May
23
(via betweenlegs)
Time loses all meaning.
“Even now, after all these years, there’s still this part of me where if there’s even the slightest chance something I’d do could make Robin smile, I don’t even think about it. I just do it. If I could make that locket magically appear, I would. I would open a vein in my arm if I could bleed that locket out, just to make her happy.”
Ted Mosby (How I Met Your Mother S8E24: Something New)
(via drapetomania)
(via coloraturakitten)
(via afractionofmyfantasy)
May
12
“You have your wonderful memories,” people said later, as if memories were solace. Memories are not. Memories are by definition of times past, things gone. Memories are the Westlake uniforms in the closet, the faded and cracked photographs, the invitations to the weddings of the people who are no longer married, the mass cards from the funerals of the people whose faces you no longer remember. Memories are what you no longer want to remember.”
Blue Lights, Joan Didion (via commovente)
May
7
http://commovente.tumblr.com/post/49580561690/ive-never-been-one-for-spring-everything-is-too
i’ve never been one for spring. everything is too delicate. too fragile. it all trembles. i prefer the thickness of august, of summer, of the sweltering and the sweating and the way no one cares what their hair looks like anymore. i’m not one for spring. people still give a damn about shaving their legs this time of the year. and what i’m almost no longer drunk but i’ve been having so many great conversations in the past couple of nights that i don’t want to sleep. i don’t want to write poems anymore as much as i want to read other people’s poetry and hate them for how beautiful they write and love them for just the same reason. this is the first time in a long time that i feel useless with my words. what am i trying to convey, really. i’m not even trying to save myself anymore. i’m just figuring out how to bide my time between the 13 seconds that netflix allots me between episodes.
“
Each time I’m asked to tell about myself, I find myself starting the same way: “My name is Kelsey and I’m nineteen..”
but what I’d really like to say is:
“My name means island of the ships but once
I found a translation that said I’m a burning shipwreck-
not a burning ship but a ship that has caught fire
after the wreckage and well, I’d say that’s more fitting.”
I’ve learned that people don’t have time for about me’s.
They need two things: a name and an indication you’re someone special.
The doctors, they want facts not details.
“I broke my leg when I was three, it’s a funny story actually-“
The right or the left?
Conversation over.
The teachers, they want interests, hobbies.
You’re sad, yes, but what do you like to do?
The adults are a spew of questions.
What school do you go to? What classes are you taking?
What do you plan on becoming? Got a boyfriend?
No, stop.
People my own age are the worst.
“I’m planning on an English degree with a concentration in creative writing.”
Yeah, aren’t we all. So how many times have you, you know,
done it?
I’m pulled apart, my interests travelling highway 2
my goals at a stop light at traffic hour,
my medical history on a billboard for the world to see.
But what about me?
Where’s the chance to say,
“I hang on to fistfuls of poetry like loose change in my pockets,
and I keep waiting for the day that the world turns upside down
so I can swim with the stars.
I’m not afraid of darkness, it’s a loneliness I can empathize with it.
It’s the blackholes like cigarette burns inside of me that get troublesome.
I walk through graveyards and read the dashes between years,
each a story I’ll never know. Sometimes I create my own.”
No wonder none of us know who we are anymore.
” Kelsey Danielle, “I Was Told to Write an About Me and This is What Happened” (via commovente)(via commovente)
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