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parallel worlds, 1953 by Ernst Haas

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laluna-lee:

“

mahal kita. asahan mo mula sa akin ang langit na magiging lupa. huwag kang tatawa. seryoso ako, iyong ibon ko na ‘yan, lalangoy ‘yan, sa dagat ng, luha mo kapag pinaiyak kita.

nababaliw ka na.

matino lang ang taong iibig sa’yo. ang mga baliw, sila ‘yung magmamahal ng sobra-sobra, sobra-sobra… pero mang-iiwan din sa huli.                malapit na akong lumuhod, kaso naunahan niya ako. bakit? anong problema?

kailan ba napapagod ang lumilipad?                ang mga mata niyang iyon, na nagtatanong, ang nais ko rin na sumagot.

masyado kitang mahal para isiwalat ang totoo. kasi ang totoo, hindi siya napapagod. masaya siyang mapagod. walang pagkakaiba ang dalawang bagay na iyon.               nararamdaman ko na na aalis na siya. humihigpit na noon ang kapit niya sa aking mga kamay nang sabihin niyang,

taon ng 1997, Setyembre, ikalabinlimang araw. ang ibon ay palalayain ko, pasyalan niya ang langit, pahingahan ang lupa. gawin niya ang lahat ng magpapaligaya sa kanya. … patawarin mo ako Edwin, ngayon ako lilisan.

              sana pala hindi ko na binanggit, ako ang nahulog sa kabiguan ng sarili kong bugtong. hindi ko na nagawa pang makapagbigkas ng kahit isang salita sa aming mga huling segundo. sinubukan ko siyang pigilan ngunit –– tumayo na siya. “

Bugtong Tungkol Sa Ikinulong Na Ibon ni J. Borromeo

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But it wasn’t some catastrophic moment that taught me one of the most powerful lessons of my life. I learned that unbelievably awful things can and do happen. In truth, they are not such rare, isolated events. Each of us has a story that would break someone’s heart. Despite the grief and the unfairness of it all, we keep going. There are chores to be done. There are people who still need our care. There is a life to be led.

Aldra Robinson (via wordsthat-speak)

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The heart is a shovel leaning against a house somewhere among the other forgotten tools. The heart, it’s always digging up old ground, always wanting to give things a decent burial.But so much stays fugitive, inside, where it can’t be reached.

From Intermittent Rain by Roo Borson (via hush-syrup)

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For what it’s worth: it’s never too late to be whoever you want to be. I hope you live a life you’re proud of, and if you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again.

F. Scott Fitzgerald (via psych-facts)

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You can tell from the metaphors that we use that the body is our primary locus of understanding. In some ways we understand everything around us in terms of our own bodies. That made me look at this act as an act that was opening up a metaphorical space for people—to a greater degree than heart surgery, right? When you approach people saying, “You’re going to need heart surgery,” in many cases they’re going to interact with that information literally. There probably is some metaphoric stuff going on there, around the heart. But when I examined my own reservations about vaccination I found that they were almost all based in metaphor. And the more I learned about the actual act and the actual technology, the more comfortable I felt, because almost all my fears and hesitations were about what vaccination symbolized to me, not what it actually was.

The Big Idea #10: Eula Biss (via therumpus)

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Our culture has accepted two huge lies. The first is that if you disagree with someone’s lifestyle, you must fear or hate them. The second is that to love someone means you agree with everything they believe or do. Both are nonsense. You don’t have to compromise convictions to be compassionate.

 Rick Warren (via psych-facts)

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I knew who I was this morning, but I’ve changed a few times since then.

Lewis Carroll, from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland & Through the Looking-Glass

(via literarylines)

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Lukasz Biederman 

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And this is how we danced: with our mothers’ white dresses spilling from our feet, late August turning our hands dark red. And this is how we loved: a fifth of vodka and an afternoon in the attic, your fingers sweeping though my hair—my hair a wildfire. We covered our ears and your father’s tantrum turned into heartbeats. When our lips touched the day closed into a coffin. In the museum of the heart there are two headless people building a burning house. There was always the shotgun above the fireplace. Always another hour to kill—only to beg some god to give it back. If not the attic, the car. If not the car, the dream. If not the boy, his clothes. If not alive, put down the phone. Because the year is a distance we’ve traveled in circles. Which is to say: this is how we danced: alone in sleeping bodies. Which is to say: This is how we loved: a knife on the tongue turning into a tongue.

Ocean Vuong, “Home Wrecker” (via invinculis)

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The urn of language is so fragile. It crumbles and immediately you blow into the dust of words which are the cinder itself. And if you entrust it to paper, it is all the better to inflame you with, my dear, you will eat yourself up immediately.

Jacques Derrida, Cinders (via elucipher)

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this is for you, for me...

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DUDE I AM FUCKING OKAY! NO MATTER HOW FAR DEEP I GET, I ALWAYS RISE OUT OF IT!