I Turn To Ares.

War on humanity in an ice cream franchise shop

Cloudy day, windy

Your boss' makin a loss

But I told you I'd never eaten this kind of ice cream before

And now I'm back for a second helping

First day it was sunny and I was in a good mood

Today I got no such excuse

The word "smile" is overused by corporate and music that's gentrification misspelled

So I'll commit the greatest rebellion of the industry:

You just looked at me.

Desperate claws in a sunny smile I've trained to be a good customer to the service

I ask you if I should take a cup or cone, your opinion

Well, it's my choice

But you can give me a little more in a cup.

I laugh too loud. Answer too loud. You're making money, I'm spending money.

'i hope to see you again, miss.'

That's not part of the script.

They don't say miss here.

“the ending is always the same”

war of the foxes - richard silken / waterloo - ABBA / euripides’ medea - the little theatre / anne carson / the three fates - luca cambiaso / the oresteia - aeschylus / road to hell II - hadestown / when i met you - mira lightner / andersen’s fairy tale anthology

I had to read this one book for school and after I'd finished I sat down and just. Seethed. I'd just spent multiple hours reading when I didn't want to. I wrote essays that weren't 30% as heartfelt as the average Tumblr post about how excited we are about a new episode of smth. Because I was being judged on it and criticised on it and why would I be vulnerable.

It was a good book. That's what made me so angry. It was a good book and I'd have enjoyed it if it weren't eternally connected to an unfair German teacher and tense hours reading as fast as I could now.

"It's okay if you don't want to read the classics" okay but you should try. Books hit different when you're not being forced to read them.

the coward's way out

if the fates conspire that only one of us may live, then lover, it must be you.

i will save you the grand speeches about how you are good and deserving. you are. you are. you are, but in the end, that is not the reason why.

the world may call me brave or strong or selfless but lover, you know the truth don't you?

in the end, i am only more afraid of facing a world without you than i am of facing death of facing anything.

in the end, i am only too weak to be the one left behind to pick up the pieces of a broken life a broken promise a broken heart and keep on bleeding when the blood in your heart is already dry.

i'm sorry. i'm sorry. but will you let me be selfish one last time?

can i ask you to live for me? to face what i feared most so that i might find peace in my eternal sleep with a smile upon my face?

if it is cruel of me to ask, then i beg you to forgive me. or curse my name and hate me if you must, only live.

only live, my lover so that my life and my death and all that came in between may mean something. may mean everything.

“I shall never forget the occasion when I was visiting a school as a writer and the whole place suddenly fell into an uproar because the school tomboy - a most splendid Britomart of a girl - had beaten up the school bully. Everything stopped in the staffroom while the teachers debated what to do. They wanted to give the tomboy a prize, but decided reluctantly that they had better punish her and the bully too. They knew that if, as a child, you do pluck up courage to hit the bully, it is an act of true heroism - as great as that of Beowulf in his old age. I remember passing the tomboy, sitting in her special place of punishment opposite the bully. She was blazing with her deed, as if she had actually been touched by a god. And I thought that this confirmed all my theories: a child in her position is open to any heroic myth I care to use; she is inward with folktales; she would feel the force of any magical or divine intervention.”

— Diana Wynne Jones (via joeyvermeil)

I had a vision

Transfiguration's gonna come for me at last And I will burn hotter than the sun

When will the last time I ever mourn us be?

Will it be a random Tuesday when my grief lets me go? Or will I always find a path back to our bed where you let the warmth wither leaving me in the cold all alone?

The last time I think of you might not be some profound longing thought. I might just find myself wondering if that guitar of yours is finally playing some happier chords.

The grief will leave but, that age old adage rings true - grief lives with you, but sometimes it gives you reprieve by simply stepping into the other room.

In that reprieve, the truth hits hard like lightning cracking through a tree, that I’m finally realising I am only mourning the romanticised idea I made us out to be.

I’ll be the bride in all black - t.k.o

not people thinking they can escape heartache. avoiding it at all cost is itself a form of it

it is january 2nd and the sun rises a little lighter over a horizon no longer crowded with the haze of a thousand hopes— under a wide-open sky still young and fresh and new without a thousand staring eyes.

it is january 2nd and the air is a little freer without the sacred weight of the untouched loading every trembling motion, without the lofty need for newness clouding every restless moment like a warm puff of breath in the january cold.

it is january 2nd and i relax like a slow exhale at the end of a long breath held two heartbeats too long— a little tight at the edges but not too much, not yet.

it is january 2nd. the year is still young and i have time.

i have time.