Muse

In words. In thought. In Art.
All writing, unless specified, is my own.

Read the Printed Word!

Read to soothe your soul; write to free it.
"Don't use your heart, it only makes you slow."
Marianas Trench. Hedley. My Chemical Romance.

6. The Philosopher
Author’s Note: Content warning- homophobic language

I noticed him walk in. As a writer, how could I not? Even were I not, my insatiable nosiness would have perked up anyhow. He was wearing a wide brimmed Indiana Jones style fedora complete with feathers adorning the top. He had on a dark leather coat with leopard faux fur cuffs and plastic bead chains round his neck. Behind him he dragged a large black suitcase. I decided it wouldn’t be polite to stare, but an accidental-not-so-accidental glance over let me know that he was drawing steady strokes with a blue ballpoint pen. 
The eyes caught my attention. I knew those eyes. Every so often he’d glance upwards and I’d not so sneakily look away, feigning ignorance. A few more side-eyes and i realized the girl he was drawing was me. 
He handed me the page with a flourish of his signature. 
"You’re very beautiful," he said.
And just like that, we were talking. Rather, he was talking and I was nodding a smile frozen on my lips in shock.
"In truth, I am a philosopher," he said, lightly patting my arm much like a grandfather would. I would nod, never breaking what eye contact his Lennon shades I had. The dim subway car lighting made his eyes near invisible. 
"People in this life, they like to pretend they know everything. Arrogance. They all want to be the same, they hassle me on the streets about the way I dress, addressing me by ‘hey, you faggot,’ but I refuse to change the way I am. I want to be different- why would anyone want to be the same? There are millions upon billions of grains of sand in each desert and-"
I can’t remember how many deserts there are on Earth, but he’d told me.
"-and no two grains of sand are alike. Not a single one is the same as another. I think that that is important to remember."
He got off the train before I did-
"I’m going to the beach to work on a script-"
-and he asked me to send him an email before the doors opened and silence filled the train once more. I wondered what was in his suitcase. 

Reblogged from temporarymadnesstemporarygenius

6. The Philosopher

Author’s Note: Content warning- homophobic language

Read More

Reblogged from everythingly

karamazove:

1.Wall of books —  Amsterdam

2.Bookstore Mural — Pittsboro

3.Inside a Bookshelf —  Sweden

4.Library Mural — Poland

5.Flying Books — San Francisco

6.Heart, Culture and Pedagogy — Canada

7.La Bibliotèque De La Cité — France

8.Larchmere Mural — Ohio

9.Duluth Public Library - Minnesota

10.Transformer Books —  Russia

Flickering Distortions.
You ripped it up,
tore at the threads and
let them tangle.
Ribbons upon ribbons
distorted sounds and
voices floating on helium
gone
just with a flick of your wrists. 
Dismissed.
And now there is just a myth
a fabled tale
a legend 
without the glory
Just a fading truth.
Then no way to prove at all
if this deja vu
is a recollection or dream. 

Reblogged from silhouettes1

Flickering Distortions.

You ripped it up,

tore at the threads and

let them tangle.

Ribbons upon ribbons

distorted sounds and

voices floating on helium

gone

just with a flick of your wrists. 

Dismissed.

And now there is just a myth

a fabled tale

a legend 

without the glory

Just a fading truth.

Then no way to prove at all

if this deja vu

is a recollection or dream. 

(Source: antusli)

Reblogged from yeahwriters

(Source: donniedarkos)

houxvert:

#Vancouver 📖 (at Vancouver Public Library)

Reblogged from everythingly

houxvert:

#Vancouver 📖 (at Vancouver Public Library)

Reblogged from everythingly

(Source: punkmoss)

Reblogged from flailliketheresnotomorrow

spartanrace:

On the eve of the Boston Marathon, we at Spartan Race, along with the country, pay tribute to all the victims and survivors of last year’s attack.
Pictured are athletes and citizens who lived through the events and won’t let tragedy grind them to a halt. This series shot by Robert X. Fogerty for Dear World captures the resilience of those affected that can’t be dampened. Please visit their site to learn more about these people’s stories and pay tribute. 

Boston is as strong as community as the world has. We are proud to be part of it. On Marathon Monday, we will be there and along with the rest of the world, we will be watching a city recover as one.  

Wish You Were Here
I wish you were sitting here
next to me
like you were yesterday,
leaning backwards to get out of the wind,
eyes following mine
as they darted here and there
in time with spasming hands.
I wish you were here
with that steady gaze that
quiets my heart
and keeps me breathing,
one,
two,
three.
I wish you were here
handing me napkins before I even
register that I need one,
out of your seat before I can blink-
I don’t remember the last time
someone held the door for me.
I wish you were here
lighting up my room at two am
with your words
like it was normal 
for the two of us to be in the same time zone.
Or even normal
that we would exchange more than
one word answers.
I wish you were here
so you could say that you trust me
to my face
because I don’t think I can trust
that you can bear
to give such a thing to me.
Not when I have done
positively nothing to earn it. 

Reblogged from temporarymadnesstemporarygenius

Wish You Were Here

I wish you were sitting here

next to me

like you were yesterday,

leaning backwards to get out of the wind,

eyes following mine

as they darted here and there

in time with spasming hands.

I wish you were here

with that steady gaze that

quiets my heart

and keeps me breathing,

one,

two,

three.

I wish you were here

handing me napkins before I even

register that I need one,

out of your seat before I can blink-

I don’t remember the last time

someone held the door for me.

I wish you were here

lighting up my room at two am

with your words

like it was normal 

for the two of us to be in the same time zone.

Or even normal

that we would exchange more than

one word answers.

I wish you were here

so you could say that you trust me

to my face

because I don’t think I can trust

that you can bear

to give such a thing to me.

Not when I have done

positively nothing to earn it. 

Minutes to the Hour.
"Stay up with me," she whispers.
It’s one-oh-two in the morning after what might have been the hottest day of the year. The sun has been down for a good three hours and forty-three minutes- he’d watched it set on the other side of the water, glowing like the yolk of a soft boiled brown egg, before sliding behind the crooked outline of the mountains they had grown up looking to for direction. They’d always said they would see them up close together when they grew up. Now she would be, but it would be without him. Her car would be leaving to take her through their great expanse, crossing over the edge of their self-proclaimed kingdom in five hours and fifty-eight minutes. 
Two hours and six minutes ago, he had stood on her front porch, letting her lace her fingers through his this way and that as she fumbled with her words for the only time he could remember since he’d kissed her that first time.
"I-" she’d begin, then bite her lip.
She bounced on the balls of her feet, rocking onto her toes then back again, fingers squeezing his. The rings on her fingers cut into his knuckles, but he didn’t care.
"Hey," he said softly, and the rough rasp of his voice made her look him in the eye. 
The colours in her irises were washed in shadow, but they were bright. Maybe even glimmering a little.
"This isn’t goodbye."
He’d nodded at that, and she reminded him how well they fit together, the way her head fit in the crook of his shoulder and how his arms settled against the slope of her back.
He’d walked away then, having forgone his car this morning on her insistence- "Walking takes more time," she’d said over the phone. "That’s more time we have."- feeling her eyes on his back from her two-storey window.
"Stay up with me," she whispers. 
It’s one-oh-three in the morning and she’s standing in his driveway wearing the same apple green sundress from the beach, still dusty from the sand, an old cardigan a size too big draped over her shoulders.
He’s lucky he remembered to close the door when he first stepped out because the minute he closes the distance between their hands they’re gone without a second glance.
They ride the streetcars up and down the bright downtown streets until the system shuts down. They camp out in a late night waffle house until they close for the night too and there’s nowhere left to be except to watch the sky get muffled by the dark, then brighter and tinged with pink. She talks through it all, revisiting how he’d tripped over himself asking her out after the Famous Rain Rescue, their first date, and all the little things in between. It amazes him how many inconsequential days stack up into what feels like his entire life. 
He is the audience he knows she needs, laughing in all the right places, offering little details she forgets and blushing when she pokes fun. He keeps quiet because he knows that she needs to talk, needs to prove to herself that even when she’s not around, the we and the us will still exist, immortalized in these recollections that spill from her lips. But mostly, it’s because he wants to watch the way her eyes light up and her eyebrows lift as her hands narrowly miss his face as they punctuate her sentences. He wants to drink in her voice for as long as he can have it. 
"I want you to have this just so Scott can make fun of you for getting caught up in the biggest cliche ever," she says when they’re turning onto her street. 
She fumbles with the twine wrapped around her wrist, the one she’s had on since she unwrapped their first anniversary gifts, and threads one of her rings through. The metal is warm against his chest. 
"Scott’s just jealous," he says. 
They laugh together, waking the birds overhead into song. The air is crisp from the new day, the clouds crowding together. 
Her dad is already in the driveway, having already loaded her car. He waves and goes inside, leaving the front door open.
"Five minutes," she promises his retreating back.
They don’t say anything for the five minutes and it’s okay. They’ll be okay, he thinks as she ruffles his hair and he pecks her on the cheek. It’s automatic and familiar and he might regret not tasting her lips one more time before she goes, but now it’s what feels right.
Her father walks over and their five minutes are up. He receives a clap on the shoulder and a final nod before the man climbs into the driver’s seat. 
His hands are cold as her fingers tug away. 
The engine rolls over, the passenger door slams and then she’s watching him through the rearview mirror as they pull out of the driveway. He doesn’t blink.
It’s seven-oh-four in the morning and it looks as if it’s going to rain. 

Reblogged from temporarymadnesstemporarygenius

Minutes to the Hour.

"Stay up with me," she whispers.

It’s one-oh-two in the morning after what might have been the hottest day of the year. The sun has been down for a good three hours and forty-three minutes- he’d watched it set on the other side of the water, glowing like the yolk of a soft boiled brown egg, before sliding behind the crooked outline of the mountains they had grown up looking to for direction. They’d always said they would see them up close together when they grew up. Now she would be, but it would be without him. Her car would be leaving to take her through their great expanse, crossing over the edge of their self-proclaimed kingdom in five hours and fifty-eight minutes. 

Two hours and six minutes ago, he had stood on her front porch, letting her lace her fingers through his this way and that as she fumbled with her words for the only time he could remember since he’d kissed her that first time.

"I-" she’d begin, then bite her lip.

She bounced on the balls of her feet, rocking onto her toes then back again, fingers squeezing his. The rings on her fingers cut into his knuckles, but he didn’t care.

"Hey," he said softly, and the rough rasp of his voice made her look him in the eye. 

The colours in her irises were washed in shadow, but they were bright. Maybe even glimmering a little.

"This isn’t goodbye."

He’d nodded at that, and she reminded him how well they fit together, the way her head fit in the crook of his shoulder and how his arms settled against the slope of her back.

He’d walked away then, having forgone his car this morning on her insistence- "Walking takes more time," she’d said over the phone. "That’s more time we have."- feeling her eyes on his back from her two-storey window.

"Stay up with me," she whispers. 

It’s one-oh-three in the morning and she’s standing in his driveway wearing the same apple green sundress from the beach, still dusty from the sand, an old cardigan a size too big draped over her shoulders.

He’s lucky he remembered to close the door when he first stepped out because the minute he closes the distance between their hands they’re gone without a second glance.

They ride the streetcars up and down the bright downtown streets until the system shuts down. They camp out in a late night waffle house until they close for the night too and there’s nowhere left to be except to watch the sky get muffled by the dark, then brighter and tinged with pink. She talks through it all, revisiting how he’d tripped over himself asking her out after the Famous Rain Rescue, their first date, and all the little things in between. It amazes him how many inconsequential days stack up into what feels like his entire life. 

He is the audience he knows she needs, laughing in all the right places, offering little details she forgets and blushing when she pokes fun. He keeps quiet because he knows that she needs to talk, needs to prove to herself that even when she’s not around, the we and the us will still exist, immortalized in these recollections that spill from her lips. But mostly, it’s because he wants to watch the way her eyes light up and her eyebrows lift as her hands narrowly miss his face as they punctuate her sentences. He wants to drink in her voice for as long as he can have it. 

"I want you to have this just so Scott can make fun of you for getting caught up in the biggest cliche ever," she says when they’re turning onto her street. 

She fumbles with the twine wrapped around her wrist, the one she’s had on since she unwrapped their first anniversary gifts, and threads one of her rings through. The metal is warm against his chest. 

"Scott’s just jealous," he says. 

They laugh together, waking the birds overhead into song. The air is crisp from the new day, the clouds crowding together. 

Her dad is already in the driveway, having already loaded her car. He waves and goes inside, leaving the front door open.

"Five minutes," she promises his retreating back.

They don’t say anything for the five minutes and it’s okay. They’ll be okay, he thinks as she ruffles his hair and he pecks her on the cheek. It’s automatic and familiar and he might regret not tasting her lips one more time before she goes, but now it’s what feels right.

Her father walks over and their five minutes are up. He receives a clap on the shoulder and a final nod before the man climbs into the driver’s seat. 

His hands are cold as her fingers tug away. 

The engine rolls over, the passenger door slams and then she’s watching him through the rearview mirror as they pull out of the driveway. He doesn’t blink.

It’s seven-oh-four in the morning and it looks as if it’s going to rain. 

"I’m not going to tell you how I write a plot because everyone does it differently, and your own way is best for you.

But I will say something about the ending of a novel. I find that very often, at the ending of a novel, the writer (me, or you) will use a verb like ‘realized’, or ‘understood’, or ‘knew’, or ‘found’. It’s the job of the protagonist to accomplish all of those things.

And it’s the job of the writer to show the reader how it happened, by choosing just the right words."

Reblogged from lettersandlight

Lois Lowry, on writing towards an ending. (via lettersandlight)

5. Small World.
What are the odds
that the two of you will meet
on a vehicle that knows no time
other than the crawl
of grubby metal cars,
where the hours of the ever moving outside world
don’t exist.
How is it that you will get on the right car,
the same one he will
six stops later,
so you can call out his name
and he will look startled
but not at all surprised.
What are the chances 
that the seat next to you
is empty
and he slides in
like this is the most normal thing in the world
that your lives,
spinning on their own time axes,
quite possibly in opposite directions
or parallel trajectories,
line up so nicely,
overlapping through a series of impossible coincidences.
Yet you act as if this is no miracle,
with no need for celebration. 

Reblogged from temporarymadnesstemporarygenius

5. Small World.

What are the odds

that the two of you will meet

on a vehicle that knows no time

other than the crawl

of grubby metal cars,

where the hours of the ever moving outside world

don’t exist.

How is it that you will get on the right car,

the same one he will

six stops later,

so you can call out his name

and he will look startled

but not at all surprised.

What are the chances 

that the seat next to you

is empty

and he slides in

like this is the most normal thing in the world

that your lives,

spinning on their own time axes,

quite possibly in opposite directions

or parallel trajectories,

line up so nicely,

overlapping through a series of impossible coincidences.

Yet you act as if this is no miracle,

with no need for celebration. 

Atlas Telamon

Reblogged from nattrozanska

nattrozanska:

I don’t know the weight of your burden

I don’t know if it’s worse than my own

If it’s heavier than that I struggled with

When you helped me drown it

In vodka and smoke and art

I’ll send you all of these things

And more

If that’s what your burden needs

I’ll send you days from my life

When…

This always happens when I’m supposed to be studying.

Not Vancouver.
It hasn’t rained 
in what feels like forever.
My umbrella is just dead weight
that I carry on my back-
I am too sentimental
to put it away or leave it behind
because I am from the land of the
Wet Coast:
where the skies are perpetually grey. 

Reblogged from temporarymadnesstemporarygenius

Not Vancouver.

It hasn’t rained 

in what feels like forever.

My umbrella is just dead weight

that I carry on my back-

I am too sentimental

to put it away or leave it behind

because I am from the land of the

Wet Coast:

where the skies are perpetually grey. 

(Source: nonconcept)

Reblogged from nostal-gia

nosenuzzling:

If you don’t think soul mates exist after watching this I don’t even know what to say to you.

And what I love about it is how perfectly they match up, how much their lives connect and overlap, how much they love each other, but they still only think of each other as friends. I think that’s such an amazing kind of relationship. Non romantic soul mates are just beautiful.