lab and cried when you thought
why did God make me so small and
useless?
what the fuck are you -American,
BLACK, Temporary Parisian, Non Binary,
Gay to be simple, Multi-Racial, B.L.A.C.K. ,
Middle Class, Interfaith, Poor, BLACK, Anxious, ADHD,
Scared, Enthusiastic, BLACK, Lonely, BLACK BLACK
and why does it matter?
You are - Everything i wish i was, strong and complex, everything
i want to be and wish that
someday i will be.
Who the fuck are you?
the boy with the trinket tattoos
Author: brownboiiimagic he wakes between defeat and agony
discrediting his own strength
assuming that darkness is supposed to cooperate
mistaking the beauty within for a lack thereof
-
he soaks himself in failure
forgetting that he has move mountains
planted loves that bloomed in concrete
redirected hurricanes to remain at sea
-
he doesn’t look both ways before crossing the street
too many someones have missed out on those breathtaking eyes
-
he doesn’t fly from the cage he is trapped in
though he has a master key
because he keeps emancipating everyone else
always forgetting about himself
-
he hates himself most
yet his love is miraculous
it encases you in light
comforts you during uneasiness
and blinds you from a life without it
-
he skips meals to feel feather-like
while spoon-feeding the famished
-
he takes an ax to his temple
the very sanctuary that heals at the touch
and absorbs light just to give it away selflessly
-
he cries often with lips toward hell
when he smiles it lights the universe
no one cares to pick apart the attraction like he does
-
he doesn’t speak because no one ever listened
though babies are lulled to comfort
masses are brought to silence
dancers of the same precipice are brought to the valley
-
he only writes to himself because he feels less than
they tell him that his syntax is enough
that someone wants to hear what he has to say
that someone wants to help him out of his grave
that someone understands his demons
-
he needs a daily reminder to live
such a task required minimum energy
for his being is a gift that keeps giving
his breath is someone else’s hope
his pain is someone’s empathy
his charity is someone’s second chance
-
though it may not last forever
I admire the way he manages to survive
