matcha-chai

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alas, i loved you like the sun's tender light reflecting off the vial of ashes hanging around your neck. no matter the care i'd put in my eyes for you, your grief would shroud a veil of doubt over your eyes; this of all things you'd known with conviction. so with all the pieces of yourself you could collect, you became the wanderer of the streets. those ashes, they were yours from when you first died – the one where your garden of athanasias was burnt down forcefully. no amount of my kindness could remedy that. you now maunder day and night in a desperate attempt to bury your ashes, to live past the death of your first life; to find reasons to live a second.

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Janice Gould, “Earthquake Weather”

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(on the way home, laughter as abundant as air on a summer evening)

[vivian falls on the sidewalk. lily, the source of much of the laughter, helps her up.]

vivian: oh heavens, that hurts! (huffs a heavy breath) one of these days, if my heel were to get stuck in the cobblestones again, i'll make sure i simply fall and lie down.

lily, amused: oh dearie! and why might that be?

vivian, dusting her dress: to chart my journey to the sun, of course! can't hit a bird or two on the journey, eh? i'd fly up and touch the star, hoping my warmth is enough to– now! why are you still smiling? i am not being foolish!

lily: but never did i make such an assumption, love! (turns solemn, only to break out in laughter once more) i sure hope your wings don't melt!

vivian: i'm serious, lily! you cannot just ask of me to let go of a dream, now can– hey!

[lily takes vivian's hand and guides her to the path home. her smile has calmed into planting a small kiss on vivian's hand.]

lily: even if your wings did melt, i'd make sure to catch you if you'd fallen anyways.

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there's days you can't forget. the birthday of a friend you're not so sure you know anymore, the day the old lady who used to give you cookies parted with her husband, the day you and your friend do nothing but talk through the night. i don't like my mind on these days. it turns me into an insignificant little speck polluting the omipresent universe; an entity who knows lesser and lesser as they age. it forces me to grieve for the death of time, and the momentary life that existed in its presence.

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" It was a wonderful night, such a night as is only possible when we are young, dear reader. "

- Fyodor Dostoevsky, White Nights

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wondering mayhaps i should revive this blog

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I'm very fond of how Everlark didn't fall in love with each other. Peeta walked with purpose toward the love he felt for her and just kept firmly, stubbornly, and diligently walking while holding his heart on full display in his arms regardless of how heavy it became with each step. While Katniss grew in love with him, from the small sprouts in her peripheral vision that at first she thought she had the privilege to ignore by turning her head the other way. But eventually, the roots housed themselves so intrinsically everywhere inside her being, that even if she willingly wanted to prune them, she wouldn't be able to scratch their surface. Falling is accidental, both were no accidents.

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Portrait of a young woman & Portrait of a young woman in profile by Edwin Longsden Long (British, 1829-1891)

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A short story inspired by Ichiko Aoba’s album Windswept Adan.

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“Don't you ever feel that way Percy? Like you could do a better job if you ran the world?” “Um...no. Me running the world would be kind of a nightmare.”

mutuals as books I love: @matcha-chai as the Percy Jackson and the Olympians series

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As the sun tries to keep me warm  through the living room window, I remember how I used to reflect  that same kind of light.  I still do,  in the eyes of other people, but how  can they not see that my light has been  burning out for quite some time now?  I must hide it so well that only I could  be so observant–  only I can notice that  what’s walking alongside them is merely remnants of a person who almost made it.

– h.w // @ahurricaneinabottle

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The Moon, la Lune • old academic newspaper aesthetic

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love and flaws

post by user gayassnatural | wild geese, mary oliver | the seven husbands of evelyn hugo, taylor jenkins reid | no one belongs here more than you, miranda july | coffee and cigarettes, sade andria zabala | OCD, neil hilborn | state of grace, taylor swift | the first bad man, miranda july | 300 arguments, sarah magnuso

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Vladimir Mayakovsky, Volodya: Selected Works; from ‘I love’, tr. George Reavey

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just me

Staring at the moon through the window, I sat,

With thoughts numb and movements stagnant,

Remembering how my day was and reminiscing the past along that.

How I let people walk over me, assuming they were walking with me.

About how I could have loved myself a bit more and not revive the traumatized me.

Blamed my health and told I was high on medicines but was that true?

No idea, perhaps it's the anxiety I've been through.

Will changing myself actually relieve me?

It just brings out the better version of me who everyone needs, except me!

It striked me hard how being oneself is looked down upon...

While all I need is a hug and all I want to hear is "it's ok you're not alone"

A cool breeze woke me up from my thoughts, and now I was looking down,

I lift my head up and see the moon again but now being surrounded by clouds.

And when clouds moved away, the moon apparently looked prettier than before.

As the moonlight touched my cheek, a ray of hope arised,

Making me want to let the pain out my chest, aloud I cried.

taglist below (ask to be +/-):

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