You are the first day of sunshine after weeks full of rain, heart touching poetry, nail-biting crime thrillers, the newest episode of my favourite show, that first chords after the band enters the stage, watching strangers passing by, spending hours and hours in an antique book shop, museums of art, that rush of adrenaline when you did something you’d always been afraid of, sleeping in after exam period, getting out of your comfort zone and experiencing a whole new level of life, poetry slams, citrus tea, the first snow of the year, finally seeing the floor again after tidying up, high quality fanfiction, hot midsummer nights by the river and foreign cities.

// you are everything good in this world j.d.m. (via poetryandthesea)

sujing-sm reblogged

cataclysmicamomile

poetryandthesea

One of the most beautiful and at the same time cruelest things in the world is falling in love with a fictional character. Falling for their thoughts, for the way they talk and their deepest secrets which they only share with you. Getting to know them better by each page, forming an idea of their facial expressions and making up conversations with them when no one is around. And sometimes, you will spot someone on the street, with hair just like this character or a smile that reminds you of your daydreams and your heart will ache in the most hurtful way because you will never see all that characteristics combined in one person.

// maybe at another time, in another world… j.d.m. (via poetryandthesea)

#me

sujing-sm reblogged

cataclysmicamomile

theprocast

The marigolds looked beautiful, in the vase with the gold painted family, on the windowsill. The rain pounded against the window as I pressed my palm against it. I lifted the window to let the water in. It watered the plant, it watered me. The distant ring of the phone pulled me out of the crying sky. I picked it up. It was silent. I held onto it with a vice grip with my face still wet. The breathing on the other end sounded like a cry. “Yeah,” I softly breathed, “I miss him too.”

E.M. (via theprocast)

sujing-sm reblogged

cataclysmicamomile

yourhandwrittenletter

People break. Like glass and waves and bone. So much sits on our shoulders, so much that we must learn to spare a few cracks. To let the sunlight seep to our souls and grow skin a little thicker. Because bad times and good times aren’t bad or good at all. They just are. So we break and are breaking, but do not think we are broken. In the wake of it all, we become something else entirely. Somehow, the breaking makes us more.

(via yourhandwrittenletter)

sujing-sm reblogged

cataclysmicamomile

martyrsuggestion

midnight highways. cracked street lamps and quiet gas stations. muted music, a crown of thorns and drugstore wine. I’m sorry, I’m sorry

vindictive-suggestion

Dawn ringed suburbs. Crisp green lawns and morning fog. Sleepy sighs, toy crowns and children’s books. Wake up, wake up.

beach at dusk. dead palm trees and hard liquor. late night parties, loss of faith, and plucked feathers. pick them up, pick them up.

horrorsuggestion

Foggy night plains. Old rickety trees and fresh ink. Painful weeping, new fangs, and a primal fear. Go away, go away.

Bleak ditches. Broken bones and filthy smoke. Dying breaths, a rotting halo, and a broken cask of vodka. Leave me, leave me.

sujing-sm reblogged

cataclysmicamomile

blackpenwritings

Shivering hands hold burning embers in the crevices of the lines, Bleed fire into papers, each flame in a rhyme, The few of us with burning souls, trapped in who we’re supposed to be, Escape as ashes, as tenderly, as quietly, within the lines of poetry.

Tamarind Fall; Ashes. @blackpenwritings (via blackpenwritings)

sujing-sm reblogged

cataclysmicamomile

whitebrickwalll

Purge me clean of violent ghosts And bleed me dry of vivid nightmares Dip your brush into the ink of my subconscious And paint over the horror that is this world.

Quetzal (via whitebrickwall)

sujing-sm reblogged

cataclysmicamomile

bandaidsfortheheart

When I told you that my skin was made of glass I did not mean to imply that I was fragile. You see, sometimes glass is bulletproof. Its softest layer bends so that it does not break. So when I told you that my skin was made of glass I only meant to say that it is possible to be entirely visible and still not be vulnerable. You just have to find strength in your own weaknesses and trust yourself to absorb the impact.

Made of Glass, V.P. (via bandaids-for-the-heart)

Source: bandaids-for-the-heart

sujing-sm reblogged

cataclysmicamomile

coldfeetonthekitchenfloor

There’s a place between seeing and dreaming, a boundary in reality where longing and wanting swim inside eyes. And it’s a trick of the light, a slowed heart that projects things on a lazy gaze. You come like the sun at the end of may, fleeting but warm and trying, trying so intensely hard to just shine. Your edges are blurred despite how solid you seem, I’ve never met someone so real, and maybe it’s the tint of sunglasses or maybe just because you’re made of nothing but softness. The thing is, you’re too good for a life like this, I know you’ll end up tearing me apart. I’ve always been drawn to self destruction, this might be the most fatal yet. It goes like this, you appear within me even when you’re not there beside me, appear with a smile that has my heart pounding out a beat to the soundtrack of your laugh that sets the wind on fire. There’s something wrong about being addicted to a pair of eyes. I’m not supposed to be able to see a past I should remember but don’t, I’m not supposed to see a soul dancing in colours, I’m not supposed to see home. And when I’ve conjured you up again in the darkness from words sent on a lit screen, you ask me questions I can’t answer. What would sirens sing to you? There’s only one answer. A composition made of your eyes and your smile, the bridge of a requiem played by strings set on laughter. The sunlight filtering through frozen parts of things kept locked away. The way your voice sounds when you say my name.

(via coldfeetonthekitchenfloor)

sujing-sm reblogged

cataclysmicamomile

thecottonproject

Percy “ignoring explosions in the background” Jackson

Percy “puts in earbuds to pretend he can’t hear the world ending” Jackson

Percy “waving his hand through an emergency Iris Message while yawning” Jackson

Percy “oh no I didn’t see your 27 missed calls, I guess I missed the action” Jackson

Percy “sipping a can of soda and pretending he can’t see Apollo” Jackson

Percy “choosing SAT prep courses over adventurous quests because his priorities have done a complete 180 from what they were when he was 12″ Jackson

i can list these all day

#pjo

sujing-sm reblogged

oceansabove

i. it rained last night, on the way to pinole and i guess i understood what you were trying to tell me about storms because it felt sweet. rain’s only a mess when i’m trying to go somewhere, be someone (or when i’m starved for color. that too.) but last night it was all soft and deep green, not gray at all. the kind of rain that makes you want to close your eyes and just stand there forever, clean and quiet. it’s vancouver rain, the rain that comes in summer and comes in sheets and only makes every green glow, every pink fluoresce. this sort of rain sharpens everything, makes it even, makes me feel a profound sort of lonely, one girl watching the world begin. ii. it’s been like a blanket over my head, a little. i told you this year feels infinite and that’s truer than saying it’s been good. there’s static in my head, white noise as a buffer between my brain and the rest of everything, and i add to it every time i do anything mundane. you say you stay up until one am writing and i think that sounds better than waking up at three thirty then three then two thirty then two then a break then a bit after one, all feeling shunted out of time. i am very tired and most things pass right through my head like words are rays of light and i am a cloud of vapor. it’s still nice sometimes, talking to people. i like to say things that are threaded somewhere between the self and small talk- things like interests and colors- because it is easier and it still means something. the world ends in my dreams because it does not always feel real and it never feels stable. i am hoping this will change in the summer. iii. i lied and i have something else to say. (i am afraid we are going to do this again and again, slower and slower until it’s over for the last time)

two quick things//ast. (via calixtedagaz)

sujing-sm reblogged

cataclysmicamomile

i. it’s the first day in school. 8 am, but i’m not enthused at all. the girl with hair tied up in pigtails next to me offers a mug of steaming coffee. fierce passion and a killer smile. i weirdly accept. it feels so right, even though it feels so w r o n g. ii. day number thirty. an annoying guy has latched onto me and he just can’t let go. he didn’t leave even though i tried to smash his face with a door. he’s burning wildfires and bright cheeky eyes. (…he reminds me of you.) iii. day number two-hundred. there’s a kid gambling in the corner with a man at least twice his age why does he look so familiar? simplistic. complex; a dozen faces swirling in a mess of confusion. (your face ends up right next to him, and i do not know why.) iv. day number two-hundred and fifty-four. everyone looks so familiar, and it’s bugging me. i haven’t met them before, have i? v. day number three-hundred and thirty-nine. master is being annoying. they’re all so annoying. i remember everything now. it’s as if a part of my soul is filled, and the ‘me’ that has been locked away (pushed aside; into the deep void) sighs in relief. vi. day number three-hundred and forty. why is it that even though i’ve remembered it feels as if something [someone] is missing? vii. day number three-hundred and forty-one. who are you? viii. day number three-hundred and forty-two. fragrant lotuses, deep cuts and violent murders. your face is a distortion, clouding my mind; it’s still all blurry. why? i decide that you’re an energetic wind, intense emotions a feverish red. it overwhelms me. ix. day number three-hundred and sixty. you’re Alma Karma. i’m Kanda Yuu. the fragments of memories are perfect, real life figures dancing around in my mind, i’m finally free. but somehow i feel so incomplete – x. day number four-hundred. i’ve been waiting. what’s taking you so long? didn’t you promise? xi. day number four-hundred and one. where are you? I’ll wait for you, forever. ((didn’t you promise?))

diary // written for dgmfanworks2k17 // day 4 - alternative universe; reincarnation // where kanda reincarnates, and everyone does too, except for alma (via ruhuowanxia)

#;;#dgm

sujing-sm reblogged

cataclysmicamomile

i. your skin’s rubbed raw. red-rimmed traces lining up against the bruised cheeks, and the contours of your face darkens like the wilting of a flower. it’s aged, the crinkles of your eyes no longer looking pristine and flawless. no longer glowing, it’s somehow cheerless. it rained last night, and i wondered for a moment that maybe it’s just like you. ii. the rain is dull and icy, lifeless and when you reach out to receive a single droplet i hurriedly pull your arm back. your soul is crying and you don’t even realize. morose. i feel my heart empty and wonder whether my soul is crying too, helpless and beating against my apathetic form. iii. i see the silhouette standing in the beating sunlight, and it’s hard to connect that defeated figure with your determined exterior. you say it’s okay but your gentle smile hides the bruising pain underneath it all. iv. the chilly wind flings a strand of hair against my face, and i don’t brush it off. how long have i been standing here? it’s been ages, and i feel defeated. i think of your smiles, your hugs, your proud facade and white lies, but what scars into my mind are your uncontrollable tears, sliding seamlessly down your face as you beg fate not to take you.

how long have i been standing here? // written for dgmfanworks2k17 // day 5 - war; hardship; violence (via ruhuowanxia)

#dgm

sujing-sm reblogged

cataclysmicamomile

when it’s finally autumn and the summer has cleared he takes a deep breath and breathes in the warm, fresh air. he chuckles. it’s a sense of relief that punches right into his gut, the wind that circles around his form whispers steadily, ‘it’s gone, you’re alright now.’ he can sleep, he’s allowed to rest now. it’s absurd and he knows it, the nightmares are still taking and his mind’s in a permanent state of chaos - but he embraces it. he scoops up the bountiful HAPPINESS and JOY growing abundant by his fingertips and pulls it closer to his chest. he’ll never let it go for a second. peace. the word sends ripples of tingly heat across his entire body, and the corners of his lips pull back, he can’t stop laughing. he laughs and laughs. he doesn’t know when it transforms into streaks of tears rolling down his face but he knows it’s something good. he feels good. the words repeat like a mantra in his head. ‘it’s gone, you’re alright now.’ and he believes. he believes like he’s never done before and it’s – just – so r e f r e s h i n g. the colours blur overhead and he’s never felt so glad to get lost in the boundless silence and falling leaves. autumn. there’s one and there’ll be many other autumns to taste on his lips. he believes.

euphoria // writen for dgmfanworks2k17 // day 6 - peace; dreams; hope (via ruhuowanxia)

#dgm

sujing-sm reblogged

dreamimpcssiblethings-a

It was Helen’s face that launched a thousand ships, but you unleashed Achilles. How were you to know that poets would sing of his rage? – that innumerable men would meet their deaths at the end of his grief-stricken spear? How were you to know when you went to battle in his armor that you would never return to him? – that you had brought about his death as surely as your own? He wept – and his mother in the depths of the sea heard his cries. He wept – and he dirtied his face, and tore at his hair, and wished for death. Eternal glory was not worth the price he paid. It was not worth the loss of you, Patroclus, whom he loved as his own life. What was Achilles to do when his heart burned with you on the pyre? What was he to do when his home became nothing but ashes in a golden urn? He was nearly a god – son of a goddess, best of the Greeks. He fell to an arrow, the poets say, guided by Apollo himself. The poets are wrong. He was nearly a god – but he was mortal, and he fell to that great mortal weakness: love. You would have followed him anywhere, even into death. You must have known that he would do the same.

you were his Achilles’ heel | K.L. (via dreamimpcssiblethings)

#achilles #patroclus

sujing-sm reblogged

sujing-sm

cataclysmicamomile

i’m coming home

Title: i’m coming home Fandom: D.Gray-Man Genre: Gen Additional Tags: set while Allen is on the run, before the Searching For Allen Walker arc

As he goes to sleep that night, in the shabby inn he chooses to stay with his sparse savings, he looks on the glittering stars that litter amongst the murky sky out the window. He’s never seen them shine as bright as they have before.

He dreams of clowns, of circuses and beautiful laughter.

Link: AO3 or FF.NET

sujing-sm reblogged

cataclysmicamomile

shiroyoh