The Latest
Let me lay in your bed, talk of things you don’t know.
Take the clothes from my back, and make love to me slow.
and you’re free to think of all you feel and let go.
Do not tell me though.
(via flowury)
Spilled ink
C.S. Lewis said that nobody ever told him that grief feels so much like fear. That same haunted feeling, the separation from your physical sense of self, the overwhelming loss of oxygen from the veins in your body. I to, dread the moments when the house is empty, when my philosophical self takes centre stage and writes poetry on the walls.
Never date a writer. When you love us, we will fill our notebooks with paragraphs of metaphors and descriptions, every simple detail will be mapped and scribbled across pages left folded under your pillow, even down to the transcending beauty of that single freckle upon your chest. And one day you’ll leave. Suddenly that single freckle will resemble the bullet wound you left upon our souls; our ink will splatter the walls with your visage and coat the lounge with poison. You will smoke the lead from our pencils and be written out of us, completely. As J.K. Rowling said, words are our most inexhaustible source of magic, capable of both rendering and fixing injury.
Psychology teaches us that we have three different states of self; how you see yourself, how others see you and how you perceive others seeing you, the closer these three dimensions are the more stable you become. I still hold the paper cuts from when I lost her, because C.S. Lewis told me that grief is much like fear.
…Not all treasure is silver and gold, some has brown eyes and a beating heart.
