I like my silhouette. Hope that isn’t too vain.
i trail from door to door to door
with the question, ‘how are you?’
painted bright red on my lips.
as each person steps out of their house
i find myself wiping my mouth a little more
and my clenched fists are stained
with other people’s welfares.
my triumphant return to society
sees me trailing a wagon of old books
home from the library
and i am just trying to make sure
that everybody i left alone for a while
is doing okay.
nothing has ever been quite as heavy.
|—||Khaled Hosseini, The Kite Runner (via enchantedswan)|
Ever noticed how there are more words to describe negative states of being than positive ones?
I’m sure you have. It has to be a cliché by this point.
The dreamer in me wants everyone to create a million synonyms for ‘happiness.’
The realist knows it’s not unreasonable to call life as a whole complete and utter evolutionary physical suffering.
But then I’m amazed at my own damn conscious thought, here and yet again:
Give your vast amounts of exquisite love to everyone you come across.
Kindness makes the suffering worthwhile.
With The Punches - Burned At Both Ends
It’s so clear on the long drive home
I can’t stand another night alone
This just might be a let down
But these chances never last so
I’m screaming out through the car window
To the sounds of the stereo
This just might be my breakdown
But I’m not ready to let this go
|—||Anthony de Mello (via cosmofilius)|
|—||Emily Haines (via fourteendrawings)|
chocolate // the 1975
|—||Lady Gaga (via iexcuseyourface)|
The empty midnight drives and every synonym I can think of for ‘loneliness’,
the wedding invitations that won’t exist in my name,
not to mention the one I will never receive;
I am painting a self-portrait in black.
the last few seconds of a song that provides clarity,
and another cigarette to softly diminish my anxiety,
the smoke dissipating much like the features of his face
that is now slowly fading in memory;
the colors blend, becoming more opaque.
I will wait to feel alive
until the effervescence
You’ll never find me and you’re not coming back.
You are a vision of the past, perpetually blinding me,
much like gazing at the sun in the middle of the day
when I think of you.
Anxiety will remain mine, and I never want to see you again.
There have been so many glasses of whiskey,
hundreds of tears, and
thousands of cigarettes
in your place,
I don’t anticipate your return.