…because there is still a bruise
at the back of our hearts
that has been fading just a bit too slowly.

and i think our clocks ran out of battery a while back,
they are yet to go back to their old rhythm,
their arms still locked around this hurt

Night is purer than day; it is better for thinking, loving and dreaming. At night everything is more intense, more true. The echo of words that have been spoken during the day takes on a new and deeper meaning.

Elie Wiesel, Dawn (via ipretenditsabeer)

(via stephmysmile)

Dear Sussy,

I’ve been wondering about how tiny you must have been when you were born, how it must have felt to have your tiny little fingers wrap around my small ones. I know it’s just a reflex at that age, but it never ceases to amaze my just how strong a hold can feel from something so tiny. I wonder if your skin was translucent, if I’d been able to see the tracks that would keep you geared towards growing up. I wonder if they’d have let me carry you. See I was 7 when you were born. I remember my mom talking to my brother, your dad, on the phone. He told her the news while I laid on the couch, eavesdropping. I was a brat and couldn’t help the jealous twinge that I wouldn’t be your daddy’s only little play thing anymore, forgetting the fact that he’d moved away a year earlier but still my 7 year old mind could only register that you were going to take him away from me even more. 

Time passed and I got over it. I didn’t get to meet you until you were 3. You were all giggles, big toothy grins and had a laughter much bigger than you that could fill an entire home and then some. You were small, thin but sharp none the less; like a toothpick. You had these beautiful black eyes that matched your beautiful dark curly mass of hair. Such a contrast against your pale complexion, a gift from the snowy rhode island winters, but that changed in the blink of an eye after you moved to the desert only a few hours away from me. You were a beautiful child (you will always be) and at the age of 10 I loved showing off the fact that I was the aunt of such a smart, pretty little thing. Not much has changed since then, I still think of you in the same way I think about the stars. 

You lived in a house on the corner of Cactus Dr. My dad bought it for your dad, so our families could be closer than that island so many miles away. My brother, foolish and not so young, never seemed to realize that the physical miles were much less and never any comparison, completely unnecessary, when compared to the ones that used to span between him and our father. Miles existed in between words or better put, lack of words. White walls and high ceilings, beautifully kept green grass surrounding it entirely and a light blue room just for you. A Mexican lime tree provided shade for the dog house in the far right corner where no dog actually lived, at least not yet. Kiwi came later.

You had a swing set in the backyard. There’s not much to do in the desert so we’d swing for hours and hours or until we got bored, whichever came first. Do you remember those picnics at white waters and days spent at knott’s soak city? Remember naps in the desert heat and the shade of the old tree that sat outside your bedroom window? I do and how we’d sit under that tree and enjoy how the sun seemed to cool as it passed through it’s leaves. It protected us. just like your mom hoped to protect you with the bible verses she’d whisper late at night over your head… who knew their protection would wear so thin, so quick. I don’t know if you know this, but the leaves no longer grow on that tree. 

There was this crown you loved and you’d wear it often, always wishing we were princesses… once upon a time. And all this happened, once upon a time and I don’t understand why your story had to end the way it did, but I’d rewrite it if I could baby. I’d make it so the big bad villain could never steal you away. I’d lock you up high in a tower where no one could hurt you or call you names for something that was out of your control. I’d make sure you stayed. I’d make sure you were okay and when the scare was over and done with, you’d come down and everything would be lovely… you looked so lovely the last time I saw you. A princess fast asleep. 

You have a new baby sister. Her name is Nelly. Nelly Isabelle. She’s beautiful, just like you. I know you’d have loved her. I know you love her. She doesn’t cry much and she is so… small in my arms. Her tiny fingers wrap so tightly around my own, I know its a reflex, but I still smile. 

And I smile a lot more when I think of you now sweetie. I hope you know that.

i. I think I have fallen in love with September because of the way it is the beginning of change, or the end of it. You see, it is the when I say goodbye to my flip-flops and bikinis, when I turn my back on the scorching summer sun. But I am welcomed in the arms of colored leaves and Autumn breezes and I have never felt more in place.

ii. September weeped with me when I was left by the first boy I ever kissed. It witnessed a bright sunflower transforming into a dead tree with bare branches, not a leaf in sight. The dirt swallowed my tears and the wind covered up my cries. It stayed with me night after night until the sleeves of my sweaters dried up.

iii. I learned that trees did not die when the weather turned cooler in September. The falling of leaves is what helps the tree survive through a bitter cold winter. It seals the places where leaves would grow in order to skip the game of death. So maybe people are that way too, closing up and thinking it is the end; but it is not.

iv. Somehow, I like to associate September with endings but I have to say that it has brought many new starts in my life as well. Friendships, new hot drinks at my favorite coffee places, odd adventures, and new feelings.

v. Change isn’t bad. Change is the falling of leaves; one, two, three leaves slowly touching the ground. And between those shades of orange and yellow and brown is a voice calling your name. You may not want to make a mess but you’ll end up with a smile on your face the second you dare to jump in.

A Story A Day #242 by M.D.L

(via mingdliu)

(via discessum)

You must not reduce yourself to a puddle just because the person you like is afraid to swim and you are a fierce sea to them; because there will be someone who was born with love of the waves within their blood, and they will look at you with fear and respect.

T.B. LaBerge // Things I’m Still Learning at 25 (via tblaberge)

(via 5000letters)

When my husband [Carl Sagan] died, because he was so famous and known for not being a believer, many people would come up to me — it still sometimes happens — and ask me if Carl changed at the end and converted to a belief in an afterlife. They also frequently ask me if I think I will see him again.

Carl faced his death with unflagging courage and never sought refuge in illusions. The tragedy was that we knew we would never see each other again. I don’t ever expect to be reunited with Carl. But, the great thing is that when we were together, for nearly twenty years, we lived with a vivid appreciation of how brief and precious life is. We never trivialized the meaning of death by pretending it was anything other than a final parting. Every single moment that we were alive and we were together was miraculous — not miraculous in the sense of inexplicable or supernatural. We knew we were beneficiaries of chance… That pure chance could be so generous and so kind… That we could find each other, as Carl wrote so beautifully in Cosmos, you know, in the vastness of space and the immensity of time… That we could be together for twenty years. That is something which sustains me and it’s much more meaningful.

The way he treated me and the way I treated him, the way we took care of each other and our family, while he lived. That is so much more important than the idea I will see him someday. I don’t think I’ll ever see Carl again. But I saw him. We saw each other. We found each other in the cosmos, and that was wonderful.

Ann Druyan (via whats-out-there)

(via pavorst)

"I miss you. I do." She whispered over the phone.

"But if I spend all of my time waiting for you, whole seasons will pass without me noticing, and you may be beautiful, but you will never be more beautiful than the first snowflakes of winter or the summer light cascading through the windows."

"I could wait for an eternity if only I knew you were coming," she said, "But time is precious, and darling you are not worth the spring blossoms. You are not worth the autumn leaves."

Excerpt from a book I’ll never write #39 (via blossomfully)

(via michaela-margaret)

The capacity to be alone is the capacity to love. It may look paradoxical to you, but it’s not. It is an existential truth: only those people who are capable of being alone are capable of love, of sharing, of going into the deepest core of another person—without possessing the other, without becoming dependent on the other, without reducing the other to a thing, and without becoming addicted to the other. They allow the other absolute freedom, because they know that if the other leaves, they will be as happy as they are now. Their happiness cannot be taken by the other, because it is not given by the other.

Osho (via notebookings)

(via softletters)

Why is love permeated with the rhetoric of giving away pieces of our selves? I don’t know about you, but I want my hands and my lips. I want all of me. My body doesn’t belong to you and loving you doesn’t mean I have to give it to you. Love means you get my respect, my attention, and my occasional thoughts. Love means choosing to let you in to see the esoteric parts of me. These I give to you in good faith that you will in some measure return the favor. But it does not mean you get my heart. That I will always retain ownership of. It beats for me. With or without you, I am a whole being. I will not give pieces of myself away.

And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.

Haruki Murakami (via kushandwizdom)

(via curacaoblues)


my favorite part of concerts is when the band plays a song everyone knows so everyone’s singing along all out of tune but then the singer stops singing and they point the mic at the crowd and u just hear everyone in the crowd singing the words to the music and u see the smiles on the band members’ faces bc they know people care about their music and everyone’s just so happy who cares about anything else

(via tormentingangels)