Ask me anything

I am a compulsive blogger, resulting in a random collection of personal artwork, prose, poetry, and quotes. My interests vary greatly, providing something interesting for nearly everyone.

I have been told that when a loved one dies
the worst part is not the shock, or the blood,
or how grief colors all the places your hands touch.
The worst part is when the world heals you too well.
Years later, when you begin to forget their face
and their voice becomes a song
you do not remember the tune for.
After the burial, when the body just a fact.
A memory only confronted when prepared.

I do not have this problem of forgetting.
I remember your face exactly. Your voice is right here,
coloring my voice. Nothing is helping me
to forget your hands,
how they shook like apologizing mountains
hollowed in their wisdom.
I do not know about the part
where you cannot remember grief.
Grief comes for me every morning,
dragging your last breaths behind him
like screaming children.

This aphorism seems a privilege
of bad memory. The brain does this.
It hides the worst. It is the reason we look at scars
and say All I remember was the screaming.
Then everything went black. When I woke up
the worst of it was over.

College students can now get microsoft office for free

hoodjab:

rabbrakha:

melthemuslim:

Just go here and sign up with your college email. You can install it on up to 5 PCs or Macs and on other mobile devices, including Windows tablets and iPads.

GOD BLESS.

I PAYED UGH. REBLOGGING TO SAVE U GUYS SOME MORE GAS MONEY

(via cornerofthisworld)

6 days ago
161,817 notes

crocobaby:

Do you think every president goes through a awkward first few weeks in office when they’re not sure when’s the right time to ask if aliens are real or not?

(Source: star-loser, via cornerofthisworld)

1 week ago
287,384 notes
lola-pastel:

gaysealapproves:

three-little-hellsings:

There is a story behind these mugs

and every artist knows it intimately

This is great I need those mugs

lola-pastel:

gaysealapproves:

three-little-hellsings:

There is a story behind these mugs

and every artist knows it intimately

This is great I need those mugs

(Source: princusbeau, via tides-turn)

2 weeks ago
269,727 notes
officialbluearmy:

latenightalaska:

I SERIOUSLY THOUGHT THIS WAS A COPPER STATUE

HELLHOUND

officialbluearmy:

latenightalaska:

I SERIOUSLY THOUGHT THIS WAS A COPPER STATUE

HELLHOUND

(Source: tastefullyoffensive, via tides-turn)

5 days ago
135,099 notes
It’s funny. When you leave your home and wander really far, you always think, ‘I want to go home.’ But then you come home, and of course it’s not the same. You can’t live with it, you can’t live away from it. And it seems like from then on there’s always this yearning for some place that doesn’t exist. I felt that. Still do. I’m never completely at home anywhere.

cliffymikeyy:

babybluestocking:

raikagay:

remember like 2 years ago when christmas stopped feeling like christmas for some reason

This post creeps me out because it is absolutely true 
WHAT HAPPENED TO CHRISTMAS

image

(via cornerofthisworld)

1 week ago
329,236 notes
http://pavorst.tumblr.com/post/97727690036/today-i-saw-a-very-beautiful-girl-the-light-was

pavorst:

Today I saw a very beautiful girl. The light was perfect, the sun was swimming in the pinky purple sea of a day’s ending. I was having coffee with a friend when she crossed the street. She was tall, with long brown hair that curled at the end like it was being tickled. She had tiny freckles…

1 week ago
99 notes

I am not here to tell you it’s going to be okay because you already
know that. Anyone can tell you that. I am not here to stitch up your

wounds. I am not a nurse or a doctor. I don’t know how to fix you
and I wouldn’t want to try. I am here to tell you that it’s time to heal.

It’s time to let go of the years you’ve lost to your misery. The years
you’ve spent falling in love with your sadness and the way

your bones look when there’s nothing but skin over them. Stop
planning out your funeral and stop writing your suicide note.

Save your energy for the love letters you will have to write one day.
Save your good stationary. Stop staring at your veins like they

will bleed answers. Some days, you will still feel the hollow sort of
heaviness like your bones are made of iron pipes.

All you need to hear is that it is okay to be sad for no reason, a
billion reasons, or for one small reason. Some days your lungs

will bleed and the fresh air is made of salt. Some days your skin will
be a wound and the world is nothing but acid. On these days,

you need to know that it is okay to cry. Some days you will feel
naked and vulnerable like when sadness left, he took your whole

closet with him. I am writing this because none of us can be saved.
None of us can be fixed, because there’s nothing that needs fixing.

You are you. Do not listen to the boy who tells you that you are
broken because he hasn’t bothered looking in a mirror.

Some days, loud noises will still feel like needles on your skin.
People will raise their voices and they will ask why you are scared

of them. Some days you will still cringe when men touch you.
There will be days when you will go the beach wishing

the sea were made of alcohol so that you can stop dreaming in
black and white. You will wonder why they’ve put you on so many

drugs and you will ask yourself why you can’t function on any less.
On days like this, there are only a couple things you must remember:

you’ve been through worse before. You are limitless. The
things you are capable of are infinite. There is someone waiting

to tell you how proud they are of you for making it this far.
I am writing this to tell you that it’s time to let go of your walls,

your ceiling, your floor and grab onto the sky.

10:00 a.m. (For the people who think no one understands)

Inspired by Andrea Gibson’s "The Nutritionist"

(via angryasianfeminist)

(via angryasianfeminist)

2 weeks ago
1,425 notes