I like the smell of pinecones picked for fall time memories, the taste of freshly brewed vanilla tea, and being enveloped by a warm blanket on cold nights. (by elvedon)
I love billowing cumulus clouds that tell of storms in the near future, and the deep crimson of fallen autumn leaves that crunch as I drive on country roads, and instrumentals that make me ache so much that I just have to cry to release my admiration for all that beauty. (by pattiocleavis)
I love the cold, crisp smell of snow on Autumn wind, that whispers “I am coming, I am coming”. I love the taste of warm tea with milk and lots of sugar, and some warm buttered bread as it rains outside, deafening sound on the metal roof. and I love the feeling of warm clean sheets, quilts, and soft bare skin on mine as I go to sleep. (by endofmarch)
I’m tired of worrying. I’m tired of trying so hard and wanting so much and hoping and dreaming and doing nothing at all. I’m tired of pondering, and biting my nails, and crying and doubting and not breathing properly and worrying some more. I’m tired. I’m going to bed.
This place is too fast, things change too much, things happen too often. I would like a space where I can just sit and soak up syllabic sunlight and sentential starlight without worrying about passing traffic or seagulls that might steal my chips.
This place is too unfriendly to people who create. It is too easy to pass around these boxes of art, crates of prose, parcels of poetry, while losing nametags and labels along the way.
This place is too concerned with popularity. It is too hard to ignore the numbers. I’d like to say that the numbers don’t affect me, but the truth is — I care.
Reasons to stay:
This place is absolutely undeniably beautiful at times.
Swallowed dead leaves for breakfast, all red, yellow and brown. Great mud bodies and flies, fog and rain. Been collecting twigs and green yarn, feathers for a fragile nest. Equilibrium is elusive when the skies darken and the nights lengthen, only a visceral urgency (to breathe, to run, to scream) remains. Trying to catch up with the sun, profound rivers, split wood and splinters deep. And all the banging of the drums as I reach for sleep. I have a dead tree inside of me, speaking silently.
What do you think is worth living for in this world?
(sorry I am late with this) I think there are thousands of things worth living for in this world, such as the way the light falls through the windows in the morning, and the taste of butter and bread. Driving with the windows open and the wind in your hair, or finding a perfect song. But most importantly though, I think friendship, and love, and creativity, as well as laughter, and our constant striving for happiness is worth living for. Discoveries, and learning new things, and having people that fill the spaces in our hearts.
(this list is only comprise of books that I own, in print or as ebooks, or books I know I have access to at the library. It does not include the dozens of books I want to read, but are not readily accessible to me at the moment, or are not out in print yet) - and none of these books I have read before.
The Dark and Hollow Places - Carrie Ryan (The Forest of Hands and Teeth #3)
and a whole bunch more. I keep finding new ones, and interesting ones, and I never know what mood is going to strike me. Plus a lot of those are ebooks, and I really need to buy an ebook reader, because I dislike reading on my computer, and it means I read less and slower when I do so.
This bed is our boat. Beyond it lies an infested ocean. Sharks, piranhas and electrical eels lap at our sides. And unnameable sea monsters, all teeth and hunger. There is no mast, there is no sail. No wind to tilt our course. The tiller is broken and the rudder is in shards. All is shattered, lost amongst the waves, as we are. If fish could growl the sound would fill the air, would make our bones vibrate, and our breath too scared to leave our lungs, hiding safe in our throats, parched and sandy. But all we can hear is the piecing cries of the seagulls, clear and bright and deafening in their punishment. Rescue might not come. It might never come
This bed is our boat and leaving it would mean death. I roll around and peer over the edge. They are still here. They are waiting. I roll back. The light is gentle and cold, like only winter light in the morning can be. It sets everything on edge, short shadows and sharps angles, and softness all at once. It smells of ice and memories, piercing your mind before you can catch them and wrap them in gauze. Leaving imprints behind your eyes, like bursting stars. I am awake. So so awake. The sun is forcing us to catch up with the relentless day. Its movements, the waves, the flutter of the birds, and the swimming fish, all is motion, all is forcing us to move with it, angry at our willingness to float, our desire to remain.
This bed is our boat and there is no shore, no safe haven. There is only an infinity of days that stretches around us and will us to jump. To dive. To swim and die. There might not be any other way. We might have to jump. We might have to loose our flesh to the hungry bites of the ocean. Our white bones gleaming in the sunlight, gleaming white between sea foam under an unforgiving sky, then sinking, swallowed by the great belly of the world. They will gnaw, gnaw on them.
We are stranded in a world that hates stillness
There is no other way. We might have to eat each other before the end.
(reworking of a 2008 poem. For Bianca's writing prompt)
The girl upstairs keeps crying into her pillow. I can hear her through the vents, all muffled and distorted, her pain sounding more like the chant of a whale, gaining beauty as it travels through the bed and the floor, the tiny cracks in the wood and the specks of dust. Her pain dissolves like sugar in water and metamorphoses. I close my eyes and imagine the ocean, all vast and wild, and her floating in it, curled up in the body of a great whale, safe between its ribs as it swims with its pack, as it nurses its baby, as it crosses seas and oceans, from warm waters to icy cold ones. Her song engulfed by all the fat and sea water, warm and expending, no more sadness, but felicity.
But when I open my eyes, there is only my living room, only her pillow to make me believe that what I hear is not all twisted and broken and fraying at the edges. All I can do is sit here and mend the holes in my socks.