just some lost thoughts

On a journey traveling towards Forever Lost, but at least I have some thoughts to share on the way | Mo Numbers |

[the-fifth-lunatic]

I write of you often.

I know you don't know who I am and to be truthful, I do not really know who you are. Perhaps you are my friends, my lovers, my parents, my teachers, the strangers that pass me by everyday. Perhaps you are my reflection, the shadow of myself that I dread. Perhaps you are just a figment of my imagination, a laughing wisp, ever evading me.

But what I do know is I love you. I love you in your brokenness and in your wholeness. I love your strengths and your weaknesses. I love your laugh and your smile and the sound of your voice. I love the way it feels to hug you and the way you say my name. I love the things that you get excited about and I love listening to you talk for hours. I love all the strange little things you do that make you you.

And maybe you shall remain a shadow to everyone else, like something you see out of the corner of your eye, but can never look at head-on. But I will know you. I will love you. I will spend the rest of my life writing to you in the hopes that one day you will write of me. And if you do not, I will still write love letter upon love letter until my knuckles are broken and the tips of my fingers bleeding. I will spell my love to you in the caverns under my bones, and talk of my love for you to the spiders in my bed. I will love you even as I put my hand in the pit of vipers.

This is it.

This is my love letter to humanity.

[the-fifth-lunatic]

I love you more than flowers, wait, wings? No. I can't find the words, wait, questions? No. I haven't been able to think

or breathe

I want to run, wait, fly? No. It wouldn't serve me well. Well, suit me well. Power is love, wait, rage? No. I haven't got it in me. I love you, wait, me? No. I don't think that's the way it goes.

I think I could traverse the void, wait, expanse? No. I would fall, wait, die?

I'm going to die?

No.

No, that can't be.

[the-fifth-lunatic]

The Escape

You wake up without a memory, and there she is

a forest of purples and blues and deep, deep greens.

A forest, or a person?

A collection of trees or a collection of thoughts?

Of all you want to be and all you want to know,

they are, they are, they are.

She is.

She is an escape.

She is the place you run to,

the music you listen to,

the books you read,

the thoughts you think,

the feelings you could never fully know.

She is an infinite ocean for you to drink from,

an infinite light for you to see from,

an infinite expanse for you to breathe from,

an infinite being for you to love.

But is infinity possible,

is an escape possible,

is she possible?

I can hear you thinking that maybe this will end.

Maybe this will end with you both beneath a tree,

You in your head, and she in a book,

a simple fairytale.

Maybe this will end and she will be gone.

They were, they were, they were.

She was.

She was yours.

To @olive-gone for @writeblrcafe's secret santa! Haha, it was me all along, nerd :P And yes, biology major.

Happy Holidays :)

-H

[the-fifth-lunatic]

Like You

And I know,

I know,

that I cannot love someone like you

again.

Because one way or another,

I know,

one of us will be gone by the end of this.

So I beg of you

to stop calling me by my name,

because it is better from your mouth

than from anyone else’s.

I beg of you,

show me your flaws,

because it would be easier to hate you

than to love you.

I beg of you,

please,

do not let me fall in love with you,

because I cannot bear the trouble

of loving someone like you.

[the-fifth-lunatic]

I was going to

They asked, months ago, for anyone who was able to to send you cards. They told me, months ago, that the cancer was starting. I was going to send you a card. I was going to draw flowers on it and write you a note. I was going to tell you how much you meant to me.

Though we only spoke but a few times, you made my day infinitely better, and I wanted you to know. I wanted you to know that your smile was the brightest, your laugh was the loudest, and your voice was the friendliest, though your words were marred by the cancer living in your mouth. I wanted you to know, I loved you. Another stranger I'll never be able to get over.

It seems strange to me that you could be gone. That I was going to tell you everything, but that I waited too long. It seems impossible that a life could slip away before I finished my homework, that you could end before I was able to tell you that I loved you.

But maybe one day I'll think of you with a smile,

and remember that

yours was the brightest.

:)

11/22/21

[the-fifth-lunatic]

Perhaps, impossibly

I have the unfortunate capacity to love strangers.

To know just a few things about a person and fall utterly in love with them. To have the overwhelming need to draw them or write about them or think of them for eternity, for it would certainly take an eternity to capture their infinite beauty. I have the unfortunate capacity to love strangers. To pass someone in the hallway, and have their face haunt my thoughts for weeks afterwards. To hear a stranger's voice and want, more than anything, to hear that voice for the rest of my life. To see someone's outfit and want to be able to wear an outfit like that too. I have the unfortunate capacity to love strangers.

I could smell a stranger's shampoo today, from all the way across the room. Tangy and sweet, crisp as a leaf. I saw a stranger's eyelashes today, framing his crystal clear eyes. He looked not at me, but past, as if I was an illusion. I tasted a stranger's food today, in the dusty cafeteria. Seasoned, colorful, loved, anonymous. I heard a stranger's laugh today, sewn together with her melodic tone, sentences upon sentences strung together in an effortless song. The laugh stuttered, unsure, but still it was childish, happy, joyful. I touched a stranger's hand today, trembling and cold. I felt the way they recoiled, and I knew it was an accident, an unwanted connection.

And perhaps, impossibly, I'll spend the day in the arms of a stranger, smelling their bitter shampoo for hours upon hours on end. And perhaps, impossibly, a stranger will look me with his perfect blue eyes and see me for me. And perhaps, impossibly, a stranger will make dinner for me one day, knowing that it is my favorite kind, loving me through their works. And perhaps, impossibly, I'll make a stranger laugh for days, perhaps I'll be the cause of the crow's feet in the corners of her eyes, the ones that will appear in just a few fleeting years. And perhaps, impossibly, a stranger will come from behind me and grasp my hand, intentionally, lovingly, and we'll hold on to each other for the rest of the day, scared to leave our anchors, content to be with each other.

Perhaps, impossibly, I will fall in love with a stranger, a stranger will fall in love with me,

and a stranger no longer shall they be.

[the-fifth-lunatic]

Far Too Long

I have loved you for far too long for the world not to know of it by now.

Perhaps you'll get bored of me one day, but I'll never be able to stop writing of you. No words could ever be enough to describe my love to you, and yet still, I will write until my words are enough. I will write of you until the day I die.

And though I can never tell you that it is you that I love, I will tell the whole world so that one day you might overhear them, and in a whispered breath hear my name mentioned. I will shout my love to you off the rooftops of crumbling ruins and tell of you in my conversations with millipedes. I will whisper my love to you as carbon dioxide for the plants on my windowsill and scream out my love for you as an echo across the mountaintops. I will write letter upon letter on crumpled paper and spell my love for you out in spilled coffee stains.

And then you shall know, it is you, yes, you. You are the one that I love, and you have always been the one that I have loved.

[the-fifth-lunatic]

I know you and I think about death a lot together. It comes to us in the soft grey fog of morning and in the heat of day or the cool of the night. And I know you wouldn't miss life, but let me tell you what I would miss.

I would miss the sunsets and the sunrises, the trees and the leaves, the frogs and the caterpillars. I would miss the stars in the sky and the fireflies in their sky of grass. I would miss the music and the art and the stories, the broken sounds and the fractured colors and the lost thoughts. I would miss the bleeding and the scarring and the healing. I would miss learning about the world from my teachers and doing reckless things with my friends. I would miss watching my parents age and watching my brother discover himself. I would miss the beautiful world and all the beautiful people in it.

But most of all, I would miss you. I would miss your soft smile, and I would miss your voice that you've never liked. I would miss your laugh that changes with every day that passes, and I would miss your careful questioning of the world. I would miss your sturdy reassurance and your unending wisdom. I would miss your wealth of knowledge, and I would miss the talent that you never seem to know you have. I would miss your lightning-quick wit and your dry sarcasm. I would miss the way you tell me stories and the fact that you always have another one to tell. I would miss your casual optimism and your skeptical pessimism. I would miss the way you are always able to sustain a conversation, and I would miss how generous you are. I would miss your impossibilities and your possibilities, your beauty and your flaws, your strengths and your weaknesses, when you need me and when you don't.

So I beg of you, don't leave me, don't leave me now. Because if I can miss these things, then these things can miss me. And you may not miss life, but sweet child, life would surely miss you.

[the-fifth-lunatic]

Years Ago

I dreamt of you,

years ago.

So it's weird that

I see you now around the corners

of the streets where I live, in the mirrors and the reflections,

and in the faces of the people I know, but even weirder when I see you in the faces of strangers.

And I see you in the flowers on the sidewalk and the buildings built centuries ago and the cars that were made miles and miles across the sea from here,

and in the tree that is trying to grow in my backyard and in the birdcalls and in the colors of my paints and my hair, and in the patterns in my clothing and the texture of the grass, the feeling of the ocean, the smell of fresh-baked bread, the taste of white-chocolate chip cranberry cookies, the reflections in cutlery, the dirt outside my room, the light outside my window, the air filtering through, the color blue, the tiles on the basketball court, the broken pencil in my backpack, that perfect color of brown, and I see you everywhere, I see—

you.

In my head.

Years ago.

Get out.

I love you.

[juniper-lark]

Writing Tip! Project Spreadsheet

Hello! I have linked a template that will help keep track of your current and finished writing projects. I think this will be really helpful for those of us that have a million ideas and tend to not finish projects. There are columns to keep track of the work’s type and genre, as well as each stage in the writing process.  Additionally, at the bottom of the spreadsheet there are totals for each type of work type, genre, ideas, works in prep, works with an outline, drafts, works in editing, and final works. There are separate formulas for the work types/genres vs. the progress stages. For the work types/genres, the formula is: =countif(range, “type/genre”). The template contains a legend for the abbreviations seen below. For the progress stages, the formula is: =counta(range). If you need to add more rows to the spreadsheet, you will need to extend the formulas’ ranges. In the template, I filled the cells with green for each progress stage that has been completed.

Shoutout to @the-fifth-lunatic​ for helping iron out the formatting :)

TL;DR: Made a spreadsheet to keep track of current/finished writing projects

[the-fifth-lunatic]

If you're a writer, you might want to check out this handy spreadsheet Juniper made!

[the-fifth-lunatic]

Childhood Lost

Sometimes I wonder about the childhood that I missed. The one where I spent days drenched in lake water and soaked in sun. The one where I appreciated the rain more and loved all the insects in the trees. The one where I learned the names of all the cicadas in my backyard because one day their song would become nostalgic to me. The one where I realized that this beautiful creation we live in could give me so much more than pixels on a screen.

Sometimes I wonder about the childhood that I missed. The one where I would go to friends' houses after school and would know their home as well as I know my own. The one where we would spend hours at a mall, just people-watching rather than buying anything. The one where I realized years ago just how beautiful people really are. The one where I valued friendships over material things.

Sometimes I wonder about the childhood that I missed. The one where I met you long ago. The one where we were the same age and we grew up on the same street. The one where we had all the things we can't have now and time was not a looming deadline. The one where I realized I loved you before it was too late. Before now.

I just want you to know:

I love you.

[the-fifth-lunatic]

I just want to be loved on purpose.

To be loved with resolve and without falter and—

Oh, screw it.

I started writing that,

years ago,

and I no longer remember what I meant by it.

I started loving you,

years ago,

and I no longer remember what I first liked about you.

Will we always be doomed like this?

I ask questions,

and I'm given answers,

but I always have more questions.

I asked for your love,

and you gave it,

but now I need more.

Will we always be doomed like this?

I write words on a page,

but

the ink spills through.

And I dreamt of you last night,

but I wonder,

did you dream of me too?

Will we always be doomed like this?

[the-fifth-lunatic]

A Grief, Maybe

It's a grief,

maybe,

this kind of relief.

An easy breath,

sort of,

this kind of death.

A new scheme,

I have,

this shattered dream.

A simple death,

perhaps,

this release of breath.

It's a relief,

kind of,

this form of grief.

[the-fifth-lunatic]

When I was younger, I spent a lot of time in the future. I daydreamed a lot. I still do. But then, I was always in the future, waiting for something to happen to me.

Now, I can't stop looking into the past.

I can't stop looking and hearing your laugh. Your laugh, your laugh, your laugh. It haunts me. Fills my every waking thought like smoke finds my nose and fills it, burning and beautiful. If I could capture sounds and file them away like books, I would have a thousand just titled "your laugh." I would have a thousand and spend every day reading each one of them over and over and over.

I can't stop looking and seeing your smile. Your smile, your smile, your smile. Always wondering if I could possibly have been the cause of it. Oh, what I would give to make you smile forever. But I know that if you smiled forever, you would end up with blood running down your face. So for now, I will settle for making you smile every once in a while, and I will savor those moments. These are the moments I look back into the past for, the moments I can make last forever in my head.

I can't stop looking and listening to your voice. Your voice, your voice, your voice. The way you say my name, the way you speak imperfectly. Your hesitancies and stutters, your confidence and stability. Your voice, melodic enough to put angels to shame. Your voice, sweet enough to counter the most bitter of poisons. Your voice, happy enough to fool some people. Some people.

I can't stop looking and seeing every moment we've had together. Moments, our moments, ours. Wondering if I am enough for you. Wondering why you would choose to spend these moments with me, when you could have them all to yourself. You could have the world and it would be so, so beautiful. But you chose me and I will never understand why. And I must tell you that I would choose you, again and again. I would choose you over the lilypads and the frogs, the cars and beautiful machines, the color red and the sound of a piano, the feathered birds and pine trees, the taste of salt and the scent of cinnamon. I would give up the world to choose you. Over and over and over.

I can't stop looking and seeing your grave. Your grave, your grave, your grave. And now I can't tell if I'm me or the younger me, always looking into the future. Even if you are not in the ground yet, sweet child, you are surely already dead. I can see it in your eyes, the way you look at the world like you've already left. And in your eyes, I can see your grave, the stillness you have as you lay in the coffin. And I wish, I wish I could forget the heart I saw buried with you, the broken one I call mine.

[the-fifth-lunatic]

Perandicate

I could make up a thousand words to tell you what my love for you is:

Perandicate, garfeln, snoronat, tricalite, teeningless, irrevendolant, lex, pintano, elangolantine, phant, rouln, errancia, kerontine, elling, yontoune, parandaire, icodite, farenless, pinefar, tellinless, eranmore, teralize, kaeliss, prostormin, lindere, possinine, fenericate, liramaire, ponting, laren, terenet.

But none of those would mean a thing, because language was made up so that we could communicate with each other, and I know you don't know what I mean by those words. So instead, let me tell you what my love is for you in the words you know:

Relentless, reckless, haunting, erroneous, broken, beautiful, old, new, imagined, real, possible, impossible, strong, weak, forgiving, overdue, caring, patient, impatient, jealous, tantalizing, freeing, ethereal, human, flawed, needy, casual, passionate, admiring, exciting, endearing, lasting—

forever.

forever.

forever.

[writeblrcafe]

Hello and welcome to writeblr café! This is a new network dedicated to the writers of this website, to showcase the poetry, prose and WIPs of our fellow writers as well as serve as a platform for inspiration and resource for those who are looking for more content to read.

How do we work?

Writeblr Cafè is an open network. Our aim is to support the writers on this website, who produce and then share their content for free. The network accepts a limited number of members, who will receive extra perks and privileges. However, being a member isn't a requirement for using the network to promote of your work!

Member Benefits:

Members will be invited to help us set up events, writing challenges and create prompts. In addition, they will get their own profile on our members page and tag on the network’s blog, and have your content reblogged faster. Furthermore, they will be invited to our discord server to connect with other writers and readers, and have extra privileges there too!

Apply!

We only allow a total of 30 members, so apply soon! Furthermore, if you wish to apply, make sure to reblog this post, read the rules and apply here. Applications will reopen once the admins are ready to accept more members, or one of the members drop out, so please apply soon!

Above all, please don't be afraid to tag us!

Use our open tag #writeblrcafe to have your content reblogged! You can also submit your writing.Help us to spread the word by reblogging this post and tagging your fellow writers and readers in the comments.

In case of any additional questions, read our FAQ and feel free send us an ask or contact any of the admins: @matcha-chai (n), @lexiklecksi (lexi), @kavyaistaken (kaavi).

[the-fifth-lunatic]

This is cool, might join.

[the-fifth-lunatic]

    I love hands.

    I love the way you can see a person through them. How small hands seem to be in the grand scheme of our bodies, but how much information they can tell about a person. How beautiful they are. How large they are, how small they are. How long someone’s fingers are. What color they are. If their skin is smooth or dry or cracked or wrinkled. The veins showing through. The freckles and the liver spots. The hair or lack of it. If they have calluses and where. The little writing callus I have on the wrong finger, the ones musicians have that look so painful, the ones that make a hand rough everywhere and you know the person has not had an easy life. And the little details people accidentally display. When there is writing on their hand, reminding themselves to do something later. Different colored notes on different days. I could fall in love with a few words on their skin. The nail polish, or lack of it. If it’s chipped or if they replenish the polish relentlessly. Hangnails and cuts and scrapes. Scars and burns, ink stains and doodles. Dirt under the nails. Whether they are cut short or not. I could fall in love with a person through their hands. And the things they adorn their hands with. Wedding rings and bracelets. Fancy and shiny or sentimental and plastic with fraying yarn at the ends. Rings too big, covered in tape to make them fit. So many rings you hear a click click click every time they move their hands.

    I love the way hands move. When a person gets excited and you can see it in how fast they move their hands. How they articulate their thoughts through their hands. How fast or how slow, reckless or gentle, soft or hard. The ways that some hands can bend while others cannot. The tremors that people try to ignore but I see anyways. I could fall in love with the things people try to hide. I could fall in love with the way people do things after they have done them a million times. A ritual. The speed at which they do them, inhuman, or the care they show, immeasurable. I could fall in love with the way hands move when someone is trying something for the first time. The clumsiness and the unsure air about them. The hesitancy and being afraid to make a mistake. And sign language, what a beautiful language. I could watch it for hours, though I know but a few words of it. The relentless beauty of movement, of the swaying a diving of hands and fingers, sharp angles and smooth curves. Beautiful people with their beautiful hands.

    I love the way hands feel in my own. How soft or how rough. How small and frail they feel next to mine, or how large and encompassing. How cold and broken, or warm, nearly burning at the touch. When I shake their hands, are they firm or hesitant? The way a touch can mean so many things: a fist bump, a handshake, an expression of love, a connection. The way they hold my own hands, gentle and caring, lovingly aggressive. The urgency with which they hold on, desperately needing something to anchor themselves. The way holding on to your hand inevitably leads to a hug, this broken way of pressing our bodies together that leaves my soul weeping every time it happens. The need to feel you more. The need to grasp on to your hands and never let go. To be buried in the grave and still be reaching out for you.

    Oh, what I would give to hold your hands forever.

.

.

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Note: hi everyone! I decided to get tumblr today, as if there wasn't enough chaos already in my life, and so this is my first post. I'll probably add more about me in my description later, but I just wanted to share some of my writing to start off. Once I get going, I'm planning on doing writing prompts, book/movie/song reviews, and a bunch of other writing-related things. Ok bye, have a nice day!