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Andulka
Today's Document
The Bowery Presents
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Jules of Nature
Sweet Seals For You, Always
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Xuebing Du
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izzy's playlists!
TMBGareOK. The Official They Might Be Giants tumblr
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
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Kiana Khansmith
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
Misplaced Lens Cap
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@xerins
Be the person who still tries. After failure, after frustration, after disappointment, after exhaustion, after heartache, be the person who musters up the courage to believe that a new attempt can manifest a new outcome. Be the person who still tries.
The ability to observe without judgment is one of the highest forms of intelligence.
A day in Plymouth
Being small meant me. Middle school to high school.
I realized not just other people but I too saw myself small. This tiny nuisance that people took pity and stepped over. After finishing my first year in university, I was finally able to say
'I am not small.'
'I will be big.'
I still don't have enough courage to call myself big, but I am not small. People don't pity me. I pity the people who pity me actually, because now I can see their efforts to lift themselves higher by stepping on me.
You know, it's okay to not knowing what to say. I know how frustrating to feeling such heavy things but unable to express them. It's like you want to scream but when you open your mouth...your voice gets blocked.
For me, not being able to write down my thoughts like the way I feel is same with being strangled. Like I can't breathe and I start panicking, desperately trying to breathe. Desperately trying to pour my emotions to words.
Under The Tree
'Oh blessed tree, eraser of all sins, I plead you to erase my misery once again.' The woman's pale face was almost pure white, resembling a corpse with dry blue lips and hollow eyes. 'My dear sinner,' the tree answers. 'You bringed this upon yourself. I gave you my flower, you ripped the petals in each nightmare.' The woman clutches on her white dress, her body getting smaller as her tears turned onto the most precious gold, known as blood in human language. 'Haven't I warned you, as a child your job is to rip out all petals. Therefore, as a sinner, you ought to protect your petals in no matter the cost?' This time, the woman clutches on her hair, ripping her black strands. She screams in agony. 'No!' she says. 'My hair is blonde, when did they turned black?!' She keeps going with horror and denial. 'When you gave your petals to soulless body.' The woman lifts her head, with no color in her presence. Her skin now same color as her white dress, her eyes goes blind. 'But that man...!' 'He was nothing but a cactus in your garden.' The tree interrupts with its echoing voice. 'This was your last chance. Farewell, the most precious sinner.' The woman vanishes under the tree, her dried petals under the dress. Next moment, the blessed tree welcomes the presence under near dandelions, under the yellow dress. Greets the small child with bright red hair, peeking out under the dress.
Empty Pages
Once upon a time, there was a boy. His once alive burning hair had faded, just like the ambition in his eyes. His sister especially, was fond of his hair. 'I love watching it.' she would say. 'Feels like flame in the calm breeze.' The boy looked at her puzzled. The girl smiles, pleased there was still a response from her quiet brother. She continued 'Do you remember going to camping when we were younger? We watched the campfire for hours.' The boy indeed remembered that day. Their parents was off to sleep earlier in their tent, just two 12 year old kids, watched the campfire in boredom yet in awe. Their marshmallows long forgotten. 'It looked like your hair. That fire crimson belongs to you.' The boy did not response, but his slumped position said enough. Ashamed to face his sister. The girl, with desperation now, continued talking. Bleeding to words. 'It saddens me to watch you like this brother, I plead to see your fire back.' The boy, still keeping his head low, interrupted weakly. 'Your fire.' He corrected her. 'I never had a fire, I am nothing but the wind. But sister, even the greatest flames quiets down, after destroying the big forest.' Tears began to form in little girl's eyes, leaving a burning sensation in her cheeks. 'Oh brother... for how long will I say it... It wasn't you that killed our beloved family.' As if the boy wasn't slumped enough, he made himself smaller. He wanted to avoid everything, hiding away from his tearful eyes. But where was he supposed to look? His sister that now started crying like a fountain? The sky that's surrounded in smoke? The poorly made gravestone of their parents? His hands that now carry the marking's of angry flames in that dark purple? What is the purpose of volcano, who destroyed forests and villages? Nothing, but wait to get harden with the grief and sins it carrying. Wait to be a surface for people to get close, only to end with another massacre.
It's Over
A broken glass will not hold any liquid inside, no matter how thick it is.
It will spill down from glass to your fingers, your clothes and make a mess on the floor.
I hope you weren't trying to drink wine in that broken glass, forgetting you are the one who broke it.
You cannot drink any more.
I am back in this app, like a moth to flame. I don't necessarily 'need' it to survive but something inside me founds the best space in here. The perfect environment. There is a presence but not expectations.
The last time I opened this space I saw a post. The person was struggling and it was such a...calm but bleeding post that it made me wanna read it over and over again. I didn't tried to reach to them but all I can hope is my prayers and hopes reached to him through the screen and whole universe.
I don’t want something complicated. I want something so simple that it makes me feel free.
My eyes are tired. But I wanna do something, anything at all. I wanna pick up my pen but why do I feel so tired even before picking it up.
Why my long lasting friend, teacher and lover is so distant now. I want my notebook to hold me again. I want my pen to guide me again. I wanna feel that fresh of breath again as I bleed to my papers. But look at me, down to writing on keyboards as my fingers grieve for pen.
How can I let this frustration out. How can I hide while being seen. How can I step outside with no gun but just flowers. Is that a dream everyone dreams but the demon?
I wanna share but don’t look at me. I want to hear your opinions but don’t open your mouth.
I hear my notebook as it stays there near me, talks as it watched me typing on keyboards with frustration;
Be patient, it says.
Why do I need to be patient? Why do I need a break from papers? Which part of me is tired from my dear journal? Which part of me need rest from my dear pencil?
More importantly, did they said this or are these the things I want to hear so I am making them say it? But is it my fault, do tell me, that I do not feel any restraint when I think they said it?
