Would it have been different, if we had known the last time was good bye?
Would I have stayed later? 
Would you have asked me to?

The problem with leaving is it’s too final, I thought we had 
more time. I thought I would see you again. I thought things 
would be different. 

Now I hear you’re moving to this city, and I can’t stay here 
anymore. How do you say hello to someone you never let go of?

I’ve grown comfortable with the silence, the distance 
makes it easier to hold your funeral at dawn each day, 
without the distance we risk chance, we risk spontaneous 
combustion, we risk floods and fatality. 

metaphorformetaphor:

I am so filled with my love for her. And at the same time I feel that I am dying. Our love would be death. The embrace of imaginings.

— Anaïs Nin, Henry & June: From the Unexpurgated Diary of Anais Nin. Harcourt, 1986

(via fuckyeahexistentialism)

pleatedjeans:
CRYING

pleatedjeans:

CRYING

crystallizations:

Outtakes from David Bowie’s 1977 “Heroes” cover photo shoot by Masayoshi Sukita.

(Source: retronaut.com, via polanskies)

(Source: thedolab, via awkwardslang)

quesearock87:

Muchacha ojos de papel,  ¿adónde vas? Quédate hasta el alba.  Muchacha pequeños pies,  no corras más. Quédate hasta el alba.  Sueña un sueño despacito entre mis manos hasta que por la ventana suba el sol.  Muchacha piel de rayón,  no corras más. Tu tiempo es hoy.  Y no hables más, muchacha corazón de tiza.  Cuando todo duerma te robare un color.  Muchacha voz de gorrión,  ¿adonde vas? Quédate hasta el día.  Muchacha pechos de miel,  no corras más. Quedate hasta el día.  Duerme un poco y yo entretanto construiré un castillo con tu vientre hasta que el sol,  muchacha, te haga reír hasta llorar, hasta llorar.  Y no hables más, muchacha corazón de tiza.

quesearock87:

Muchacha ojos de papel,
¿adónde vas? Quédate hasta el alba.
Muchacha pequeños pies,
no corras más. Quédate hasta el alba.
Sueña un sueño despacito entre mis manos
hasta que por la ventana suba el sol.
Muchacha piel de rayón,
no corras más. Tu tiempo es hoy.
Y no hables más, muchacha
corazón de tiza.
Cuando todo duerma
te robare un color.
Muchacha voz de gorrión,
¿adonde vas? Quédate hasta el día.
Muchacha pechos de miel,
no corras más. Quedate hasta el día.
Duerme un poco y yo entretanto construiré
un castillo con tu vientre hasta que el sol,
muchacha, te haga reír
hasta llorar, hasta llorar.
Y no hables más, muchacha
corazón de tiza.

(via sky-is-our)

allthateverwasorwillbe:

Etienne Leopold Trouvelot.

Direct electric spark obtained with a Ruhmkorff coil or Wimshurst machine, also known as a “Trouvelot Figure.” Photograph, c. 1888.

Fleeting moments in an infinite flux: artists and other windows on eternity

by Emily Ann Pothast

In the late 1880s, the French astronomer and artist Etienne Leopold Trouvelot created a series of photographs of electric sparks. Perfecting a technique pioneered by another scientist a few years earlier, Trouvelot generated his images without a camera, directly exposing photosensitive plates to brief bursts of electrical energy. The resulting snapshots reveal forking, infinitely self-similar patterns that resemble tree branches, rivers, vascular systems, coral, neurons, city maps, mountain ranges, microchips, mycorrhizal networks, galaxies, flow charts, family trees and feathers—basically everything in the universe whose structure is determined by growth, movement or the transfer of energy.

You can read the rest of this essay HERE

(via hello--lamppost)

Before the War, an Exodus Story

I’ve been working on my heart these days, making notes
on when she skips beats:
-driving towards headlights
-waking to the door open
-after hearing about your most recent engagement

You see, I wonder if my heart still has some strings
tied to the spot where we laid under the stars and learned 
what forgiveness feels like. 

I wonder how much time has to pass 
before the mention of first love doesn’t send 
my heart into orbit again. 

I can still remember a time when we could drive 
to the edge of darkness just to see the stars. On nights
that were so clear we could see right through the windows
of time, time we didn’t realize 
was running out. 

I can’t drive down Trilby without seeing your 
truck, and I know you don’t even have the truck anymore. 

I hold you in my heart at 17, where you’re still 
whole, and nothing out there seemed too dangerous 
for us. We had no idea what kind of storm was coming. 

Before 2009, before the war. 

I hold you in my heart at 17, before we learned to
behave in such ugly ways, before we learned that 
sometimes, I love you, means 
I can get away with this. 

Before men starting looking at my body 
as a scarifice.

I write you letters every week, my house 
is full of envelops your hands will never touch. Your hands, 
the smell of sawdust and grease from the bicycle chain, 
and it occurs to me that I’ll never be rid of you. 

I keep you safe in my memory, safe from the wreckage, before
talking you down from the cliff. I keep you safe in my heart
before you started taking notes of the bruises, before you
pulled my body from the fire. Before the winter.
Before the war.

I’m worried that the girl whose with you now
doesn’t know about your affinity with airplanes, or
how you once screamed into the big, black abyss
that you were scared, but goddamn,
you were alive. Does she know what a miracle that is?

Does she kiss you, thanking the monsters for not 
swallowing you whole? 
Does she know what it will be like when you’re gone?

If I could, I would send you the letters, I would write you out, 
from my bones, write you out until the ghosts stop haunting me, 
until I can go home without seeing your face, until my heart 
stops holding her breath to keep your memory from fading. 

I would let you fade. 

I would tell you I’m sorry, 
tell you it was inevitable, that our 1st love 
is rarely also our last.
That I’m better these days.
I don’t drink to forget anymore, I don’t even 
think of calling you, and I haven’t 
let men use me as a punching bag for 4 years. 
I can see clearly on days that used to 
eat me up alive. 
I can forgive again. 

I don’t know if you can remember how it feels 
to turn forgiveness into touch, to let your heart 
press play and dance with me again, 

even if it’s just this once, even if it doesn’t 
mean a thing. 
I didn’t mean to make such a mess when 
I left. I didn’t mean to take it all back, to light 
a match, and turn everything to ash. 

I’ve been working on my heart lately, 
I’ve been learning to let you fade, forgiven, 
and 17. Even if it doesn’t mean a thing, I hold 
you safe, before the winter, before the war. 

(Source: c0ldweather, via ha-ze)

petites-etincelles:

Source: Riot Grrrls, Grrrls, Grrrls: the Book