Oh Danikova


waking up to wake up someday


you grabbed my hand and begged me to stay.
my hair was blowing in the wind
and I couldn’t hear the truth in your words
over the sound of the waves pulling me out to sea.

sweetheart, I’ve been gone.
sweetheart, I’ve been gone.

maybe you find yourself farthest from where you’ve been,
maybe who you are is waiting at the other end.

I never looked back.
I was made for this.

—walk away from everything you’ve ever known. I swear the view is beautiful/d.a.h (via whisperingbones)

long

sequentem:

twirl, like
a shirt
untucked,
like a pulpit
pounding preacher
finding heaven in
the seams; and i am
so far up i can see the
seven seas, flickering like
lamps in the alliteratives
of alternate cycling; and i,
devoted like newsprint to the who
of you that became a new need,
words that sit within me, carry
on like a street light, changing
planes, transient and misty; and
the world twirls, baton in hand,
an orchestra of banjos layered
beneath the strings; and i see
you, seat next to me, map open,
telling me of when you were five,
smiling, as i turn the wheel, and
listen, in my own quiet, to the ways,
of your secret, easy, burning, beauty.

I have lost and loved and won and cried myself to the person I am today.
—Charlotte Eriksson, Empty Roads & Broken Bottles; in search for The Great Perhaps (via psych-facts)

memoryslandscape:

"We live in time—it holds us and moulds us—but I’ve never felt I understood it very well. And I’m not referring to theories about how it bends and doubles back, or may exist elsewhere in parallel versions. No, I mean ordinary, everyday time, which clocks and watches assure us passes regularly: tick-tock, click-clock. Is there anything more plausible than a second hand? And yet it takes only the smallest pleasure or pain to teach us time’s malleability. Some emotions speed it up, others slow it down; occasionally, it seems to go missing—until the eventual point when it really does go missing, never to return."

—Julian Barnes, from The Sense of an Ending (Alfred A. Knopf, 2011)

You may
blame Aphrodite

soft as she is

she has almost
killed me with
love for that boy.
—Sappho, Blame Aphrodite (via camilla-macauley)
Dark thing,
make a myth of yourself:

all women turn into lilacs,

all men grow sick of their errant scent.
You could learn

to build a window, to change flesh
into isinglass, nothing

but a brittle river, a love of bone.
—Jennifer Chang, from “This Corner of the Western World,” The History of Anonymity (University of Georgia Press, 2008)

(Source: a-pair-of-ragged-claws)


Street market, Rome, 1952. David Seymour.

Street market, Rome, 1952. David Seymour.

(Source: k-a-t-i-e-)

You wouldn’t notice her if she walked past you on the street. She was the kind if girl you needed to sit down next to in a coffee shop and make conversation with. She’s understated elegance and you’d be a fool if you didn’t take the time to get to know her.