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falling through time
When you finally got up to leave, it pleased you when you realized that even when your body was cold, the keys that were in your pocket all this while are warm, like your heart, in the palm of your hand. And you are so glad to be alive.
The earth is ice cold behind your back, cool grass tickling the tiny exposed patch of skin where your shirt has ridden up, jeans never go high enough these days. But the sun is searing you on the other side, its warmth on your face and you suddenly feel like a pancake being cooked in reverse, defying all laws of physics. Loosen your muscles, lie there spreadeagled, clench and unclench your fists, take apart your facades piece by piece. You try to find you amidst all the noise in your head, like downtown on a Thursday, college night, raucous and ridiculous. Your fingers are getting cold, but they are always cold. You've got music in one ear - this Japanese singer whose voice you think is freedom and his name, like stars, you think is beautiful. The wind is in the other ear, and you wonder and wonder what it is trying to say to you when it spreads the clouds thin across the blue of your vision. Perhaps when the clouds move across the sun, the world is putting its hand across its eyes, shading itself from the brightness that is you, so much like what you do when you tilt your head up and the swell of the sun catches you by surprise. You feel insignificant in the face of nature, like you think you should. It scares you, so you close your eyes and watch the shapes shift and swim, and you think it is like you are watching yourself from the inside, like you are watching yourself through the lenses of a microscope and what you are belongs in a petri dish. You wish someone were beside you at this moment in time, because you would share your deepest fear, your fear of fear and everything else, but you would also share your greatest happiness, even though you aren't sure what it is because you think there will always be something better. You would run fingers over their hands and touch the web between their fingers and be silent. Where did you come from, and where will you go? Are you happy? You think it is harder to be happy than to be sad or angry. The grass smells good an inch from your face, and you wonder about the smell of fertilizer that you found repulsive on your walk home - you wonder what had to die to give you life.
I am happy to be alive.
that you haven't found the time To open up your mind And watch the world spinning gently out of time Feel the sunshine on your face It's in a computer now Gone to the future, way out in space Blur - Out of Time |
The earth is ice cold behind your back, cool grass tickling the tiny exposed patch of skin where your shirt has ridden up, jeans never go high enough these days. But the sun is searing you on the other side, its warmth on your face and you suddenly feel like a pancake being cooked in reverse, defying all laws of physics. Loosen your muscles, lie there spreadeagled, clench and unclench your fists, take apart your facades piece by piece. You try to find you amidst all the noise in your head, like downtown on a Thursday, college night, raucous and ridiculous. Your fingers are getting cold, but they are always cold. You've got music in one ear - this Japanese singer whose voice you think is freedom and his name, like stars, you think is beautiful. The wind is in the other ear, and you wonder and wonder what it is trying to say to you when it spreads the clouds thin across the blue of your vision. Perhaps when the clouds move across the sun, the world is putting its hand across its eyes, shading itself from the brightness that is you, so much like what you do when you tilt your head up and the swell of the sun catches you by surprise. You feel insignificant in the face of nature, like you think you should. It scares you, so you close your eyes and watch the shapes shift and swim, and you think it is like you are watching yourself from the inside, like you are watching yourself through the lenses of a microscope and what you are belongs in a petri dish. You wish someone were beside you at this moment in time, because you would share your deepest fear, your fear of fear and everything else, but you would also share your greatest happiness, even though you aren't sure what it is because you think there will always be something better. You would run fingers over their hands and touch the web between their fingers and be silent. Where did you come from, and where will you go? Are you happy? You think it is harder to be happy than to be sad or angry. The grass smells good an inch from your face, and you wonder about the smell of fertilizer that you found repulsive on your walk home - you wonder what had to die to give you life.
Thick as thieves the last of leaves In the winter sun Holding fast this freezing branch Is home to us Step, step right over the line And onto borrowed time When it's life, not waiting to die Waiting to divide to divide A Fine Frenzy - Borrowed Time |
I am happy to be alive.
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I read this on the bus today:
Free fall
is falling but at least it's
free. I don't even know
whether I jumped or was pushed,
but it hardly matters now
I'm up here. No wings
or net but for an instant
anyway there's a great
view: the sea,
a line of surf, brown cliffs
tufted with scrub, your upturned
face a white zero.
I wish I knew
whether you'll catch or watch.
-Margaret Atwood
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This is my favourite poem because it's so deliciously dark--
That's my last duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Frà Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps
Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat": such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart how shall I say? too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men good! but thanked
Somehow I know not how as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech which I have not to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
"Or there exceed the mark" and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and make excuse,
E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretense
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay we'll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!
--My Last Duchess by Robert Browning
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I CAN'T STOP STARING AT THE PICTURE.
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i'm in the lounge and you've disappeared o_O i am confused.
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was it you who take that picture? :)
This
They say I pretend or lie
All I write. No such thing.
It simply is that I
Feel by imagining.
I don't use the heart-string.
All that I dream or lose,
That falls short or dies on me,
Is like a terrace which looks
On another thing beyond.
It's that thing leads me on.
And so I write in the middle
Of things not next one's feet,
Free from my own muddle,
Concerned for what is not.
Feel? Let the reader feel!
by Fernando Pessoa.
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Thank you for the poem ♥ *shuffles feet closer to yours*
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gosh, this is completely stupid, because it's in swedish, but I find it hilarious, and your tag made think about it, idek. a song about a sailor who put his foot in a potty.
and this is cute. >.>
no, idek.
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Baby's cute, ne. I like the illustration on the book he's (she's?) holding!