#implexa

[implexadance]

We're big fans of dancing in the street! Have you caught any of our flashmobs?

[implexadance]

We've had a lovely Christmas break and are very excited to be getting back into rehearsal! Next weekend marks the final performance and end of 'The Unhallowed Master' tour! Have you seen it yet?!

[implexadance]

[realgentlemenwrite]

Infection.

There are twenty four ribs  that supposedly protect  your heart from damage,  but I swear you know  the precise location of  each 4 cm gap, know how to nick the arteries  and slip into my circulation, virtually undetected until the x-rays show you  lighting up my body like a christmas tree.

[fonteyns]

I'd love to take over the interiors blog, :3

fantastic!!!! you were not only first to respond, but i'd be totally excited to pass the torch to you :). can i get an email to send the invite to? 

edit: oops that was supposed to be a private message, but implexa is going to take over! 

[inkywings]

just enough ways to be just enough.

2. read books from the end to the beginning, there's something comforting about going from tragedy to happiness. hold the plotline in your hands and feel the way it crumbles and slip it into envelopes made of rough parchment and send it off to boys with careless eyes. they'll understand, i promise. our teachers told us that stories ran from beginning to middle to end and i have marvelled at the fact that not all of these beginnings simply make way for endings and middles that are cold to the touch, speckled with skinned knees and geraniums that smell too sweet. tie them into bouquets anyway, darling, and remember that the tides will tell you you're looking through the wrong end of the kaleidoscope and that's the reason you only see the stars. but really all you want is to only see beautiful things, and that is alright too.

3. forget the distinction between heartache and heartbreak, because deep down everyone knows they really aren't that different after all. my mother once told me once you start aching the fissures are soon to follow. erase the dreams and the dust from the margins of your journals and do not leave time at 2 AM to cry to the moon like you used to and do not hope her craters will catch your tears because they began to overflow a long time ago. move the flower pots out from under the eaves, seeing them bloom will soothe even the most parched of lips. tuck away the letters into nooks in the attic that you wouldn't be able to find again even if you wanted to, ensuring that love is nowhere to be seen.

4. let the hummingbirds whisper to you their songs but remember that a hummingbird's heart beats far too fast for you to comprehend until you fall in love again. meanwhile, clip your own wings and fold them into yourself and love only the things you know are more beautiful than yourself. buy books on songbirds just because their melodies will make your heart skip a beat, and leave dishes of nectar on your windowsill, for luck. eat oranges under a sun that threatens to apologizes all over you and leave the peels strewn across your freshly mown lawn to remind yourself that you can make flowers out of anything as long as it tastes like summer and sweetness.

5. lick your fingers after eating sweets because it's more than okay to be five years old again. be a worrier as much as you are a warrior because this heart of yours, though needing mending, is as much as bayonet as it a kiss. be fearless under stars that will rip from you your secrets if you do not live under them and button up your sweater, darling, you will catch a cold. finger paint and eat toaster waffles for dinner five nights in a row and read poetry that pulls at your chords and listen to music that creates symphonies of your fears (something you should listen to more often). count your blessings the way you count constellations; wistfully. the dew drops on the daffodils and coffee cup marks on old envelopes and how good it feels to smile. that's what you need to focus on: how good it feels. the skies will never apologize for their colour and the ocean will always be braided into the horizon but you do not have to iron the creases from your smile this morning. no, you do not.

(A collaboration with the lovely Annalise)

[inkywings]

They were damned lovers from the beginning. Her mother, with the eyes of someone whose heart had been wrung and hung to dry many a time, had told her once that something did not have to last forever to be perfect. It played through her heart like a mantra. She was much younger then, the bruises under her eyes were crescents rather than half-moons and she still wore her hair in two braids down her back. Still carried two journals with her everywhere she went, not yet afraid of the yearning the blank pages would cause. 

Nostalgia was a strange thing; it was like a forlorn lover, biting at her lips, making them bleed every time she sought to clean herself of disappointment. She was yet too young to understand the ache of memory, the ache that life would too soon become, but the nostalgia was painful nonetheless, sitting idly among a place in her heart she had promised to reserve for all her one night lovers. Those were the nights she kept in dusty jars, tucked behind her knees and on the mossy side of her ribs, once opened seeped out like bitter wine. But she rarely let it get that far, too preoccupied with counting the freckles on her thigh or kissing the knots on a strangers spine. She rented old motel rooms on Friday nights, and bought bottles of aged wine to share with herself. She sung softly to the chests of each one of her lustful endeavors, never once meeting their eyes. Attachment was the pinprick at her temple that caught her thinking about the way this one's arms had embraced her, whenever she lit a cigarette in a strange bed.

It was rare, the moments few and far between, but he must have been a gardener, the way he made a small incision and planted a single seed with supreme tenderness. It was sometime during September, the exact date forgotten, because she began to remember the smallest of details when May came around. At first, everything about him reminded her of lavender. The way his pupils would dance and sway to a melody only him, and her favorite flower, could hear, a melody hidden somewhere at the toes of Autumn winds. The way he cultivated seeds of subtle love into her days, and soon she would awake to find a daisy tucked in her hair or rose petals pressed between the pages of her withered Jane Eyre, a copy he picked up at the vintage market she loved to linger at. Those were the weeks of sweet serenity, but as the stories go, all good things must come to an end. 

She met it with shadowed eyes, yet this ending shook her hand, passed its hand across the back of her hand, and kissed her forehead. He had left her vacant like the gymnasium the night after an 80's Homecoming, streamers strewn over chairs and the faint scent of smeared lipstick. From then on she spent her days wandering Japanese tea gardens, vast fields, even trailing up down the aisles at the local nurseries, searching in vain. She then resigned herself to making miniature terrariums in mason jars, and leaving pressed sunflowers in books sold at second-hand shops. She found herself, sandwiched between the dusks and dawns of nights that teased her self-control, thinking about the people who would open those books. Would they have eyes like his? Would their lungs, too, be freckled with the disease of loving too much, for too little a time? "Something doesn't have to last forever to be perfect." Her mothers words, once inked on the insides of her wrists, had faded almost completely. Her punishment, she supposed, for letting go of the one thing she vowed to never forget.

She pondered the dull pain that had swelled in her throat. This pain, this ache, had become her friend. She smiled, tobacco-flavored smoke bleeding from the edges of her lips. She thought of the uncertainty that had engraved itself into the walls of her thoughts. It wasn't perfection she craved, wasn't hand-written promises that she desired. From her lips to her palms to her wobbly knees, what she wanted was simple really. Someone to kiss her collarbones and make love to her until every inch of her smelled of lavender bouquets, and forever, forever. 

The italicized bits are written by Annalise, whose words are some of my favorites on this website. 

[klsth]

The Moment When Your Eyes Are Blinded by the Sun

And sometimes I feel as if (deep down) I’m this ember waiting to find the right patch of dry earth to flame up into magnificence. And sometimes I feel as if I have nothing deep down there, and this is where I’m meant to go, and this is where I’m meant to stay, and I’m never meant to do anything beyond the act of not-doing (and, I’m okay with that). And sometimes, only in the right times, when we sit on the beach and your hand is by my hand and night is falling and the sun hovers on the horizon, readying itself to plunge out of sight, I feel nothing more than fullness. And I know that I am what I am meant to be and where I am meant to sit. And I close my eyes after gazing at the painfully bright sun highlighted against the blackening sky, the stars still invisible. And through my eyelids my retinas burn, my pupils shrink and the soft pain and heat is comforting. And I know that I exist. And I know that I can be blinded and touch and feel and taste and smell and..