Have You Everthought Abouthow Every Daywe Are Dying,slowly Disintegrating Into Nothingafter All We Are

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)

Until the Possible and the Actual meet at Infinity

until the possible the almost whatcould’vebeen whatshould’vebeen andstillwhatcanbe it is everything that has ever been a maybe or possibly almost and sometimes hypothetical because nothing is impossible. study that closely; look impossible im possible i’m possible we hide creativity, positivity and hope inside our impossibilities for we love a second chance and a redemption of something you cannot come back from and the actual reality of yesterday of today that which is certainly and absolutely positively true this is always and forever it is an axiom an idiom (absolute) but how do we distinguish our reality from dreams? they seem real and real enough it seems. For some they dream and it is real for some they live and it is a dream. in the end, it's all real for we cannot bear to think of what would happen if it wasn't. And when they meet the possible and the actual at infinity who can say? nothing is impossible when everything is real.

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.

eden for a sinner

i have this / and it isn’t a name / mouth full of strange words and broken teeth / Latin for flowers that don’t smell sweet anyway

i don’t have this / and it is a name / Greek for strength / courage and solid ground beneath your feet

we planted this / and it could be a garden / golden apples / made of lies and deceit

you left this / and it broke my heart / saying i was inhospitable to love / with my secrets and my tired eyes

they cried over this / viewed it as recompense / for the seeds we stole / to make our own Eden

i have this / and it is no longer yours / my lovely words, broken arrows and lies / life, abandon me to my own devices

and i will burn this heaven down

pretty girls aren't so pretty

red lips, dark eyes, hair tied up into bows. pretty girls don’t wear skeleton tights, don’t make black eyes with eyeliner and bruises. pretty girls don’t get into fights, don’t voice their opinion and say what’s on their mind. quiet isn’t a state of being it’s a requirement of beauty because when you speak that angel’s bow gets all twisted out of shape. no one likes a snarl, honey, don’t do that don’t give me that look it’s for your own good. boys like girls who are pretty who act pretty who don’t fight back. don’t claw your hands and sharpen your nails, paint them pink pastel not red like blood. pretty girls don’t smile like that, teeth out to bite put your fangs back in and hide that darkness. at least until someone claims you and breaks you of that nasty habit, your idea that you are more than just a pretty face. no one cares what’s inside your head, darling don’t you understand what I’m trying to say? you’re just a pretty face and nobody likes their paintings to talk and think do they. pretty girls don’t fight like that honey pretty girls use words not their fists you should know how many pretty girls have tried to fight you? cat eyes and bloody lips, hair in knots like the the wind owns you. pretty girls don’t look like that. pretty girls don’t act like you why don’t you understand? you’ll never get anywhere in life unless you’re pretty and pretty doesn’t mean what you think it does, you’re only a pretty face. you can move the earth on your own but think about how many decimal places there are in that number it makes you less than significant, irrelevant. you can’t move the world and time won’t stop for you. pretty girls don’t write like that, pretty girls don’t have scars like that baby don’t you dare fuck this up you will be a pretty girl. pretty girls don’t paint their faces like a mask pretty girls wear their masks all the time. pretty girls is what the boys want their girls to be. pretty girls aren’t like you baby why can’t you be a pretty girl? pretty girls don’t dress like hookers, they dress for boys and for attention. not attention like you get, the strange stares in the hallways. that’s not pretty. believe me honey you’ll thank me when you’re older even if you say right now you hate me you’ll learn. pretty girls, pretty pretty girls. red lips like candy not like blood dark eyes like smoke not like bruises and hair tied up with pretty little bows. look in the mirror don’t you like what you’ve become? a pretty, pretty girl.