Tag Archives: love

I started falling in love at a very young age.

ventisette:

In love with people, yes. But also in love with places, with ideas, dreams, with books, with songs, with the way the sun casts rays of pure gold on the world right before launching into a brilliant display of pinks and oranges every night. I believe some people are just born this way, with love beating so strongly from their heart that it must find dozens of ways to escape every day. These people fall in love in obvious and often extravagant ways and are looked upon as fools by everyone else in the world. And maybe we are, in a way. Certainly those who keep a tighter rein on their hearts do not open themselves up to the kind of pain we do. But there is such beauty in falling in love that I hardly resent my incessant desire to do so. I love again and again, and as many problems as this brings, I still continue to do so on a daily basis because… Well, because I must.

This is how I feel.

Sometimes it’s easier to fall in love with cities than it is with people. Take, for example, New York – a monolithic tangle of skyscrapers and spires, or Paris – full of poetic details and varying shades of grey, or Chicago – windy and sunny summers with shiny windows reflecting the inherent bustle at stop lights. Places that hold special moments in time, suspended within the corner cafes and parking garages, lingering in old bookstores and taxi cabs, mingling with the smoggy air of the streets. My favourite memories are cradled within these sprawling human centres.

But what do you have to offer me? You’re a person. You’re a tangle of long limbs and a mop of messy brown hair. You’re hardly a city. Yet, you gaze at me with those piercing eyes and I feel as vulnerable and exhilarated as I do in the streets of Manhattan – where the people passing by on the street and the windows of monolithic buildings are all silent, are all watching me. Perhaps you’re my own private, portable, New York, Paris, Tokyo, Chicago, whatever.

letters to crushes

i-am-the-lighthouse:

FCP made the following statement on commercialisation:

If we were to acknowledge that sexuality is personal and unique, it would become unweildly. Making sexiness into something simple and quantifiable makes it easier to explain and to market. If you remove the human factor from sex and make it about stuff – big fake boobs, bleached blonde hair, long nails, poles, thongs – then you can sell it. Suddenly, sex requires shopping; you need plastic surgery, peroxide, a manicure, a mall. What is really out of commericial control is that you still can’t bottle attraction.

“you still can’t bottle attraction.”

Strange as it seems I think I forget this sometimes. There is really no ideal to strive for or look for. People just make you feel a certain way, and it’s rarely, if ever, because of how they look or what they have. It tends to go beyond their talents and skills, even past beliefs and the similarities and differences between you and them, although surely these all contribute. I think this is the main reason people believe in something beyond science: the indescribable complexities of human interaction and emotion.

sarasart:

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.” 

funnily enough I recognized what the quote would be before I scrolled down past the ears. I still love this book.

Oh, man. I can’t remember anything without you.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind  (via kristyn)

I watched part of this on the plane to school and I would like to see the rest. I liked that it was science fiction that didn’t need to explain itself, there were no deep plot points about the technology, everything was just matter of fact. Something in the part I did see struck at something deep in me, I may have to watch the rest.

It might have be the mix of intimacy and imperfection that made not for perfect love, but for hard earned right love.

Abyss

by Katrina Vandenberg

If the best love poems have a little darkness,
how far down can I go? Thousands of feet?
The coelecanth is near, but it’s too easy –
the metaphor nettable and clear, the lost
link found, the beginnings of our own bones
in its pelvic fins – and I want to write about love

with depth to hold the unverifiable, the oarfish
that survives with half its body gone.
I want it to hold the giant squid no one has seen
alive, strong enough to scar sperm whales;
sailors have claimed its tentacles unfurl
from the night’s water, taking down their mates.

But can such poems survive these confused witnesses?
Can they handle the scanty evidence that surfaces:
the mottled sick and dead, the night-feeding
viperfish impaling victims with fangs
at high speed, its first vertebra designed
to absorb the shock? And how much horror

can this poem sustain before you forbid me to say
some call this love, the hagfish that bores
into the unsuspecting body, rasping
its flesh from inside out? Am I making you
uncomfortable? The pressure at these depths
could crush a golf ball. Are you cold?

Or is it enough to be awed by the blue-
green photophores of the lantern fish, the brief
and brilliant light displays? What the lights say:
I want you. Not so close. I am moonlight;
I am not here. I would eat you raw –
tell me if you want me to stop.

jenna2step:

I keep thinking about the way you crashed into my life like a spring electricity storm, and how things will probably never be quite the same. How you twisted around the midnight hours and caught me in your teeth like a loose string. You broke me open and changed me. Left this wide open space where I could keep your memory, and some days I am still trying to figure out if I am a part of your outskirts or your inseams. You’re my favorite inside joke. A rogue wave in my sea. I caught a glimpse of you in coffee grounds at the base of the rose bushes, and every perfect moment where I could tell you things is ruined by half-shaken silence.

There’s something deeply enthralling about wolves

I don’t miss my old school exactly, more look back upon it fondly.