The Way Ivan Aivazovsky Looks At The Sea…i Think…i Think That’s What Love Looks Like.

I never before felt this ache in my chest

when the lover on screen was found broken and dead.

But now

it's you. And it's me

in the story.

And when looking for death, there's no need to hurry.

My heart blocks my throat

I don't know what to do

Now the survivor is me

and the dead one is you.

Alphabet of pretty words

Ambivalent, Brine, Crone, Delinquent, Ever, Fervent, Gallant, Hollow, Iridescent, Jagged, Kalimba, Loom, Mosaic, Null, Opal, Petrichor, Quasi, Rescind, Solve, Timber, Undulate, Verdant, Wind, Xylitol, Yearn, Zonal

Who's your top comfort character right now?

I've been rewatching the original star wars trilogy, so right now, Luke Skywalker ❤️😍🥰

Death Anxiety, or Memento Mori

Is this not all our lives? We spend this moment in the sunlight being afraid, and trying not to be, and trying to make up for the fear when it never leaves. I scramble, try to scratch my name in the Earth before She takes me back. Remember, remember. One day, my name will be spoken for the last time. If I am lucky, it will be by someone who never knew me. ‘Til then, I know what will happen when I die. The ones who loved me will miss me. They will speak my name. Tears will wet their eyes as they do, and some will blink them away like acid rain. I know. Silently they will scream, and rasp against the ache in their throat and the pit in their gut. No matter how ready the dead were to die. No platitudes will dull the scraping of our souls into raw piles of nerves. Nor should it. Remember, remember. Cry. Cry past the ache in your throat. Knees in the dirt; face in the sun and remember. Let your body shake. Let the hurt flow past the scars in your soul. Let it sting. Hold fast to the Earth, lest the grief swallow you whole. Anchored while you weather the storm. And when you emerge, sail on - and ever remember your death.

listen, the silhouette of a person is more human than AI will ever be. can you hear me? you are a body, the soul is nothing without the body, there is no consciousness without time and space, and in the computer exists neither. is this thing on?

There is no I.

am i the central nervous system? the brain, the skin, the eye? the microbiome in my gut, or stardust in the sky?

the soul (what soul?), the heart, the breath, the hormones in my blood? the shadows splashed on Plato's wall, the people that I love?

the clothes on my back, the name on ID, the carbon in my bones? the air i breathe unconsciously, the place that i call home?

or am i just the nowhere man, the woman so alone? i am the dreamer of the dream, the - I - in i don't know

alexander heir

Joyous tears, the river of progress, the trail ever on to freedom, the themes, the motifs, you get it.

The mile-long rainbow flag being carried down First Avenue in New York City.

AIMEE WAI

hey man I found a piece of your soul stuck in the text messages of old friends you don’t speak to anymore. do you want it back

all of the sudden you’re twenty-nine, standing on the sidewalk barefoot before bed, and the crickets sound just like they did when you were seventeen, sleepless with the windows open. when you remember sadness ran through your body like a fever. nights you were so familiar with the dark—the kind you watched break into daylight around 5, and the kind of restless sinking that never quieted. you remember thinking long and hard through those unceasing nights, in the hidden journals written in your young handwriting, that you’d never live past 18. whether a goal or a prophecy, you weren’t sure, but something felt definite that this grief would be the thing to pull you under, if only hoping a small peace would follow.

the sidewalk is rough, but still warm under your feet. it’s been so long since you’ve thought about this; somehow both twelve years and a lifetime ago. the dog finishes sniffing around the trees and bounds back to you, a happy familiarity once he catches your eye. you’ll both go upstairs to the room you love and fall asleep, in the house you love and share with your best friend. tomorrow, you’ll spend the day laughing, fingers intertwined with your partner, in a loving relationship you’d have never imagined possible.

twelve years after. how easily you saw it over, and what friendships, trips and cross-country moves, published books, new talents, heartaches and bad hair cuts, gardens, and long indulgent breakfasts you’ve accomplished since. you forgot there was a time you couldn’t see yourself alive past eighteen. now, you can’t picture ever wanting to leave this.