So I Just Had A Thought

After Silence by Neil Gaiman

Seasons on seasons. The spring is signaled by birdsong coyotes screech and yammer in the moonlight and the first flowers open. I saw two owls today in the daylight, on silent wings. They landed as one and watched me sleepily. Oh who? they called. Or how, or how who? Then they leaned into the trunk into the sun that shone through the tight-curled buds, and vanished into dappled shadows never waiting for an answer.

Like the sapling that buckles the sidewalk and grows until it has reached its height all of us begin in darkness. Some of us reach maturity. A few become old: we went over time’s waterfall and lived, Time barely cares. We are a pool of knowledge and advice the wisdom of the tribe, but we have stumbled, fallen face-first into our new uncomfortable roles. Remembering, as if it happened to someone else, the race to breed, or to succeed, the aching need that drove our thoughts and shaped each deed, those days are through. We do not need to grow, we’re done, we grew.

Who speaks? And why?

She was killed by her breasts, by tumours in them: A clump of cells that would not listen to orders to disband no chemical suggestions that they were big enough that, sometimes, it’s a fine thing just to die, were heeded. And the trees are leafless and black against the sky and the bats in fatal whiteface sleep and rot and the jellyfish drift and pulse through the warming waters and everything changes. And some things are truly lost.

Wild in the weeds, the breeze scatters the seeds, and it lifts the wings of the pine processionary moth, and bears the green glint of the emerald borer, Now the elms go the way of the chestnut trees. Becoming memories and dusty furniture. The ash trees go the way of the elms. And somebody has to say that we never need to grow forever. That we, like the trees, can reach our full growth, and mature, in wisdom and in time, that we can be enough of us. That there can be room for other breeds and kinds and lives. Who’ll whisper it: that tumours kill their hosts, and then themselves? We’re done. We grew. Enough.

All the gods on the hilltops and all the gods on the waves the gods that became seals the voices on the winds the quiet places, where if we are silent we can listen, we can learn. Who speaks? And why?

Someone could ask the questions, too. Like who? Who knew? What’s true? And how? Or who? How could it work? What happens then? Are consequences consequent? The answers come from the world itself The songs are silent, and the spring is long in coming.

There’s a voice that rumbles beneath us and after the end the voice still reaches us Like a bird that cries in hunger or a song that pleads for a different future. Because all of us dream of a different future. And somebody needs to listen. To pause. To hold. To inhale, and find the moment before the exhale, when everything is in balance and nothing moves. In balance: here’s life, here’s death, and this is eternity holding its breath.

After the world has ended After the silent spring Into the waiting silence another song begins.

Nothing is ever over life breathes life in its turn Sometimes the people listen Sometimes the people learn

Who speaks? And why?

Neil Gaiman

things that made me stop wanting to die that require no effort whatsoever

change the color used to highlight text on your laptop

move the pictures on your wall

stack whatever clutter is in your room into piles even if you don’t have time to clean it all

slightly vary your commute, even just by one street

change where you sit and scroll aimlessly on your phone even if it’s only to the chair in your room instead of your bed

drink water or juice out of a wine glass in the morning because nothing is real

shower with the lights off, without music

buy $3 flowers at trader joe’s—they look bad next to the more expensive ones but they look so good in your room

start typing things you don’t post into your notes. your thoughts can be worth documenting even if you don’t deem them worth sharing

wake up super early just once. you don’t have to make it a habit it’s just extra satisfying to go to bed that night

listen to the entirety of your favorite album from 2015

Telling people i don't feel good instead of feeling depressed cause its easier then them asking questions

do it for him

{just a lil self motivation, trigger warning x}

if you won’t do it for your fatass ugly self, do it for him:

- so he can pick you up easily when you hug

- so he’s proud to show you off to his friends

- so he feels so lucky to have someone with a body like yours

- so he never even thinks about another girl

- so you look good from any angle ;)

- so he can take pictures with you and post them everywhere

- so he can trace along your ribs and collarbones in awe, wondering how he’s so lucky to have a girl like the ones in magazines

- so he can wrap his arms around you

- so your thin, delicate hands drown in his

- so when you go swimming he can’t take his eyes off your perfect body

- so all his big clothes hang effortlessly off your body

- so when he asks what size to buy your birthday presents in, you get to say XS or 00

- so he spends less money buying you food and more buying you flowers and new clothes

- so you never have to feel insecure about being bigger than him

- so all his friends are jealous of him for having you

- so all the other girls who like him know they’ll never stand a chance

- so when you decline food, he tells you you’re already so thin, you don’t need to diet, he loves you just the way you are, but you know if he knew the you before, he wouldn’t look at you twice

I just downloaded tumbler to post my weird crap that pops into my thinking Machine

-That-one-bixch

ONE TREE HILL — 1x20: What Is and What Should Never Be

She thought of her head as rain. There’s nothing quiet about rain. It’s consistently loud. It does absolutely nothing to hide its coming, and it doesn’t shut up until it’s gone. And yet, rain hides a very deliberate silence. It’s not actually silence—it’s an illusion of silence, of calm, conjured up by a lonesome mind. That was her head, she had decided. An illusion of calm, just like the rain that was drowning the city.

“Is this the place?” the driver asked her. He had been quiet throughout the journey, and he was polite when he asked her now.

“Yes, thank you,” she replied, and exited the car.

Her transparent plastic umbrella always gave her the impression that she was underwater. Who would build such an ugly city underwater? Neon glows pink and blue, lanterns glare yellow and red, street lights burn a pale ochre. The shops are competing with light and sound, fighting a pitched battle for mindshare. The people that fill the streets like specks of dust, they chatter and pace, or at least mill about. Busy minds, distracted minds, all under the unquiet rain.

She sees the ones in the balconies, smoking and leaning. Their minds aren’t empty, or even quiet for that matter. Just like her mind, they’re filled with smoke and debris, with broken furniture and the discord of an electric distortion. Somewhere behind them, their loved ones are watching TV in cramped flats. How do you just drown them out like that? The rain inside her is loud, but calm.

“Goodness, I haven’t seen you in so long,” someone says. They’re looking at her, eyes bright and reflective. She can’t place them.

She just smiles politely, considers ignoring them and moving on.

“No, no, it’s you, isn’t it? I used to watch your livestream all day. Why’d you stop?”

That’s how they knew her. She had no way of knowing them, even if they told her one of the thousands of handles that had been used to access her stream. They were all drops of rain, loud and calm.

“Can I take a picture? You and me?” they asked, their smartphone already drawn.

“Do I know you?” she blurted out.

They stared at her for several dumbfounded moments, bathed in smartphone light that soon disappeared. “No,” they replied, their voice faltering.

“I don’t know you,” she said, more to herself than to the person she had asked.

“No,” they repeated, “But I’ve watched your streams so often. I used to be so lonely until I started watching you. I mean, you really changed my life.”

“But I don’t know you,” she said again. The rain pattered above her, it trickled off of the spokes of the umbrella.

The smartphone was back to whatever dark corner it had emerged from. “Well, that’s okay, I can see you don’t want to be disturbed,” they said. “Good evening.”

As they left, swallowed by the rain, she moved on. There was a lot to remember, but like the rain around her, she had to let it all fade into background noise.

Dice el amor que aún no.

Dice el amor que seas paciente, que todo nos llega. Que los corazones se rompen y eventualmente se reparan. Dice el amor que todo irá bien, que la herida dejará de supurar. Dice el amor que te tomes tu tiempo. Dice el amor que todo con calma, que estarás y estaremos mejor. Dice el amor que esperes, que va a dejar de doler. Dice el amor que así como lloras, florecerás. Dice el amor que dejes de preguntarte por qué no llega, él siempre sabe cuándo…

Clara Ajc

me: *sends a single text* why am i so clingy

reba trying to say ice