Mikola Gnisyuk, People in Trees (The Rooks Have Arrived) (Detail), 1964
(Source: 7while23, via crusheddestiny)
disconcert
My bruising chest is no coincidence: it isn’t easy. It’s not easy to feel dread in what you’ve spent so long loving, nor is it easy to decide the defining moments. It’s always been the sum of the parts.
We all talk about learning, how much our experiences have taught us, how we moved forward because of our past. How our lessons are our saving grace. However, lessons and truth are not synonymous; I find myself desperately trying to unlearn. I want to unlearn the lessons I’ve been taught, chip off the hardened truths/mistruths with painful precision.
I prefer to resolve to forget about the dissonance between words and actions. I’d rather try to forget the things that I’ve been taught, but all I keep coming back to is confounding space. We act like we know better, to a nearly formulaic degree. I’d rather simply unlearn it, because Yes is more than a three letter word, and Sorry is as good as none.
feria de san telmo; buenos aires, argentina. december 2012.
buenos aires relapse & aftermath
It came and went at a dizzying speed. Everywhere I went I saw ghosts of myself, traipsing around with newfound happiness, and I was glad to be there again. One thing I took for granted was the smell- it lingers in the streets there and can’t be replicated or described. I found the last place I felt truly happy somewhere between my skeleton keys and dog-filled parks. And as soon as it began to feel real, it was over.
Nowhere else would compare. Not even the old charming places, now overrun by commercial venus flytraps and caged animals. Music dripped down the walls like sweat and my mouth pooled up full of blood for days on end.
So now what? I sit on familiar beds and nurse my wounds. I lay down next to the only arms that make this place home. Write to-do lists. Read for hours on end and sit in fluorescent-lit rooms while I plan my next escape.
(Source: acevedomat)
procession for one
It seems like it is never enough. I waltz with clocks strapped to my ankles and hope on my fingertips. Deciding what is best has never seemed so daunting. I’ve dreamt the maps over and over for nights on end, to the point where Buenos Aires has become merely a playground of all the things that exist solely in my mind. All the conversations, the normal places, the outlets, the stray dogs I wanted to keep- they had lived as dreary memories, only as tangible as a dream.
In days I’ll have every opportunity I thought I’d missed at the expense of it all, and I can’t decide what scares me more: that it could be nothing I thought it was, or everything I thought it was.
nowcomesthedawn asked: I love that you are procrastinating so hard that you're actually paying tumblr a visit. Wilkommen! <3
Oh my god. My life is in shambles. THE BOOKS STILL CAN’T READ THEMSELVES
i’m amorous but out of reach,
a still life drawing of a peach.
another (half)chapter
Staring at the calendar. Minutes drag their heavy feet and all I know is how to get to where I scotch-taped my heart back together.
Alexa Meade Submerges Her Subject in a Pool of Milk
(Source: unicorn-meat-is-too-mainstream, via 2headedsnake)
killing time won’t stop this crime.
rewind
Years worth of trying to forget certain jawlines and angry hands. Church pews and walking into the wrong rooms. Shitty outdated power ballads seeping through tired radio speakers and the poisonous parks we used to frequent before I learned how much fear is too much. No parked car could ever explain how much I’ve tried to erase it from my memory.
And then there it is. Cryptic computer clicks render all my work tiresome and as futile as ever.
