Circles, Merry-go-rounds, Ferris Wheels And Galaxies

circles, merry-go-rounds, ferris wheels and galaxies

The earth does not revolve around love. Neither do any other planets, stars or even our star the sun. Circles do not revolve around love and neither do tilt-a-whirls. Ferris wheels are debatable. In actuality there are a rather lot of things that do not revolve around love; the earth revolves around the sun at a 23.5 degree tilt in which 24 hours equals one rotation and 365 days a revolution. We are orbited by a moon which revolves because of our gravitational pull (and we probably had a collision with a meteor which created our moon- not love). The star that both our moon and planet revolve around is midway out of the galaxy (the Milky Way galaxy to be precise) halfway through the Sagittarius arm in the Orion spur, and the entire solar system is revolving around a centre in the spiral galaxy. This galaxy is wildly careening about in the abyss of space and, on occasion, colliding with other galaxies. Circles are created around an origin, a centre point and revolve around that. Tilt a whirls depend on the pull of gravity, the principle of inertia and focal points to work, and nowhere in that entire explanations is a single one of those things revolve around love. And those are just the obvious ones.

Have you ever thought about how every day we are dying, slowly disintegrating into nothing after all we are but dust collected into atoms that combine to become us, a body of thousands but yet only one we are a universe unto ourselves, infinitely expanding and collapsing as our little lives made of stardust (we are such stuff that dreams are made of, wishes forgotten and remembered and love lost and won) become stars and like everything die they supernova into an explosion of colour that we can’t even see if it happens but we do not see or even notice did it really happen or was it just an illusion, sleight of the hand that holds so gently a universe of stars known as us and we die slowly, not from ourselves supernovae in a great explosion a grand last act but of a thousand little things that break us every day, our tiny atoms fading our stars growing dim until we are left as the gloaming, the almost black fragile as the smallest thing so delicate one touch and we disintegrate, slowly dying every day bleeding out our souls till we’re an empty husk after all we are but dust

cityskylinesofimaginaryplaces, part one of two, ‘Pulvus et Umbra Sumus’ (via wnq-writers)

A Portrait of Dorian Grey

you used to be called Dorian, before we named you Pierre. I wonder if it ever struck you as odd, the way that suddenly you weren't Dorian anymore. Now people you didn't know called you by a different name and I wonder if it scared you- To be in a strange place, with strange people, and to have not even your name be your own.

if you cannot own yourself who are you

nothing is ours; not really and not ever we are all made out of the same generic mold and predispositions claiming to have found a new way to be original in our fixed rigidity. our ideas are merely thoughts been thought over a dozen times in the last second, a thousand in a minute and millions in a day our minds are preposterous unthinkably so that at the mere mention of all this being thought, being done and said before we build a city of bones around us hiding in our closet made of skeletons how can we not realise we are the skeletons? we are nothing but skin and bones rotting in our unofficial homes and when we are afraid of the dark we are afraid of ourselves. of what we might be. that we may see we are never truly our own.

ghost writers in eight voices

i. these words are not mine, and neither is that voice in your ear that sings them to you.

ii. I know how the ghost writers felt creating stories that were not their own, writing words that they did not say or feel or mean. it’s the struggle of the lyricist behind closed doors who pours their unfelt grief and heartache into someone else’s lies.

iii. no one tells the truth in this creative industry; depression and misery and sorrow and fear and death are not romantic in the slightest. death is not pretty, falling is not graceful, misery is not composed and fear is all-consuming, all-enveloping.

iv. can you imagine the ghost writers in a conference together, a room full of people so unused to speaking their own mind that their voices crack and lips tremble at the thought? it’d be the quietest room you’d ever been in because once you forgo your voice for someone else’s, you forget how to speak on your own. it takes a lifetime to remember the way you lilt and how you speak, the words you use and the ones you don’t and the familiar cadence of your mind.

v. all those ghost writers are in a room somewhere with the lyricists who write songs for other people, learning how to be their own again and lord, how it scares them.

vi. I’d be scared too if I had to wrap my mouth around the strange words, unfamiliar sounds of things that used to be yours but were no longer; like kissing someone you used to love on the mouth only they don’t taste the same.

vii. those words are the embodiment of j'aimais vous, the feeling you should know something but don’t like how a voice sounds familiar in all the wrong ways

viii. it’s the ghost hidden in the walls of the room, tossing and turning in its sleep as it remember what it feels like deep down buried inside to know something, and to claim it as your own.

whether it's something I was or someone I want to be who I am now, or who I pretend to be be brave. -'words of advice'