Bird-stream - Beau - Tumblr Blog

white night

take the bait

𝖮𝗂𝗅 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗒 𝖨𝗏𝖺𝗇𝖺 𝖹̌𝗂𝗏𝗂𝖼́ ( 𝖻. 𝗂𝗇 𝟣𝟫𝟩𝟫 𝗂𝗇 𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗃𝖾𝗏𝗈)

Not a big fan of what melatonin has been doing to my dreams lately.

Naoki Ito: Urban Nature (2009)

the one with the william blake poem... one of my favorites actually!! im obsessed ♡

I love people sometimes

(Collection of Dream Tigers)

did the dinosaurs look at the meteor and think "how pretty"?

Resting by Wojciech Gerson (1895)

idk waht to write for this one,

Fallen Angels with Bound Wings, Litvinova Julia (2016)

You meet god and she's mostly dead fish. You ask her why and she says most of the world is dead fish, and she's made herself to appeal to the most common denominator, the everyman funnyman comedy show that runs for eleven seasons but with the entire universe in mind. You ask her how much of the dead fish is your fault, she says it's far less than you'd think, in the grand scheme of things. You ask her if you matter at all. If you can do anything. She shrugs her rotting shoulders and says mattering is a made-up concept, like life, but sure, you can matter if you want to, on some scale. She has many scales. She doesn't know what you mean by 'anything', but you can do everything you can. You ask her if it's enough. She says there's no base requirement for deserving to exist. She's smoking a joint and the smoke filtering out of her gills gathers and forms gas giants and red dwarfs. You ask her if there's any hidden secrets of the universe you should know and she says it's not a secret if she tells, plus it's fun to let you figure it out yourself. You ask her if any of your questions were right questions and she says you worry about being right so much it might keep you from fucking around, which is as close to meaning of life as she ever bothered to make. You don't ask but she says she loves your hair, also your whole being, also your planet. She says she figured out what love is yesterday and is trying it out, which explains the ten thousand rainbows and sudden influx in rains of fish. She offers you a drag of her joint and you wake up half past midnight behind a chain restaurant clutching a smoked salmon. The new stars are winking like they're in on some joke and you're sure if you try hard enough you'll remember what it is.

I will never not be amused by the endless irony of AM and how he, a machine with nothing but hatred and envy for the humans who created him, was so loved by his Harlan Ellison (the original author of the story, AKA his real life creator) that he HAD to voice him in every single installment of IHNMAIMS possible, not letting anyone else take him.

The very thing AM hates most is the one that gives him life and keeps him alive outside of the narrative. In a way, it's similar to how he keeps the five humans alive in the story, but at the same time it's the opposite spectrum of it: the burning hatred of the machine versus the boundless love of the artist.

To The Substitute Art Teacher - Jordan Bolton

if i were a mouse id lay there in that trap not completely dead but doomed. nibbling on the morsel of cheese while i wait for the perpetrators to come collect me.

My new favorite genre of picture is a very special thing that most animals (and humans!) do: face nuzzling as an act of greeting/comfort/intimacy. thank God that this is happening all over the world right now

Isn’t it wonderful?!

feeling fish emotions today

i am but a loyal dog to the passage of time. and i want to bite the hand that guides me.

how can you love someone so much you don't even let yourself speak.

and how can you hate yourself for realizing you did nothing wrong.

and it did not fly

there is a mayfly stuck in the little pine 

and i would rescue it if i didn’t know what 

bug bites felt like. i don’t know how he got

there. you would think

something with wings

would be smarter than you.

but it seems we are the same.

i do not want to be someone else’s. i do not want to be… theirs, whoever they may be. i belong to me, so therefore, i am no one’s. all i want is to know someone who finds me, night, day, dusk, the early hours of the morning covered in fog. they choose to be with me, and i choose to be with them. with that, i am content.

i do not blame my house for being haunted, even if my house is not a home because of it. its something im supposed to feel safe in, yet im taken under siege, trapped in a dark room by doors that swing shut and lock on their own, the lights flicker on and off and i can't control as much of it as i thought i could before. it's not that the house itself has anything wrong with it, though. sure, the floors are creaky and there are bugs in the rafters- but all houses have those problems. my house, in theory, functions as well as any house should. but mine was built on something it shouldn't have been, the foundation was different, the contractors who were supposed to build it up into something livable ignored the history of the grounds they had chosen, and the house was cursed to suffer for their actions. maybe their houses were a little haunted, as well. maybe they could overlook the poltergeists because their houses were sick, too. but because my haunting leaves me with bright red handprints on my skin, because my haunting drives me mad, because my haunting cannot be masked with yankee candles and new bulbs, im the one who must take responsibility. i do not blame my house for it's illness, i do not blame my house for causing me so much distress, because the house is not at fault. i do not blame the house. i blame the contractors.

could you imagine being an inhuman thing? could you imagine being holed up because the sight of you sends heads spinning on a bewildered axis? Their eyes boggling out of their heads? Their mouths agape like horrible, sickening fish? Their hands, clawed and wet from the beading of cold, slimy sweat at their palms, clutching at their bags, their itchy clothes? Sharp teeth bare behind thin, curled lips in a grimace? Mothers shield the eyes of their dearly beloved, chubby, sticky offspring? Grating, hushed whispers echo through the wondrous caverns of your mind, and you wish you could understand their inharmonious grumbling.

Sinking.

Sinking into the abyss,

The Mariana Trench,

The Valles Marineris,

The turbulent storm and the black hole,

The beginning and the end,

All the grey areas there are,

And all the exceptions,

As well as the loopholes,

And the roundabouts,

And the scenic routes,

And getting lost,

Too blind to see,

Or hear,

Or feel,

And I wonder,

Why I took that small step,

That leap,

Insignificant,

Yet life-changing,

Into the dark.

You said your favorite Disney Princess was Mulan.

I remember it through a kind of fuzzy static,

The damp night air and the pounding of my calves as we waited in the line for the boat ride,

And I don't remember who asked the question first,

About which Disney Princess was our favorite,

But I said some silly answer,

Like Cinderella or Aurora,

And you said you liked Mulan.

I had never seen Mulan.

I don't think I ever even watched Snow White or Sleeping Beauty in full,

I knew who she was, of course,

A pretty girl with short hair,

She seemed sweet enough,

And I asked you why you liked her.

You said because she was actually strong.

Not like the other princesses,

Who waited for some man to come and save her,

Up in their towers and miserable in their homes,

No,

Mulan saved her country,

Just because she wanted to.

She was independent.

I felt stupid for not considering someone as important,

As different,

As special,

As her.

You explained to me,

And I wanted her to be my favorite too,

And in that,

Though it wasn't your intention,

I thought the other girls who liked the other princesses,

were in the wrong as well.

Mulan was never my favorite.

But she was yours.