“My drawing was not a picture of a hat. It was a picture of a boa constrictor digesting an elephant.”
When I was a child ‘Le Petit Prince’ was my favorite book. Once I made my mom go to the library with me, so I could read it again. While we were driving home I was reading the biography included in the book and I found out that Antoine De Saint-Exupéry died in WWII. I cried the entire ride home. I thought it so unfair that such a beautiful person died in such an awful way, but I guess a lot of good people die at the hands of bad people. At least Antoine De Saint-Exupéry lives on through the little prince.
(Source: shetakesmymoney.blogspot.fr , via coffeekaling)
1:18 am • 29 July 2014 • 90,260 notes
acknowledging the things I’ve been numbing myself to / ugly-crying in loud, heavy, heaving sobs / reminding myself how important it is to have good friends and to keep them around, you have to make an effort but you’re lucky that some people are good enough to do it for you.
12:53 am • 29 July 2014 • 2 notes
you can never know anyone as completely as you want.
but that’s okay, love is better.
12:49 am • 29 July 2014 • 2 notes
feeling the need to leave, to go somewhere quiet, to float on my back in a lake and climb a mountain and take pictures for no purpose other than to have them for myself and to remember, to drive around aimlessly, to be overwhelmed by beautiful things and not know why
12:45 pm • 27 July 2014 • 3 notes
Jordan Tiberio. Lacuna, 2013-2014. Double exposure on medium format.
October, 2013, I used to fall asleep to the melancholy lullabies of your memory each night. Tossing and turning I’d hope the thoughts of you would seep out of my ears if I moved with enough force, but my attempts always failed. You see, when you were mine, and as your fingers would travel along the landscape of my limbs, seeds were planted within my bones. Your love would arrive in the form of a storm, and I was always without my umbrella. I remember feeling the rosebuds cracking through my marrow; my skin flushing the crimson color of their newborn petals. Their roots rejoiced to the nurturing of your lips as they danced across my flesh. But only a year after you planted your garden, a drought abruptly roared over my plains. Those once luscious flower beds on my bones have now been long wilted, for my heart is void of the kind of love it desires the most.
Your voice was an octave equal to the song of the birds in the early morning, waking up the Earth. And it was not until I was no longer awoken by it, and I forgot its sweet melody, that I realized heartbreak does indeed fade away. At some point my memories of you started to become diluted, some of them possibly existing as figments of my own imagination, never having existed in the first place. And even if I wish not to admit it, I’d fantasize about your next relationship. What if you loved them more? What if you forgot about me? It is hard for one to imagine a love with anyone but their ex-lover, so we scoff at how they seem so unaffected by the sadness they’ve inflicted on our hearts. But experiencing these overwhelming daydreams only lead me to the same realization that forgetting the sound of your voice did. One day I will love someone new just as you will. And maybe his hands will plant a new flower all of his own in the bones you have left behind.
Artifacts of you will still resurface when the future farmers of your old land harrow the soil, and when they do I will dust them off and position them proudly on my mantle. Because it is okay to hold onto distant times. I will never apologize for the days I spend dreaming, or the evenings I bathe in nostalgia. I refuse to let go of the memory of how your eyes were the colors of emeralds I wish I could wear around my neck. And I may never cease reliving the ecstasy that was once so plentiful because I can’t just let you fade away. I loved you first. These are my memories— only I can control their fate— and they are what will make me feel alive. No matter where you are, you will always be with me, and although we may no longer be in love, I still love you.
But while I’m here I must not deprive myself of joy, for we’ll all become just impressions in the bed sheets one day.
10:09 pm • 23 July 2014 • 2,139 notes
Wait! They don’t love you like I love you
Wait! They don’t love you like I love you
(Source: mysongof-theday, via samdesantis)
9:58 pm • 23 July 2014 • 80,955 notes