It's not like that place where you never grow old. It's just that you grow kind of sideways. Like a peach in an apple tree.
___________________________
We took these pictures and wrote these words. They are little pieces of us. Of our lives. Or the people we love. But you are welcome to them if you like them.
If you feel like you need someone, or need to feel someone:
tamialand@live.com.au
"There are two basic motivating forces: fear and love. When we are afraid, we pull back from life. When we are in love, we open to all that life has to offer with passion, excitement, and acceptance. We need to learn to love ourselves first, in all our glory and our imperfections. If we cannot love ourselves, we cannot fully open to our ability to love others or our potential to create. Evolution and all hopes for a better world rest in the fearlessness and open-hearted vision of people who embrace life."
John Lennon (via couragehopestrength)
The only two emotions your decisions stem from.
Reblogged from buryyourselfinwords with 189 notes
This is a bridge in Paris. You hang locks on it with the name of you & your boyfriend/girlfriend/best-friend then throw the key into the river. So even though the friend/relationship may end, you can’t remove the lock. It stays there forever, as relevance to someone once a part of your life.
Reblogged from schmenny with 69,265 notes
250 men and women were asked to draw what these emotions felt like in their bodies. These are the combined results.
(Source: typeless)
Reblogged from theheartwanders with 46,934 notes
Dusty letters for boys who never knew, and still shouldn’t.
________________________________________
And later when I’m finished being a child, maybe in a year or so as you’re about to leave me for another world, I’m going to tell you that I was completely in love with you, way way back exactly now in time. And maybe I will cry. And most likely I will take the coward’s way out and tell you in a letter.
No one else has divided my time from reality like you have. Your mind is incredible. I wish you knew. And if I had to find a single reason for sitting here writing about you—perhaps so I could feel less ashamed about it—is that I want to forget about you completely. When my thoughts are filed, ordered and given reason for existing, then they are done with. Maybe I can do it with people too. Maybe I will be your friend later when I am not lying to your face with every single word of my harmless, platonic conversation. Because I am going to want to be selfish with your time, your life, and unsatisfied and distraught with the lack of time you offer me. I am going to be too much, I am going to ask for more than you know how to give while you are young. And I don’t want to change you at all. I don’t want to confuse or distress you. I want to know you feel complete with everything you have—the people you have, the love you give.
I’m sorry that you lose someone too.
But I can hardly explain the freedom, control, and romance I feel when running away from someone entirely. But believe me when I say I love that feeling a thousand fold when I’m running away with someone I adore. I don’t always do it on my own. But sometimes no one wants to come. And sometimes there’s no place to go. So I will be here, away from you, in the very same city we share for a while.
_______________________________
I can’t find a pen paper your address my breath. Sorry.
![[P3]
I usually have a good reason for finishing a whole bottle of whiskey. I circled the party with heavy feet, lynching the bottle neck with my fist and swirling it slowly.
So I was dancing around the edges. If anyone raised their eyes to me I would notice. Then I’d let my head drop back, squeezing the glass neck as my short, sweaty hair met my neck. And I’d sway like I was full of desire. Like I was a guest at the party, which I was. I was a permanent guest. There could be nothing different about me. When they watched me they would subconsciously announce that I fitted right in here, and everyone would feel safe because of it.
And when the room got more empty, I pushed our bed up to meet two walls, and just collapsed there in the corner. And his face was coming in towards mine, all upside down, with the cherry of the spliff towards my parted lips. And I sucked and coughed as our lips met, flavor burning between them.
Before I met her I lived in a little loft apartment on Brunswick street with a young man who forgot to go home once. We shared a dresser, a bed, a china mug, and many early mornings by the single, wide bay window. He owned a big heavy coat which we used as a curtain in the summer, when the sun would rise too early for both of us combined.
I wanted him to explain what he was still doing in my apartment that first morning. I didn’t know how to ask, so I watched him flicking through my journal on his side of my mattress and thought of how to talk.
“You remind me of someone”
“No I don’t”
“Oh. Okay” I said quietly, lying back down.
“You shouldn’t say that. You’re basically saying you know who I am already” he said
“No. I just meant that I recognize the outside of you from somewhere”
“When you know me better later, you’ll laugh at your idea of me now”
At that’s how I knew he was staying.
I think people should recall their relationship in meals and seasons. And sometimes weather. We were oily, cold, and rainy. But sometimes even now when the sun rises before I do and I’m baking slowly to a bare mattress, I expect to see him curled away from me when I open my eyes. And that warm feeling contradicts every memory of us.
It took a while for me to see him as he was. Bits and pieces come together. I looked inside his eyes at the tea-leaves settling at the bottom of his stomach, and I’d figure him out. I predicted him. And one morning I saw how his pale limbs stretched out, with his dark feathered hair spread over one shoulder. I imagined him waking after I watched him for too long. He’d look at me, then close his eyes again before talking in the slow way he does, with no intonations, and tell me what his dream was. He’d forget the end of it before he got there, of course. He’d cup my hand and fall back into himself.
I realised then that he was not a human man, but a gentle, flightless bird.
But all of him, even the idea of him, had completely disappeared by winter, except for a note that he’d forgotten to finish, or perhaps that was it.
Gone for as long as it takes to get lost, he wrote. But we all know you’re either born lost, or you’re so painfully aware that you begin to wander.
I found her ad on a noticeboard at the coffee shop below my apartment. I admired her handwriting, reading the curls of scrawl over and over as I sipped my tea, wondering if she sat on this same lounge as she wrote it. As if she glanced at the noticeboard while eating a biscuit, and wanted to add to it, just because. I came to that conclusion in retrospect, since when I arrived at her house, I realized there wasn’t enough room for half a person to live there, let alone another.
She looked so bewildered when she opened the door that I felt I had to speak to her slowly. Eventually I was aware that this was her resting face. She was the only one I’d meet that could look that way even as she slept. Often I felt like whispering to her while she lay there, explaining the process of rest, trying to dilute her confusion into stone-cold unconsciousness. Relaying to her the stages of sleep, explaining why she couldn’t wake sometimes if she wanted to. Telling her not to worry about her eyes going samba inside of their spheres of skin.
For this reason, people often answered her questions before she asked, so she was required to speak very little. And this is how I came to know her best. I could stare the words right out of her.
She showed me around the room. She said she’d only been there a month, but the way she pronounced ‘month’ revealed she had no concept of time at all, and that it wasn’t important anyway.
This is where we’ll share our first wine.
This is the first dress you’ll borrow. One weekend we’ll actually passively argue over who gets to wear it out, and one of us will have a bad night.
This is where you’ll fall asleep, right here in the corner, after I don’t come home one night. You’ll be so cold but won’t bother finding a blanket.
And this space right here contains a moment of immeasurable pain.
I told her I’d move in the next day, but I put my tiny suitcase on the floor and never went back for my other things. Our rickety old bed with the stolen headboard and sunrise drawn on the mattress with felt markers. Our hat stand with your big coat hanging on it. My only fry pan. Actually, I’d never cook again.](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m0pi5qXgHf1qdcfg6o1_500.jpg)
[P3]
I usually have a good reason for finishing a whole bottle of whiskey. I circled the party with heavy feet, lynching the bottle neck with my fist and swirling it slowly.
So I was dancing around the edges. If anyone raised their eyes to me I would notice. Then I’d let my head drop back, squeezing the glass neck as my short, sweaty hair met my neck. And I’d sway like I was full of desire. Like I was a guest at the party, which I was. I was a permanent guest. There could be nothing different about me. When they watched me they would subconsciously announce that I fitted right in here, and everyone would feel safe because of it.
And when the room got more empty, I pushed our bed up to meet two walls, and just collapsed there in the corner. And his face was coming in towards mine, all upside down, with the cherry of the spliff towards my parted lips. And I sucked and coughed as our lips met, flavor burning between them.
Before I met her I lived in a little loft apartment on Brunswick street with a young man who forgot to go home once. We shared a dresser, a bed, a china mug, and many early mornings by the single, wide bay window. He owned a big heavy coat which we used as a curtain in the summer, when the sun would rise too early for both of us combined.
I wanted him to explain what he was still doing in my apartment that first morning. I didn’t know how to ask, so I watched him flicking through my journal on his side of my mattress and thought of how to talk.
“You remind me of someone”
“No I don’t”
“Oh. Okay” I said quietly, lying back down.
“You shouldn’t say that. You’re basically saying you know who I am already” he said
“No. I just meant that I recognize the outside of you from somewhere”
“When you know me better later, you’ll laugh at your idea of me now”
At that’s how I knew he was staying.
I think people should recall their relationship in meals and seasons. And sometimes weather. We were oily, cold, and rainy. But sometimes even now when the sun rises before I do and I’m baking slowly to a bare mattress, I expect to see him curled away from me when I open my eyes. And that warm feeling contradicts every memory of us.
It took a while for me to see him as he was. Bits and pieces come together. I looked inside his eyes at the tea-leaves settling at the bottom of his stomach, and I’d figure him out. I predicted him. And one morning I saw how his pale limbs stretched out, with his dark feathered hair spread over one shoulder. I imagined him waking after I watched him for too long. He’d look at me, then close his eyes again before talking in the slow way he does, with no intonations, and tell me what his dream was. He’d forget the end of it before he got there, of course. He’d cup my hand and fall back into himself.
I realised then that he was not a human man, but a gentle, flightless bird.
But all of him, even the idea of him, had completely disappeared by winter, except for a note that he’d forgotten to finish, or perhaps that was it.
Gone for as long as it takes to get lost, he wrote. But we all know you’re either born lost, or you’re so painfully aware that you begin to wander.
I found her ad on a noticeboard at the coffee shop below my apartment. I admired her handwriting, reading the curls of scrawl over and over as I sipped my tea, wondering if she sat on this same lounge as she wrote it. As if she glanced at the noticeboard while eating a biscuit, and wanted to add to it, just because. I came to that conclusion in retrospect, since when I arrived at her house, I realized there wasn’t enough room for half a person to live there, let alone another.
She looked so bewildered when she opened the door that I felt I had to speak to her slowly. Eventually I was aware that this was her resting face. She was the only one I’d meet that could look that way even as she slept. Often I felt like whispering to her while she lay there, explaining the process of rest, trying to dilute her confusion into stone-cold unconsciousness. Relaying to her the stages of sleep, explaining why she couldn’t wake sometimes if she wanted to. Telling her not to worry about her eyes going samba inside of their spheres of skin.
For this reason, people often answered her questions before she asked, so she was required to speak very little. And this is how I came to know her best. I could stare the words right out of her.
She showed me around the room. She said she’d only been there a month, but the way she pronounced ‘month’ revealed she had no concept of time at all, and that it wasn’t important anyway.
This is where we’ll share our first wine.
This is the first dress you’ll borrow. One weekend we’ll actually passively argue over who gets to wear it out, and one of us will have a bad night.
This is where you’ll fall asleep, right here in the corner, after I don’t come home one night. You’ll be so cold but won’t bother finding a blanket.
And this space right here contains a moment of immeasurable pain.
I told her I’d move in the next day, but I put my tiny suitcase on the floor and never went back for my other things. Our rickety old bed with the stolen headboard and sunrise drawn on the mattress with felt markers. Our hat stand with your big coat hanging on it. My only fry pan. Actually, I’d never cook again.
