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Soyen | 21 | Manila

“I never wish to be easily defined. I’d rather float over other people’s minds as something strictly fluid and non-perceivable; more like a transparent, paradoxically iridescent creature rather than an actual person." — Franz Kafka.

August 30th     5:11 pm

likeafieldmouse:

Ruth Andre - Cradled by the Day

August 30th     5:10 pm

The things I write about you are not pretty.

For example: You are the ugly way I feel about Los Angeles, mouth a smear like sunset singed with citrus burns. Hollywood hill is a smashed pomegranate against your scorched teeth. All the stars walk the red carpet while I write sonnets to your mouth. It’s been too long since the last time we spoke, I’ve forgotten what everyone else looks like — your hands are trees made of smog, and they have taken root in my lungs. I wish this city would burn to the ground.

For example: The last time I fell in love, I broke all the dishes in the kitchen and bled out on the floor. You were not good for me. You held the bandaids, but I told you to put them back in the drawer. I loved being so broken for you — your heart was a hospital without the healing. My parents never taught me that being loved for your wounds was wrong.

For example: Tonight, I am falling asleep without you. I’ve had bad dreams ever since we met, things about dark-haired women that die because they never ran fast enough. I never ran fast enough. I’m still learning what it’s like not to find your face etched into the wood of my floorboards, and I’m failing miserably. You were not good for me.

For example: You were not good for me. You were California burning, and my lungs couldn’t take it. You were not good for me. You were a broken spine I couldn’t set; I was a scab you always picked. You were not good for me.

For example: Get out of my poetry, nobody wants to read about the ways we broke. Get out of my poetry, this isn’t about you anymore. This is about Los Angeles and how much I hate the sky. California wasn’t good for me — nothing about dying is pretty.

— Burn Victim | d.a.s (via backshelfpoet)

August 30th     5:06 pm

August 30th     5:03 pm

“ Once you pass a certain age, life becomes nothing more than a process of continual loss. Things that are important to your life begin to slip out of your grasp, one after another, like a comb losing teeth. And the only things that come to take their place are worthless imitations. Your physical strength, your hopes, your dreams, your ideals, your convictions, all meaning, or, then again, the people you love: one by one, they fade away. Some announce their departure before they leave, while others just disappear all of a sudden without warning one day. And once you lose them you can never get them back. Your search for replacements never goes well. It’s all very painful - as painful as actually being cut with a knife. ”

— Haruki Murakami, 1Q84

August 30th     5:02 pm

Cool Kids - Echosmith

(Source: abitofmelody)

August 24th     1:55 am

August 15th     3:26 am

“ If you can love someone with your whole heart, even one person, then there is salvation in life. ”

— Haruki Murakami, 1Q84

August 14th     1:34 pm

August 14th     1:31 pm

“ [The vast, circumambient atmosphere
Allows me but ninety cubic centimeters
Of its billions of gallons and miles of sky.]
I inhale it anyway,
Knowing that it will hurt
In the weary ends of my crumpled paper bag lungs. ”

— Mark O’Brien, from “Breathing” 

(Source: bit.ly, via the-final-sentence)

July 21st     3:36 pm

70years:

untitled by Unfocusedsmile on Flickr.

s.t.