I think life tragic, not comic, because I have no detachment. I have been guilty of idealization, guilty of everything except detachment. I am guilty of fabricating a world in which I can live and invite others to live in, but outside of that I cannot breathe. I am guilty of too serious, too grave living, but never of shallow living. I have lived in the depths.
Lie down and look up at the ceiling and breathe with those curiously fragile lungs of yours and remind yourself: Don’t worry. Don’t worry. All is as it was meant to be. It was meant to be lonely and terrifying and unfair and heaving. Don’t worry.
The Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives in Your Home, Night
Vale #31.5,”Condos” (via elucipher
I’ve never tried to cut myself with something else than paper.
But now, I really wish I had the courage to.
A bit of metal, a bit of rust
A little speckle of crimson crust
Blood running down these long white arms,
Blood in the places you used to keep warm.
I didn’t know heartbreak, before this.
I didn’t know how physical the sensation
of a knife turning -
No, more like a key, snapping against the crevices
Turning and locking it all in.
I’m screaming and screaming and no one can hear,
Because no one fucking cares to hear
And I say I’m the coward,
But in reality,
daenerys targaryen is everything i aspire to be in life
When I am lonely for boys it’s their bodies I miss. I study their hands lifting the cigarettes in the darkness of the movie theaters, the slope of a shoulder, the angle of a hip. Looking at them sideways, I examine them in different lights.
My love for them is visual: that is the part of them I would like to possess. Don’t move, I think. Stay like that, let me have that.
Our souls collapsing,
In their thoughtless ways.
Reference: Foreseer of the Past by octopusocellatus
Music: Collapse, Collide by Archive.