Hello, OP Here.

it was never gonna work out but i experienced all these seemingly profound unreplicable moments that were romantic and moving and made me feel alive and still none of it actually means anything in the long run. but thats okay. sometimes a beautiful moment is just that. a moment. and you have to leave it alone and just be grateful that it happened. woooow

"It doesn't have to be like this. We could have it so much better"

Calligraffiti in Chicago, Illinois

Yesterday was a bad day, my apartment was too quiet. Too empty. There was nothing, nothing.

Then suddenly I was turning on lights and they were the perfect shade of yellow and the music from my little speaker hit me so hard I almost cried in the kitchen and those socks I bought kept my feet warm and my warmed-up tortellini were so good with the scrapes of my mom's pesto.

I listened to Billie Eilish and Hozier and The Neighborhood and suddenly they were just people.

Sometimes I lay in bed terrified that I'll stop feeling. Yesterday was not that day.

Once a little boy went to school. One morning The teacher said: “Today we are going to make a picture.” “Good!” thought the little boy. He liked to make all kinds; Lions and tigers, Chickens and cows, Trains and boats; And he took out his box of crayons And began to draw.

But the teacher said, “Wait!” “It is not time to begin!” And she waited until everyone looked ready. “Now,” said the teacher, “We are going to make flowers.” “Good!” thought the little boy, He liked to make beautiful ones With his pink and orange and blue crayons. But the teacher said “Wait!” “And I will show you how.” And it was red, with a green stem. “There,” said the teacher, “Now you may begin.”

The little boy looked at his teacher’s flower Then he looked at his own flower. He liked his flower better than the teacher’s But he did not say this. He just turned his paper over, And made a flower like the teacher’s. It was red, with a green stem.

On another day The teacher said: “Today we are going to make something with clay.” “Good!” thought the little boy; He liked clay. He could make all kinds of things with clay: Snakes and snowmen, Elephants and mice, Cars and trucks And he began to pull and pinch His ball of clay.

But the teacher said, “Wait!” “It is not time to begin!” And she waited until everyone looked ready. “Now,” said the teacher, “We are going to make a dish.” “Good!” thought the little boy, He liked to make dishes. And he began to make some That were all shapes and sizes.

But the teacher said “Wait!” “And I will show you how.” And she showed everyone how to make One deep dish. “There,” said the teacher, “Now you may begin.”

The little boy looked at the teacher’s dish; Then he looked at his own. He liked his better than the teacher’s But he did not say this. He just rolled his clay into a big ball again And made a dish like the teacher’s. It was a deep dish.

And pretty soon The little boy learned to wait, And to watch And to make things just like the teacher. And pretty soon He didn’t make things of his own anymore.

Then it happened That the little boy and his family Moved to another house, In another city, And the little boy Had to go to another school.

The teacher said: “Today we are going to make a picture.” “Good!” thought the little boy. And he waited for the teacher To tell what to do. But the teacher didn’t say anything. She just walked around the room.

When she came to the little boy She asked, “Don’t you want to make a picture?” “Yes,” said the little boy. “What are we going to make?” “I don’t know until you make it,” said the teacher. “How shall I make it?” asked the little boy. “Why, anyway you like,” said the teacher. “And any color?” asked the little boy. “Any color,” said the teacher. And he began to make a red flower with a green stem.

~Helen Buckley, The Little Boy

part of what makes tragedies tragic is the story being preventable from the outside but unpreventable from the inside

My new meds make my skin throw a fit. It’s not terribly bad, just a few things here and there, but it’s bumming me out because I’ve never really had too many run-ins with acne.

My four-year-old sister, however, is under the impression that it’s just “3D freckles”, and that they look very, very pretty. She wants all of my freckles to “pop out”, especially the ones across my nose; they’re her favourite.

And it puts me in this weird position where I can’t say, “No, this is acne, and it’s bad,” because I don’t want to teach her that it’s a bad to have unclear skin, you know?

Because the more I think about interactions I have with children, the more I realise that children will consistently compliment “flaws” until they’ve been taught not to.

Like, a kid at the library, whose sister has vitiligo, saw my scars once and suggested that his sister and I should be cats for Halloween, since I have “tabby skin” and she has “calico skin”. “I can be a black cat,” he immediately added. “It’s not AS cool, but they’re the spookiest.”

When I started losing weight, my little brother immediately demanded that I gain it back, because I wasn’t as comfortable to cuddle with anymore.

And my other little sister always wants to wear her paint-stained clothes to school so that “everyone can tell [she’s] an artist”.

I don’t know. I guess talking to little kids just reminds me that all of this superficial shit we worry about really is 100% made up.

Hiroshima

Der den Tod auf Hiroshima warf Ging ins Kloster, läutet dort die Glocken. Der den Tod auf Hiroshima warf Sprang vom Stuhl in die Schlinge, erwürgte sich. Der den Tod auf Hiroshima warf Fiel in Wahnsinn, wehrt Gespenster ab Hunderttausend, die ihn angehen nächtlich, Auferstandene aus Staub für ihn.

Nichts von alledem ist wahr. Erst vor kurzem sah ich ihn Im Garten seines Hauses vor der Stadt. Die Hecken waren noch jung und die Rosenbüsche zierlich. Das wächst nicht so schnell, dass sich einer verbergen könnte Im Wald des Vergessens. Gut zu sehen war Das nackte Vorstadthaus, die junge Frau Die neben ihm stand im Blumenkleid Das kleine Mädchen an ihrer Hand Der Knabe, der auf seinem Rücken saß Und über seinem Kopf die Peitsche schwang. Sehr gut erkennbar war er selbst Vierbeinig auf dem Grasplatz, das Gesicht Verzerrt von Lachen, weil der Photograph Hinter der Hecke stand, das Auge der Welt.

--Marie Luise Kaschnitz

“Well, I have said this in the past, so I hope i don’t bore you by repeating it, but I think that we live or die under the tyranny of perfection. Socially, we are pushed towards being perfect. Physically, beautiful to conform to standards that are cruel and uncommon, to behave and lead our lives in a certain way, to demonstrate to the world that we are happy and healthy and all full of sunshine. We are told to always smile and never sweat, by multiple commercials of shampoo or beer. And I feel that the most achievable goal of our lives is to have the freedom that imperfection gives us. And there is no better patron saint of imperfection than a monster. We will try really hard to be angels, but I think that a balanced, sane life is to accept the monstrosity in ourselves and others as part of what being human is. Imperfection, the acceptance of imperfection, leads to tolerance and liberates us from social models that I find horrible and oppressive.”

— Guillermo del Toro, on why he has always been intrigued by monsters [x] (via radiophile)

Ocean Vuong, The Weight of Our Living: On Hope, Fire Escapes, and Visible Desperation

running with my dress unbuttoned