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spectacular, spectacular

no words in the vernacular

sgao123:

Never knew freedom, or life for that matter, could feel this exhilarating - BM 2012

Photo Credit - Alex Fumsan

sgao123:

Never knew freedom, or life for that matter, could feel this exhilarating - BM 2012

Photo Credit - Alex Fumsan

The air was full of moisture - as if it had been overambitious in its thirst and now lay on its back, belly full of moisture. I had the shutters of my window pulled open, regardless of the rain, in order to let the warm, exotic air drift into my room. 

I’m not one to undress quickly, but the steady drumming of the rain set a slow and throbbing rhythm that made the act of disrobing even more languorous. Amidst the moisture and foreign smells, I try to imagine the orchard in the town I was trying to escape from…

The dry summer sun, beating down on rows of lush and fertile trees. And, within the hazy recollection of summer harvest, his image slowly materialized. Young and soft, dressed in a striped tee-shirt and dusty blue shorts, he looked around in panic. He had lost sight of me and began to whirl around, eyes frantically scanning between tree trunks. From my perch in the branches above, I looked down at him. I had never seen him look so vulnerable.

My mind, realizing its error in conjuring the image, quickly clicks back into the present.

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world
my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don’t cry
- the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids’ flutter which says

we are for each other; then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life’s not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

-e.e. cummings

She’s sensitive, too. Takes to hurt the way water takes to paper.

—Junot Díaz, This Is How You Lose Her 

(Source: fables-of-the-reconstruction, via poetfire)

I have a lifetime of memories with my mom – some small moments, some momentous ones, many of them are hazy, but they’re all infused with feeling. Right now I have one vivid memory that sticks out to me. It was the summer after graduating from college when I moved back home for a bit. It was kind of a rough time for me. Everything was up in the air. I was away from friends, single, jobless, directionless. I took a walk with my mom around the neighborhood one summer afternoon, completely in a funk. She asked me what was wrong and I couldn’t find the words. So, we just walked in silence. Even though she didn’t say anything, I could feel how much she cared about me; her concern, her love for me was as palpable as the bright sun shining down on us. And that’s something that I will miss the most. In her presence, I felt more comfort and love than anywhere else in the world. No matter what I had done (and I’ve done/said some mean things in my day), no matter where I’ve gone or for how long - when I came home, my mom was always there to love me.

I wish I had had more time to talk with her. I want to know her story, every detail, every moment. I want to know what kinds of jokes she would giggle at with her best friends. I want to know about the arguments she had had with her own mother. I want to know her escapades, her adventures, and what she did in her quiet moments to herself. And I want her to know those things about me too – my future hookups and breakups, heartaches, triumphs, and all of the small things that make me happy in my day-to-day life. But for right now, I’ll take what she has already given me: her boundless love, her wit, her sense of humor, her loyalty to family, her selflessness and love of beauty. I have those things and I treasure them and I promise to spread them to those around me, so that she’ll be apart of me and apart of this world for forever. 

two tattoo contenders

mazhang:

Before my mom died on Sunday, the last book that I remember finishing was Slaughterhouse-Five, by Kurt Vonnegut. It was a story about time travel and aliens and World War II, and it conveyed interesting ideas about war and trauma, but there was one moment in particular that struck me upon…

Matt, everything is beautiful - but it does hurt.

My dear, I don’t know what to do today, help me decide. Should I cut myself open and pour my heart on these pages? Or should I sit here and do nothing, nobody’s asking anything of me afterall. Should I jump off the cliff that has my heart beating so and develop my wings on the way down? Or should I step back from the edge, and let the others deal with this thing called courage. Should I stare back at the existential abyss that haunts me so and try desperately to grab from it a sense of self? Or should I keep walking half-asleep, only half-looking at it every now and then in times in which I can’t help doing anything but? Should I kill myself or have a cup of coffee? Falsely yours.

—Albert Camus (via volaream)

I experienced a paradox: in the shadow of death all I felt was the intensity of being alive, painful, raw and magnificent.

—Esther Teule

Nº. 1 of  23