Life of Who?
-Writer. Artist. Breather.
-"I'm many things and few all at once. I'm the biggest contradiction you have yet found. I can promise you nothing, for promises are all broken. When I die, I hope to rest my soul within the ocean..."
Eli's Last Will: Never date a writer
Writers are the tortured ones. They rip themselves to confetti to write, and you may find it beautiful as they fall on you like parade, but they feel every division of them torn, tossed into the wind.
Writers never love, they just have brief moments of un-hurt, when the ghosts inside of them stop…
The only thing worse is when a writer falls for another writer.
Illustration by Ernest Chiriacka (1953)
- When planning story: This is great! I can go far with this.
- When writing story: No I can't.
(Source: malupalma, via its-a-writer-thing)
There is no greater love than the tree has for the earth. He embraces her with his roots as to pull her closer to him. They are bound within each other, through the scorching days and blistering cold nights, not once losing sight of their devotion to one another. The earth she covers the weakest parts of the tree as a form of protection, while the tree shades of her drought caused by the Sun’s violent rays. There is no greater love than the earth has for the tree, for when he dies, so does she.
The Girl Who Cries Wolf: The Dinner Guest
The wine sipped too quickly, has gone to my head. I watch the way your hands move as you tell your joke and laugh a little too loudly when you deliver the punch line.
His eyes flash at me from across the table. The same disapproving look he shot me earlier, as I was getting dressed.
It’s a bit…
Bottled up
I want to scream. Tell you all the things I’ve been boxing in this whole time, tell you that I hate that I can’t hate you. That I hate that I understand your decision even though it makes no sense.
I’m not worth your time, you aren’t good for me. So I understand we aren’t meant to be, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still want you, that I don’t need you to be the way you once were, to teach me more about life, to return my sight, to inspire me that way you used to. I’ve grown parch of inspiration since you left. I can’t stand in the rain without wanting to be drowned by it. That way I can go the same way you wrote about. The way you made death seem so beautiful.
I want to look into your eyes, the portal to your soul. I want to read your mind, to know the secrets you withhold. I’m selfish because I want to be your salvation. I hate myself for not accepting this will never happen. I hate myself for understanding. I’m not good enough, your not good for me, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still want you.
I don’t believe in love, but with you around I was happy. Now I don’t believe in love but I’m no longer happy. Sometimes I imagine what it would be like for you to still be around. I pretend you are mine and we are perfect. You are perfect. We are happy. Most importantly you are happy. You are smiling, that devilish smile which always took my breath away. The one that made me want to die, the one that makes me wish I had. But then I remember that will never happen. You chose someone else.
I don’t understand. Not why you chose what you did, but why you never told me, why you didn’t warn me. I still remember how I felt finding out. Like someone crushed a glass against the still visible wounds of my deteriorating blood muscle.
Why can’t I forget you?! Nothing ever happened. It was me. My fault, I created worlds that we never visited in my mind. After I promised myself so many times I wouldn’t.
I wish I could tell you, let you know the truth. But its too late and I have to deal with it soon…
Romila Barryman: LXIV.
It takes breath to make death valid. It takes heartbeats and pounding pulses. People assume there is a sudden stop to these things. Like in a millisecond one exists and then immediately finds itself obsolete. Have you ever heard death? The extinguishing of breath? It is like losing someone to a…
Beautiful, just fucking beautiful.
Dead Fiction: Love is a cheap motel
I remember when someone once asked me how I could be so warm yet so cold. It had to do with the fact that I had just told a man I love you but please leave me, hope and then death. People have this twisted way of romance that can only be boxed into Hollywood’s version, everything else be dammed….
