2. It is a lonely world.

    I’ve come to stumbling through it recklessly, open bare to damage of any sort. Crossing the street without looking, walking alone late at night, burning down my lungs, loving. I want to be seven again, when my minds joy wasn’t weighted by the disregard of others. Nature held me. 
    I do not know why I end up alone. I have very much to give, so much I want to give. What is it that I do wrong? I am clinging to my own sense of value but I am discouraged. Now it has been so long since anyone has wanted to call me their girlfriend. So long since I have been worth it. So long since I have been much more than temporary, a distraction, or a casual fuck. Is there something about me that keeps them from pulling me close, wanting to kiss me, wanting to adventure or explore with me? I try to be gentle and kind and friendly and interesting - but I am closer to invisible, and gestures of affection and intention are ignored day after day. I see the gentleness and attention others give to those they love and I miss that and feel unworthy. 
    I am trying to focus on myself and not be fixated. I am just lonely and bruised up by being left hanging in silence over and over. By being the rebound or the friend with benefits. How can I believe when i’m telling myself that I am important if when I lay out so much of myself at the mercy of one I adore, they don’t care to even talk to me? 

    Am I truly insatiable? Some pitiable hole of need? I want to fix this. I don’t want to live like this. I want a reflecting surface, a sounding board, a quest companion. I want to share life and light and fascination.

    Most of this is becoming questions, but I guess that makes sense. I am discouraged. I am fighting very hard, but suicidal thoughts come with an ache over and over. I keep thinking that maybe I have distanced elm enough now that I can die without hurting him too much. I think most people are distant enough, I am quite lonely even though I am trying so hard to be around others.

    I feel so silly for all this, but I need to spill and think it through and sort and i’m trying to understand what I am feeling and what is true and real. I am going to start trying to write things out


  3. sometimes he looked at me with the most wonderful face I can remember. quietest love exposed, bare and happiest of happy, a grin so joyed it was almost silly. the deepest affection. rattled me to the bones. 

    after time and so much, if he looked at me at all, he never looked at me that way anymore. I feel so sad


  4. this cough is getting very bad. I feel very weak and i’m worried

  6. Poet

    by Michael Bergt

    (Source: artefebril)

  7. Oriol Malet (b. 1975, Martorell, Spain)

    (Source: vectroave.com, via artefebril)

  8. Forest

    Author: Katayama Bokuyo (Japanese, 1900–1937)
    Date: 1928
    Ink and mineral pigments on silk
    Location: Minneapolis Institute of Arts

    (Source: arsvitaest, via sextuplet)

  10. Martin Salajka

    (Source: lackofcuriosity, via sextuplet)

  11. European red wood ant nests in Hessen, Germany.
    Grey bowerbird bower in Northern Territory, Australia.
    A cathedral termite mound in Northern Territory, Australia.
    A wasp nest made of masticated wood. Wasps often use a type of paper created from wooden particles and their secretions. Chinese paper inventors carefully observed wasps and drew inspiration.
    Beaver lodges are only accessible through an underwater entrance, which offers them protection against enemies, cold and heat.
    There are huge fields littered with compass termite towers, which average 3m tall, throughout northern Australia.

  14. (Source: daysrunaway, via necroluste)


  15. the air in the streets around your house
    tastes of some bitter root poison
    and hangs loose and empty under that dark 

    where you sit and fill your blood with whatever
    can keep your eye closed tight enough when 
    you’re turned to face the rotted hole in the middle of you
    and came to the place where true north 
    should have been
    to numb it all out 
    as the compass needle spins 

    little bits of ash
    to medicate the sting and nausea unease gripping you
    from the bottom up 
    every time you find a lie that fits well enough
    to fool yourself into the laze of ego and apathy
    to build the cement and rocks up an inch each day

    every time you take a hit to make you forget 
    the last time you saw her
    saw just another chance to pull her back to you
    but as you will always choose, 
    fear turned you cold from the inside out
    and she turned and walked

    pouring smoke up into your open eyes 
    to cloud out the rest

    that last time, 
    she never glanced back