I Wish It Were Possible To Skip The Beginning Stages Of Friendship And Just Become Best Friends Immediately.

Music asks 6, 22 and 39.

Hello! :)

6. a song whose bridge takes you out

I couldn't find the song in Spotify, so I had to give this one. The atmosphere and the bridge gives the song a different life I think

22. a song that tells a story

Ooo so I think all songs tell their own stories, and each one can be interpreted in hundreds of ways. Since it asks for one song lol I had to choose this one, it tells a tale like one of those Inkheart Trilogies.

39. a song you recommend to the person asking this

I wasn't sure what songs you liked, so I thought I'd choose a poem! But it has been sung beautifully

the night is still young. i can do yoga and use my oil pastels. i can cut another fruit. i can write in my journal. i can make a poem. i can invite the figure outside my window in

“Dreams of a furnace, the warmth of the ember flickering upon the brick wall covered in the scrawls of innocent childhood, heavy clouds spread over the evening fading away into twilight, the eternal impermanence of the gently touching darkness and light surrounded the townhouse, awaiting the shrill shattering of the heart - held together and wrenched apart - by the forsaken ties of lost loves. will not a shard of glass pierce the trembling heart and end its agony, once and for all? And in the indifference of the glowering sky laid the ruin of kingdoms gone and kingdoms to come. The nymphs of wind care not about your sorrow, the angel of death and the moon kissed and parted last before the beginning of eternity. Run vainly to language and lay your wasted hands and tear stained face upon her breast, and spare nature her indifference.”

Anne Carson, from “The Glass Essay” (Glass, Irony, and God)

im really bad at conversations sorry if ive ever talked to you

“About every individual’s soul there is an unspoken loneliness, you might try and deny it, but it is the very intrinsic nature of the fabric of consciousness. And this void is the one we try and fill with despaired illusions of love and the pretension of not acknowledging it.”

Behind the portraits

It was afternoon, a dark, wet afternoon. And I was sitting at the foot of the large oak wood bed, glaring at Marie Antoinette.

“Let them eat cake”

I glared more.

“I was a queen, and you took away my crown; a wife, and you killed my husband; a mother, and you deprived me of my children. My blood alone remains: take it, but do not make me suffer long.”

I sighed and turned to Sappho, as if to ask her to help me in my predicament. But Sappho wouldn’t speak, she never did. My gaze shifted to the fluttering white curtains which veiled a painting of the Bal des ardents, illuminated by the old fashioned candles on the mantle piece. My frown returned as my eyes fixated themselves on the crockery in the background.

“When?” I questioned.

“January 28, 1398.”

“Joan, the duchess …?”

“The duchess de berri.”

“D’orleans…1407, isn’t it?”

It nodded.

“How?”

“Assasinated.”

“For the throne of the mad king.” I murmured and sank my head into my knees. After a few moments, I threw up my head and exclaimed, “I cannot go on like this anymore, I live as in a nightmare! Freedom I want and Freedom I shall have!”.

“Happiness and freedom begin with a clear understanding of one principle: some things are within our control, and some things are not” The thing quoted.

Despair seized me; I let out a half wild, inarticulate cry and buried my head in my arms as tears drenched the sheaf of parchment in my lap. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw the thing stare at me coldly. “Do you blame me?” I demanded. “Do you think me weak to shed tears like this?” It pursed up its dried, hag like mouth. “Tell me, Do you hold me responsible for all of this?”, I clenched its wrist and asked. It silently shook its head. “No”. I loosened my hold and let go as it gave me a look full of reproach. It shook its head again, “No, I do not place the blame entirely on anyone in this matter, but thou must know that thou hath not played an unimportant part in bringing this about.” “Oh, I know! I know! And that just makes my burden a hundred times more heavier to bear.” I said, as the picture of Andromeda’s anguished face as she watched Cetus ravage the coast of Aethiopia flashed across my eyes.

“Was she very beautiful?” My voice sounded wistful.

“Who?”

“Her. The daughter of Cepheus and Cassiopeia.”

“Yes.” The thing’s eyes lost focus. “Very.” It said.

I rolled the parchments and placed them in a small brass trunk underneath my bed. Marie Antoinette’s picture slipped inside too, but I was past caring.

“Why didn’t hope leave when it could have?” I enquired.

“Zeus willed it.”

“Didn’t Elpis want to leave?”

“Perhaps.”

“I am sure that the only reason the sprite stayed was because pandora shut the jar before it could escape. I wish it had.”

The thing shrugged.

“When do thy leave?”, It asked.

“Midnight.” I replied, trying not to let a suppressed paroxysm of sobs get the better of me.

Night fell, I lingered near Henry V’s portrait, fiddling with the tapestry. I looked out the window and saw the moon emerge from the shadow of a black cloud and throw light upon the vase of white roses upon the windowsill. “The moon looks like a careworn old face.” I remarked, more to myself than anyone else.

I looked about the room with a strange wistfulness as I drew the sheets close. Something seemed to warn me. “But about what?” I wondered. I was woken up at midnight by the thing knocking over the rose vase. “Is it time?” I asked, silently praying that it was not. It nodded. And then there I stood, beneath the elm tree and among the shadows.

Little did I know, that it was the last time I would set eyes upon the elm. I stepped inside the quaint carriage, huddling my trunk closer to me. I felt the chilly wind of the night nip my face. We had not made it ten feet across the old wooden bridge over the chasm, when I heard a sickening creak and felt the bridge collapse under us. The ropes had given way. The carriage toppled over, smashing my trunk open and spilling all of its contents. I plunged into the abyss along with the vehicle. Feeling that I was about to die, I frantically tried to hold onto something before we hit the ground. And what should be the thing my eyes finally beheld at the end of my life but the face of … Marie Antoinette?

"The sky can wait…"

there is something so beautiful about hearing people speak in their first language, their mother tongue. it’s as if you’re hearing them truly speak for the first time and suddenly you see rolling fields, cliffs and mountains, wind running through a forest. every day i wish that i could understand every language of the universe so that it can be more than music to my ears.