Anonymous asked: Remember Nov 25, 2012..?
The day I got to watch Sigur Rós live. Something which I’ll always cherish.
Anonymous asked: im sorry and im miss you
How on earth could I forgive a stranger when he/she hasn’t done me any harm?
8 Ways To Say I Love You
1. Spit it into her voicemail, a little slurred and sounding like the shot whiskey you downed for courage. Feel as ashamed as you do walking into work in last night’s clothes. Wake up cringing for days, waiting for her to mention it.
2. Sigh it into her mouth, wedged in between teeth and tongues. Don’t even let your lips move when you say it, ever so lightly, into the air. Maybe it was just an exhalation of ecstasy.
3. Buy her flowers. Buy her chocolate. Buy her a teddy bear, because that’s what every romantic comedy has taught you. Take her out to a nice restaurant where neither of you feel comfortable and spend the whole night clearing your throat and tugging at your tie. Feel like your actions are more suited to a proposal than the simple confession of something you’ve always known.
4. Whisper it into her hair in the middle of the night, after you’ve counted the space between her breaths and are certain she’s asleep. Shut your eyes quickly when she shifts toward you in askance. Maybe you were just sleep whispering.
5. Blurt it out in the middle of an impromptu dance party in the kitchen, as clumsy as your two left feet. When time seems to freeze, hastily tack on “in that shirt” or “when you make your award-winning meatballs” or, if you are feeling particularly brave, “when we do this.” Resume dancing and pretend you don’t feel her eyes on you the rest of the night.
6. Write her a letter in which the amount of circumnavigating and angst could rival Mr. Darcy’s. Debate where to leave it all day – on her pillow? In her coat pocket? Throw it away in frustration, conveniently leaving it face up in the trashcan, her name scrawled on the front in your sloppy handwriting. Let her wonder if you meant it.
7. Wait until something terrible has happened and you can’t not tell her anymore. Wait until she almost gets hit by a car crossing Wabash against the light and after you are done cursing at the shit-for-brains cab drivers in this city, realize you are actually just terrified of living without her. Tell her with your hands shaking.
8. Say it deliberately, your tongue a springboard for every syllable. Over coffee, brushing your teeth side-by-side, as you turn off the light to go to sleep – it doesn’t matter where. Do not adorn it with extra words like “I think” or “I might.” Do not sigh heavily as if admitting it were a burden instead of the most joyous thing you’ve ever done. Look her in the eyes and pray, heart thumping wildly, that she will turn to you and say, “I love you too.” — R. MCKINLEY, DEC. 1, 2012 (via fawun)
(Source: guacoma, via pinkhorses)
We all wanted that high school sweetheart
We wanted to be young and white in the fifties with meatloafs and sock hops
and lawns so perfect they looked like Clark Gable was kissing them
We wanted to be thirteen and alive and meet a girl that was thirteen and alive
and walk with her past the grandstands
to sit and hold hands with to sit and kiss with to sit and sit with like it was something that you’d have missed but that never was
We once wanted to be poor but not too poor
connecting this country like Kerouac and thumbs
pulling small town waitresses in the back seats and trailer park homes
where the two of you would find passion expanding
between the locking of your bones
until morning would come to find you out on the road
with your pockets empty except for your hands
but your hands they’d be overflowing with your soul
but that’s not what happened
We once went to bed like between the bed sheets were the valley where dinosaurs still breathed
and how we would capture these
triceratops and brontosauruses
but even he was opened up with the smoke that rose out of the homes and the corners that we once climbed through,
with the streets and the footballs which we once threw,
the school desks upon which we once drew,
the windows that sat open through we once flew,
before the outside world of parking spaces and dead friends came flooding on in
and we forgot what we wanted
and we became what we become: waitresses and bartenders, city employees and temp positions, we are junkies and one kiss poems and we cry the stars
as we write our scars onto dumpsters
and electric boxes
because the only thing that we can hear is our hearts
and the only ones listening are the streets
to the blood that breathes through the letters we leave
and we dream that we try to rise ourselves up out of these burning buildings
but instead get buried somewhere beneath
because I know my life is like some high school kid’s notebook
that kid that shuffles back and forth between school and home
stacking the letters and the pictures
too close for anyone outside of his own imagination to read
because it’s through the ink that his heart beats
that his heart breathes
And we all just wanted to just wanted to write these notes:
check if you like me check if you don’t
check if you’ll date me check if you won’t
because we all wanted the love songs to be true
and did love dinosaurs once
and we wanted the stars
to hold our hands to lick the teeth to fuck us
but they end up fucking us
So let your smile twist
like my heart dancing precariously on the edge of my finger tips
staining them as that same high school kid
licking his thoughts using his sharpie tip
I WAS HERE
I was here motherfucker
and ain’t none of y’all can write that in the spot that I just wrote it in
I am here motherfucker
and we all here motherfucker
and we all motherfuckers motherfucker
because every breath I give brings me a second closer
to the day that my mother may die
and every breath I take takes me a second further
from the moment she caught my father’s eye
because every word I carry is another stone to put into place
in the foundation that I’m building to erase the days
and help erase something I never saw:
what all of us wanted and what none of us got
what we all had and have and what we all forgot
that we all wanted to be something
that we all became something
and it might not be the shit what we once thought it’d be when we were kids
but something is still something
and like some cats say
something’s better then nothing
feet are smarter than an engine
and dreams are stronger than thighs
and questions are the only answers we need
to have to know that we’re still as alive as the time when I held the mind of a child
asking why is 2 + 3 always equal to 5?
Where do people go when they die?
What made the beauty of the moon? And the beauty of the sea?
Did that beauty make you did that beauty make me?
Will it make me something?
Will I be something
Am I something?
And the answer comes:
I already am
I always was
and I still have time to be. — Anis Mojgani, “Here Am I” (via deltaliteraryjournal)
My mother tells me
that when I meet someone I like,
I have to ask them three questions:
1. what are you afraid of?
2. do you like dogs?
3. what do you do when it rains?
of those three, she says the first one is the most important.
“They gotta be scared of something, baby. Everybody is. If they aren’t afraid of anything, then they don’t believe in anything, either.”
I met you on a Sunday, right
one look and my heart fell into
my stomach like a trap door.
on our second date,
I asked you what you were afraid of.
“spiders, mostly. being alone. little children, like, the ones who just learned how to push a kid over on the playground. oh and space. holy shit, space.”
I asked you if you liked dogs.
“I have three.”
I asked you what you do when it rains.
“sleep, mostly. sometimes I sit at the window and watch the rain droplets race. I make a shelter out of plastic in my backyard for all the stray animals; leave them food and a place to sleep.”
he smiled like he knew.
like his mom told him the same
“how about you?”
I’m scared of everything.
of the hole in the o-zone layer,
of the lady next door who never
smiles at her dog,
and especially of all the secrets
the government must be breaking
it’s back trying to keep from us.
I love dogs so much, you have no idea.
I sleep when it rains.
I want to tell everyone I love them.
I want to find every stray animal and bring them home.
I want to wake up in your hair
and make you shitty coffee
and kiss your neck
and draw silly stick figures of us.
I never want to ask anyone else
(Source: alonesomes, via vcxyz)
before the bangles on her ankles,
before closeting the textbooks, before
forgetting the way her homeland tasted
in her mouth so she could spend a lifetime
with a man who could not pronounce her name,
my mother was a seamstress of hearts.
last week, she pulled her needles from
a tin box under her bed, with a smile that smelled
of infant sin. she showed me each one. she let me
hold them in my hands. before this life, my mother
was trained in the art of pinprick kisses. my mother
was a lover of the streets, rolls of cotton fabric
in each arm, trailing behind her like last night’s
spilled perfume. men would circle the block
to taste the air in her wake.
before midnight trips to the bathroom
to wash away reason, to wash away limbs that bruise
like fruit, before years of mumbling to herself
her father’s poetry in the mornings, hoping
it still rolls the same way on her tongue,
before all this, my mother’s mouth knew ‘no’.
before all this, my mother’s flesh knew survival.
it knew stained glass and purity and i pray
that someday, the men never ask for
cut outs of my hands. people tell me
they are just like my mother’s.
Dirgahayu • Bahawasa-nya - YouTube -
Michael Wolf, from Paris Street View, 2009
Wolf spent hours scanning Paris on Google Street View, identifying surprising moments, mundane gestures, behaviour and anonymous people as they unsuspectingly go about their daily life. It looks as if Wolf is stealing moments of privacy when all he did was just spot and select scenes mechanically taken by Google’s vehicle. (via
The World Is A Beautiful Place & I Am No Longer Afraid To Die
Long Island, NY | August 24, 2013
I detest Decembers. Why? Because the sediments of my past comes swirling up from the pit of my memory.