Theme

(Source: maorisakai, via dearprongs)

these days when i get out of bed,
i mostly dread the mornings
because then you’d be deep in slumber,
and even farther away from me.
in the next year, you’d probably still
be going back in your apartment alone,
but i’m okay, i’d still be here
waiting for you to come home.
i count the seconds until you go on skype,
and i can hear them hammer in my heart
like footsteps in the night,
and all i could think of is what it must feel like
to hold your hand, to watch the skies
without the distance of a hundred miles.
someday i’d pluck up the courage,
to take a needle and thread
from the farthest corner of my desk.
i’d stitch those islands together
just to be able to pull you closer,
and forget all the rest.
I wish I won’t have to keep
missing you in all these spaces
where you should and shouldn’t be,
and I hope someday
I’d finally look forward to mornings,
when you’re right here with me.

(Source: paperantlerss)

dikemb-e:

tigers jaw edit by moi 

dikemb-e:

tigers jaw edit by moi 

(via wolf-in-the-fold)

bibliolectors:

My book, my books / Mi libro, mis libros (ilustración de Claudia Deliguomini)

(Source: bibliocolors.blogspot.com, via booklover)

Atlanta based artist Britt Bass Turner

(Source: exhibition-ism.com, via contramonte)

ledacreates:

starry pattern I did a while back. :o)

ledacreates:

starry pattern I did a while back. :o)

(via eve-carmichael)


Brett Whiteley (Australian, 1939-1992), The Divided Unity, 1974. Screenprint, 66.5 x 93.5 cm. Edition 63/70.

Brett Whiteley (Australian, 1939-1992), The Divided Unity, 1974. Screenprint, 66.5 x 93.5 cm. Edition 63/70.

(Source: blastedheath, via rustyvoices)

I hate how you have taken my mind over completely and that you have dominated over almost every aspect in my life, even to the littlest things. I am made of frustrations and anxiety and hurt because of what you did to me. Still, one day, I would feel myself rise from the ashes. Right now I just can’t seem to feel my feet.
I wish I could shut you off and never have to deal with the trail of damage you’ve left, hoping to find even an inch of validation you can pin onto yourself. But you are too intrusive, too everywhere for me to breathe, and I need a little space before I can finally feel my feet.

I wish I could feel my feet.

Maybe I should try to use my hands, but I can’t grasp onto anything except the ground. And they seem pretty useless, the way they can’t make anything beautiful out of mediocrity. My hands are bloodstains on your shirt and dirt on your cheeks and the tangles on your hair whenever you walk by. I can’t seem to let go of those somersaults and sleepless nights. There are so many reasons, so many things piled on top of one another and you carry them all on your back. You are an atomic bomb and you’ve exploded, scattered all the pieces onto the ones I care about. But they’d only get returned to you, before you build yourself up and explode again in another time.

My strings snapped and I want to let you go. I don’t want to be anywhere near a time bomb and would have to be cautious with my every step for the rest of my life. You’re limiting me. The world is huge and people are people, and you can’t expect them to adjust for you. You can’t expect everyone to just avoid you whenever you walk past, because they can hear the ticking of your heart and see the end flames on your hair. You can’t keep exploding when things don’t go right, leaving people bent and hurt and broken in the process.

You can’t keep breaking people because you’re a time bomb.

I am not going to say anything else, I don’t owe you anything else really. I don’t have to apologize for not turning your timer, for not avoiding you when you were about to go off. Someday, I’ll turn off the lights and finally let go of the cracks on my wall I keep counting when I can’t sleep. Someday, I won’t surround myself with any of your debris, even if your voice still resonates in my head and rings through my mind and takes over me. Someday, I’ll not be made of frustrations and anxiety. But it would be a long time before I can heal.

(Source: paperantlerss)

suicidals:

cool lil piece I’ve been workin’ on ~

suicidals:

cool lil piece I’ve been workin’ on ~

(via loveyourchaos)

paperantlerss:

It was a warm, Sunday morning when I realized I have lost myself completely. In thirteen full moons I’ve ripped out pieces of myself and scattered them in various places. I must’ve thought they’d all somehow find their way back to me, but in the end, they remained lost. You mustn’t make homes out of people, they said. That was my first mistake. Now I only cling unto the life of an oblivion, and hope that in a far, distant universe light years away, my old self lives and breathes, stuck in between.There is a strange feeling when you share your work. It’s like walking around naked, unmasked and vulnerable, prone to hard whips and blows from angry, blurry mobs of people. I wanted it to be over and hide away, possibly wrap a thick, tangled web around myself and never have to deal with the lashes again. At the same time, I am tempted to stay. Whenever I am confronted by my fears my soul gets tipped off the precipice of moving or staying still, if I should push myself even further and fall off or stay where I stand and keep safe from everything underneath.There is a voice in my head that won’t keep still. And it won’t fade or mute itself down, until it is the only voice that I write. At times I could feel it taking over me, stripping away other trails of thoughts that I have until I could find anything (oftentimes a table napkin) I could write on. When you’ve shied yourself away from words, they get tangled in your throat the way Christmas lights do when they’re stored in boxes for too long, and could only come out as wisps in your lips. Yes, I have lost myself for a while back there, and it took me days and days to figure out how to live out of this dread. But I think you aren’t supposed to find yourself in a lifetime. Some things should stay lost when they get lost, I’ve realised this when I tried to restore the pieces. You either create something new out of the debris, or torture yourself in trying to revive a dead tree.
Plant a new one, then. That’s what they say. You have to plant a new one.

paperantlerss:

It was a warm, Sunday morning when I realized I have lost myself completely. In thirteen full moons I’ve ripped out pieces of myself and scattered them in various places. I must’ve thought they’d all somehow find their way back to me, but in the end, they remained lost. You mustn’t make homes out of people, they said. That was my first mistake. Now I only cling unto the life of an oblivion, and hope that in a far, distant universe light years away, my old self lives and breathes, stuck in between.

There is a strange feeling when you share your work. It’s like walking around naked, unmasked and vulnerable, prone to hard whips and blows from angry, blurry mobs of people. I wanted it to be over and hide away, possibly wrap a thick, tangled web around myself and never have to deal with the lashes again. At the same time, I am tempted to stay. Whenever I am confronted by my fears my soul gets tipped off the precipice of moving or staying still, if I should push myself even further and fall off or stay where I stand and keep safe from everything underneath.

There is a voice in my head that won’t keep still. And it won’t fade or mute itself down, until it is the only voice that I write. At times I could feel it taking over me, stripping away other trails of thoughts that I have until I could find anything (oftentimes a table napkin) I could write on. When you’ve shied yourself away from words, they get tangled in your throat the way Christmas lights do when they’re stored in boxes for too long, and could only come out as wisps in your lips.

Yes, I have lost myself for a while back there, and it took me days and days to figure out how to live out of this dread. But I think you aren’t supposed to find yourself in a lifetime. Some things should stay lost when they get lost, I’ve realised this when I tried to restore the pieces. You either create something new out of the debris, or torture yourself in trying to revive a dead tree.

Plant a new one, then. That’s what they say. You have to plant a new one.

(via dearprongs)