“When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares.”—Henri J.M. Nouwen, The Road to Daybreak: A Spiritual Journey (via psych-facts)
“If it were up to me I’d marry you right now. I’d start my life with you. We’d go out and buy that piece of land you want, build a cute little house. Have sex, cuddle by the fireplace and eat breakfast together the next morning. Go to work, and rush to get home just so we could see each other. Eventually have babies. Buy our first dog. Celebrate our 10 year anniversary. Get in some arguments, but make up the same day. Continue to surprise each other, watch the sunset from our front porch every now and then. Watch our babies graduate and start their lives. Retire. Meet our grand-babies. Hold each other every night and never forget the love that started this all. If it were up to me, I’d start that adventure with you right now.”—(via falldownlikefire)
The first time your heart was torn from your chest,
You thought you were dying.
You knew you could not live with the empty space.
So you replaced your heart with metaphors
And set out to create a world where the metaphor was unbreakable.
Now look what you’ve done—
You can’t breathe so you write.
You can’t hurt so you drink rum and pour our pirate chanties.
You can’t want revenge so you leave.
When I see you I have two thoughts:
You are the reason The Smith’s wrote songs,
And my god, you are beautiful.
You are so beautiful
Blinking stars go blind.
But I can see this is going to get ugly.
The metaphors don’t make you feel whole anymore.
You sell out your deepest insecurities for a handful of laughs.
This life has you wound so tight you make grandfather clocks look relaxed.
You hold your body like banks hold money—all locked up.
Your shoulders are glass rocks waiting for the next attack.
But you’ve got it all wrong.
You don’t survive history.
History survives you.
There is no breakthrough without breakdown.
If you’re going to break, shatter.
No limp-legged dog excuses.
No messing with this bullet proof vest fury
So popular with the cops and the presidents.
You’ve got to break like Texas.
You’ve got to take the pain from the safety valve of your heart
And return it to your fists.
Fight your better judgment ‘till you’re sinister again,
‘till your body remembers what it already knows how to do—
and manifest grief.
Scream torches ‘till you embarrass the enlightened.
Please. No more polite conversations with your death wish.
Give it something useful to do.
Change your life.
Cause I can’t stand to see you like this.
So blue, my eyes turn green in your presence.
Listen—you are so beautiful,
Grass pushes through sidewalk cracks just to kiss your feet.
Maybe no one ever told you,
But the heart is a metaphor.
Yours is growing so strong
You’ll have your rhythm back any day now—
Loving like rumours spread.
Dreaming like lunatic spacemen jump from their suits.
Living like you never forgot how.
”—Mindy Nettifee, “The First Time” (via fokinslag)
“The best thing about the bedroom was the bed. I liked to stay in bed for hours, even during the day with covers pulled up to my chin. It was good in there, nothing ever occurred in there, no people, nothing.”—More? (via yanilavigne)
I am made for autumn. Summer and I have a fickle relationship, but everything about autumn is perfect to me. Wooly jumpers, Wellington boot, scarves, thin first, then thick, socks. The low slanting light, the crisp mornings, the chill in my fingers, those last warm sunny days before the rain and the wind. Her moody hues and subdued palate punctuated every now and again by a brilliant orange, scarlet or copper goodbye. She is my true love.
“yesterday, i spent 60 dollars on groceries,
took the bus home,
carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment
and cooked myself dinner.
you and i may have different definitions of a good day.
this week, i paid my rent and my credit card bill,
worked 60 hours between my two jobs,
only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks
and slept like a rock.
flossed in the morning,
locked my door,
and remembered to buy eggs.
my mother is proud of me.
it is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course.
she doesn’t combat topics like, ”my daughter got into yale”
with, ”oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs”
but she is proud.
see, she remembers what came before this.
the weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles,
how i would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks.
she thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide.
these were the bad days.
my life was a gift that i wanted to return.
my head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs.
depression, is a good lover.
so attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you.
and it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world,
that the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting.
it is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created.
today, i slept in until 10,
cleaned every dish i own,
fought with the bank,
took care of paperwork.
you and i might have different definitions of adulthood.
i don’t work for salary, i didn’t graduate from college,
but i don’t speak for others anymore,
and i don’t regret anything i can’t genuinely apologize for.
and my mother is proud of me.
i burned down a house of depression,
i painted over murals of greyscale,
and it was hard to rewrite my life into one i wanted to live
but today, i want to live.
i didn’t salivate over sharp knives,
or envy the boy who tossed himself off the brooklyn bridge.
i just cleaned my bathroom,
did the laundry,
called my brother.
told him, “it was a good day.”—kait rokowski, “a good day” (via lionfaux)
“You silly little girl, you think you’ve survived so long that survival shouldn’t hurt anymore. You keep trying to turn your body bullet proof. You keep trying to turn your heart bomb shelter. You silly thing. You are soft and alive. You bruise and heal. Cherish it. It is what you are born to do.”—Clementine von Radics (via wakeupboo)