What was the manner of my coming there?
Impossible to say, for when I’d left
The one true way, my mind was drunk with sleep.
But, stumbling towards the bottom of a hill,
Just where the valley ended that had filled
My heart with fear, I looked up, and I saw
Its shoulders mantled in the Planet’s rays
That always leads men right on every road.
And so the fear, that in my poor heart’s lake
Had lain that night so pitifully passed,
Began to fade, for I had seen the sun!
Like one who’s rescued from the angry waves,
Then breathless stands ashore to stare in awe
And terror at the cruel sea, my mind,
Still fugitive, turned back to scan the wood
That none before had ever left alive.



nature/vintage blog

▲ vintage
I’m gonna die of death.
— Gavin Free, Let’s Play - The Ship Part 2 (via psychowolf)


Their hands parted like passing ships, the ocean lusted after the shore.

I started to get used to every single breath that left her lips. Not like that love poem kind, when they carve for a lost feeling, or how beautiful her skin is, but I knew what her movements meant. To which goddamned mood they pointed to.

There were days when I knew she was in love. When she felt the hope of being reminded of the touch of his fingertips on the back of her neck, something that usually seemed lost to oblivion, days when the corners of her mouth weren’t crying, they wouldn’t twinge, they would be pulled up by her face muscles towards her ear, smile, and they would form words, so she was telling endless stories about her dads latest hobbies of growing some weird mushrooms in the kitchen, about her cat crawling up on her shoulders, about her best friend Rolli meeting some girls, and how happy she is because others are happy.

These were the days of early winter, when the air would freeze your lungs, but you could get sunburned during certain hours, and many things were happening around us, many things that should be finished, that meant that we didn’t have time to waste on things like daydreaming about something so long lost. And this lost thing was that darkened our days. It was like an obligation to mourn him, that meant a brother to me, and she was still in love with, Dante. He left.

These were the days that she made an effort to care about others, put a hand on someone’s shoulder and smile at every acquaintance passed on the corridor. Days when she drank only one coffee, that tasted like Christmas and avoided the coffee automat located near the teachers room.

Days like this were rare.

He left on a cold morning. The night before, with a short kiss, and a whispered “take care”. But on the happy days the past was blurred. Maybe that’s why they were happy days. He wasn’t there. Not like he was never coming back. He was coming home from time to time.That was the problem, that in-continuous presence in her days.

I’m not even sure if he ever thought of her. Or if he remembered anything important. I’m not even sure if he ever loved her. Sometimes I felt like he did, other times everything seemed darker, even in perspective. And maybe this made it so hard to forget. This made it almost exciting. Uncertainty can preserve and prolong our happiness, thus we might expect someone to cherish it.

That made me believe, that this is what kept her really alive. This is why she got out of bed early, this is why she kept learning and reading and watching, connections made it clear, everything had to do with him. In her eyes nothing had a value with which he didn’t agree, no music seemed good which he didn’t like, every movie seemed shitty which he had never mentioned. Everything was a constant, monotone movement of thoughts, just to get him back.

He was the one who lured her in that continuous sadness during all the other days. All the other days which seemed colder than normal, even though the thermometer wasn’t lying and on this part of the earth it can’t really drop to -40 grades Celsius and H&M sweaters felt the same.

These were all the other days he chose to ignore her.

Chocolate didn’t taste the same and jokes weren’t that funny. Every unimportant chit-chat seemed annoying, and she would shatter if someone unimportant touched her. She would hug her dad every time they met in the house, which, by the way, was colder ever since he left. She would hug her friends longer than usual, she would hug me and stay close but no cat stories have arisen.

She would do her job, she would drink more coffees, more shitty coffees, because taste didn’t matter on those days, liquid sadness. She looked constantly tired, mostly tired of unfulfilled desires which wouldn’t let her sleep.

On these mornings she would wake up and give time for this grief, and let the whole story settle again, before crawling out of her new memory-foam bed.

Wasted, isn’t it? Wasted time. Smile. Smile.

This keeps her strong otherwise. She gives talks, she is sure of her power, of her skills, and has good arguments. Salted smiles. But smile it is.

That’s why I know it’ll be alright. One day he’ll never come back, out of sight out of mind. Dante can go back to his Inferno.

Their hands parted like passing ships, the ocean lusted after the shore, there must have been something if they keep ending up the same way.

They probably loved each other. Just never at the same time, and at one time the three words never returned.

(Source: dantes-comedy)


natasha and the plaza by ardenwray on Flickr.

Random photo. Vlad once said that Bernie, Rachel and me always make the “fuck me please” face on pics. Thanks vlad

- Ho passato la vita a guardare negli occhi della gente, è l’unico luogo del corpo dove forse esiste ancora un’anima. José Saramago by Partenope;V on Flickr.


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