I agree completely. My page seemed to have evolved with me, I think. (I hope). Dearest, even now your blog is still a wonderful keep safe of things. :)
I used to post a lot of blacks and whites and some dream-like pictures. Now I don’t know. It looks different, sweetheart. And it’s not just the layout either. Oh well…
My tumblr isn’t what it used to be. You can unfollow me if you want. I’ll understand.
I could brush my fingerstips upon the clouds but the connection is merely ephemeral. Wingless flight, only to crash and burn when I open my eyes. I crave perfection. Everlasting sense of faultless existence. It’s always on my mind, like an itch that I can’t reach, or hollow holes in my stomach that can’t be filled no matter what I eat. Maybe I wouldn’t feel like this if I had porcelain skin and picturesque features, a wink that makes your skin tingle, a touch that sends electric jolts through your spine, wave after wave of goosebumps till it reaches the collarbones, and then your heart.
I want to be witty. and smart. and good enough but that’s too cliché. Perhaps I just want to be almost good enough. In between the winner and the second place. So I won’t stop dreaming about being the winner. So I won’t stop dreaming.
I want to be a pirate on a paper ship, (because a boat isn’t strong enough to hold me) sailing through the starry skies as the children had imagined them. Quicksand, all precious things lose themselves in. Sink slowly and disappear in me. I am a mermaid luring men to the depths. Singing for death. for love.
I want the world but not all of it. Only the good bits. A patch of sunlight there. A seashell humming the cries of the waves. A wayward compliment. A high crescendo that makes your heart race. A mother’s embrace. A first kiss for the second time. The softest hands. And for all of this to be forever.
“Ordinary life does not interest me. I seek only the high moments. I am in accord with the surrealists, searching for the marvelous. I want to be a writer who reminds others that these moments exist; I want to prove that there is infinite space, infinite meaning, infinite dimension.
But I am not always in what I call a state of grace. I have days of illuminations and fevers. I have days when the music in my head stops. Then I mend socks, prune trees, can fruits, polish furniture. But while I am doing this I feel I am not living.”” —Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 1: 1931-1934