This Is What I Like About Photographs. They’re Proof That Once, Even If Just For A Heartbeat, Everything

Requested! Mountain goat + Books + Bisexual (plus Doll Skin)

If you genuinely enjoy being alone, do you ever wonder if it is an inherent part of your character or if it stems from feeling inescapably lonely in the first place until you taught yourself to enjoy the peace and happiness one can find in solitude? what if the reason you now prefer & choose solitude at every turn is because you were a very lonely child, or teenager, not by your own choice, and that’s how you learnt to thrive and grow, so you no longer know if you can do that around people? There might also be an element of personal pride, an unconscious “you can’t fire me I quit” point when your brain decided to switch your feelings about solitude from distress to relief. I often find myself defending my love of being alone, to people who worry that I can’t possibly be happy to live in an isolated house in the woods; I insist that I do! I really do specifically enjoy the isolated factor and chose to live here because of it, but then I wonder how to differentiate an ingrained love of solitude from an acquired ability to thrive off unchosen loneliness, to learn from it and be nourished by it; to what extent it might be a form of contentment built on a bedrock of resignation.

“I started sleeping more than usual. I guess I’m just in love with a thought, that only my dreams allow me to have.”

-via nemoday

“Years of love have been forgot, in the hatred of a minute.”

— Edgar Allan Poe

And in our eyes the same sadness, like a night landscape.

Marguerite Duras, from Blue Eyes, Black Hair (pub. November 1986)

Don’t you dare pity her She traded a suffering soul for a throne of bones She exchanged watchful eyes for a court of her own The seasons of the earth depended on the very breath she took She had death wrapped around her fingers and spring at her beck and call and the ruler of the heavens tasked with finding her She turned the world upside down to find freedom The daughter of flowers escaped her prison made out of roots and thorns and became the queen of death and forged her new home out of shadows and power

Persephone was the real winner (via starlightpoet)

There is a moment in every dawn when light floats, there is the possibility of magic. Creation holds its breath.

Douglas Adams, Life, the Universe, and Everything (via existential-celestial)

Sometimes we want our bodies to do a better job at showing the things that hurt us, the stories we keep inside us.

Ava Dellaira, Love Letters to the Dead (via ellacalm)

Time passes you by...

Slowly and all at once as vivid as the shining amber lights on the wet concrete at night.

Walking on that burnt orange stone, home, home.

I look to the past and it's forgotten.

I'm standing outside in the driving rain, it ushers me away.

Pressed up to the window panes, fogging up sodden glass.

Looking at a stranger's past.

That little room with its sandy paint and coffee curtains.

Lights snapped on and Nora Jones sings out of the stereo.

It's soft and milky.

Clouding and brewing softly.

Time.

Past is present and present is future.

And it's all already passed me by.

I flip through shining photos and those familiar faces smile at the ghosts behind the long, lost cameras.

Choppy hair and sharply slit winds softened by a flash decades ago.

Moments so dear, a sun so golden, people lost to ticking clocks, they forgot long ago.

And they kept it all down.

Those shining cards with their little people.

The faces you see in the warm ripples of a bath.

No malice, just ghosts.

Ghosts of happy days and burnt orange stones.

Do you remember their names?

Did they ever learn mine?

I walk and I know I'm already gone.

Just a face in a photo.

I stand faded in smooth cards on Christmases and birthday nights in orange lights.

Smiling and laughing.

Running on tiles, on wood, on carpet, sand and stone.

I stand young and small.

I doubt I could even tell you why these photos exist now.

But they did.

Those people breathed that long lost air and time thawed once the flash faded.

We carry on.

Until the next photo's taken