Anger, like stone, is a useful weapon when properly carved. Otherwise it’s dead weight, and it can drag any light as a feather soul down with it.
He pulled me out of dark places, whether knowingly or not. He was my confidant, my anchor, my sense of peace in all the chaos. I lost him. I have not known peace since.
“I wish you were still here. I wish I didn’t.”
it always comes back to this
I struggle to exist in the same world as him.
multa--paucis reblogged
I was afraid of being rejected, yes. I was also afraid of being accepted for the wrong reasons.
Erich Segal (via quotemadness)
Source: quotemadness.com
You’re restless every day. This is what fuels you. It staves off the monotony, and it keeps your bones warm on the nights where your existence feels futile. They once told you not to run away, but that’s the lethargy talking, you’re sure. Lethargy is the only true evil, this much you know even if others don’t. It’s the deepest truth you keep, and when others glimpse it in your eyes, they understand why you leave. Because of that, you couldn’t stop once you started moving. Like a rolling stone, you let the world start taking you away, unafraid. There was nothing to fear once you realized that the only thing you’ll always be able to carry with you is yourself, and you’ve never lost yourself. Not like you’ve lost possessions. Not like you’ve lost other people. Others don’t understand this. They fear leaving because they fear losing their way home, but you’ve long established that home is your own construct. Many places feel like home, especially the ones for which you keep buying tickets to visit. Oh, the lethargy of declaring one place home.
Your other truth is that places have never let you down like people have. They don’t make promises they can’t keep; in fact, they make no promises at all. You’ve always loved promises because they help you sleep at night, but they’ve never lasted, disappearing like the people who made them. You figure that if you can fall in love with something that can’t make a promise, you can love freely, for promises chain. Expectations burden. The man in Portland made a promise to you once, but Portland did not—it simply waited for you. He promised but did not wait. Portland waited but did not promise. If there is one thing to learn from cities, it’s this. They will always wait for you patiently, and when you return, they will welcome you back. They will make no judgments about where you’ve been, what you've done, or who you've become. And if you place no expectations on them, as it should be, they will place no expectations on you.
Anonymous asked:
Do you write everything that you post ? If so or just some writings. You have pure talent. Thanks for putting into words feelings I cant describe
I write everything I personally post unless it’s cited to another author/work or if it’s a reblog. Thank you for reading. I’m glad you can connect.
Anonymous asked:
Please Help me. I really miss him.I'm so in love with him.There's not a day I don't think about him. Our love seemed so true.The way he behaved, the way he was interested in me and wanted to know everything about me even some days after we broke up.But he is with another girl now.Will he come back to me?If he really feelt for me will he come back? What do you think?😭😭
I can’t tell you that because I don’t know. Sometimes we find ourselves still in love with someone who doesn’t feel the same anymore, and all we can do is let go. It’s hard, sometimes impossibly hard, but you’ll get through it. Someday that feeling will fade.
No amount of daylight can make the shadow of your ghost disappear.
my 2 am thoughts of you are no different than the ones at 2 pm.
multa--paucis reblogged
Some people turn sad awfully young. No special reason, it seems, but they seem almost to be born that way. They bruise easier, tire faster, cry quicker, remember longer and, as I say, get sadder younger than anyone else in the world. I know, for I’m one of them.
Ray Bradbury (via purplebuddhaquotes)
Every now and then, you stroll back to the spot you left in my life. You stop and stay for a night or two. You keep the memories fresh. I've tried everything to fill that void, to find something resembling the shape of you, but there's no one like you. I think you know this, and you make sure I remember it too.
why do you keep haunting me?
He told me that I couldn't waste my future wishing for the past. How easy it must be for him to say that when the memories of us don't linger in the summer air like a fog. I'm perpetually snapped back into that week of bliss, so pure and vibrant it's blinding. I've been searching, to no avail, for happiness that real ever since. How easy it must be not to live like that.
i can still remember the scent of soap and coffee clinging to his skin. the wind on a coastline. sunshine on a hardwood floor, a room heated by summer warmth. pleasant strangers blessing us with smiles. an airport kiss goodbye.
I miss him in a way I'm afraid to talk about. I'm supposed to be better now, I think, but my breath still catches at his ghost sometimes. More often than I'd like. I'm paralyzed by the visceral memories of his fingers on my hips, his arm wrapped around my shoulders, his hand in mine. I'm reminded of the promises tattooed on my heart: the cities we laid claim to but never visited, the goals we had, the life we'd eventually share. I thought he was mine, but in truth, I never even knew him. We were just vague promises. All we had was false hope. We banked on a hazy future. I miss what I had, but more than that I miss the opportunity I lost. I loved the idea of him. I'll always regret that I did not get to love him.
i am so sorry we fell for each other when the thousands of miles between us would pull us apart. i wish i could tell you everything. i wish you were still a part of my adventure.
multa--paucis reblogged
There is an ‘us’ somewhere. It’s not here, it’s not even an uttered concept right now, but the novel idea of you and me together exists. Us. It’s hard to find in this noisy life, especially with people and clashing lifestyles obstructing the view. I find it, however—and keep finding myself in it—when our eyes meet. That’s us. When the world moves a half second ahead of us, riotous and oblivious, we find each other in a glance.
that moment of empty universe and you, just you, is my heaven (via multa--paucis)
I haven't slept well in nearly a week. Maybe it's been a week. I'm not sure. The days are blurring together. I didn't even realize I wasn't getting enough sleep; the caffeine masks it until the late afternoon. Wake up, check Twitter, drink coffee, go to class, do homework, watch baseball, sleep, repeat.
You start to lose yourself in the routine, they always say, but this is all I need right now. Even if it means exhaustion and days slipping away. Even if it means headaches and tears that won't fall and bland conversations. I'm tired. I'm just too tired.
He's gone again. It's his absence that makes every day seem normal, just a little too normal, and he's starting to fade from the conversations as well. I have to unlearn this habit consciously, with effort. For the first time, it doesn't feel like he's around. He's still in my thoughts, but maybe he will never leave those.
I can't speak to the future. I don't know what it holds, and I am afraid. But part of me hopes, perhaps selfishly and foolishly, that he stays out of it. I have already lived through the heartbreak and disappointment. If he never comes back, I will not be devastated. There is nothing left to be devastated about.
moving on, in all its mundane glory
Scrolled through your blog for hours on end as soon as I stumbled upon it. It was just captivating because your words truly hit home. Please, continue doing what you do! I’m in love
I appreciate the kind words! I’m glad my writing resonates with you. Thank you. ❤️
southwestern gothic: in the valley of the sun
You feel unsettled when the plane lands. The sky is on fire, and for some reason you miss Portland’s rain, the way it washed away the blood. But it doesn’t matter. It’s snowing in St. Louis. You step into the heat and hail a taxi. The driver asks you how you’re doing, and you’re unsure. All the streets look the same. You can read the signs, but the words seem foreign. It’s dark outside, impossibly dark, even under the street lights. The desert is starting to whisper its secrets.
The days start melting together. The cars you climb into take you different places, but they all seem to pass the same scenery. You swear you’ve seen that cactus before in identical yards. You’re tired. You’re always tired. The heat saps your energy insidiously, but it’s a dry heat. Your lungs burn.
You couldn’t possibly live here, you say. It unnerves you. Oh yes, they agree. This is no place to be. When you finally fly home to the Midwest, something has shifted in your bones. You can feel the desert calling for you when you wake up, when you fall asleep. It urgently insists you must come back. It’s driving you mad. You must go, even though you had no intention. The desert has you in its clutches. You stopped missing Portland’s rain.