My Tumblr Isn't Even A Blog, It's Just A Hideous Amalgamation Of All My Hyperfixations From The Last

Bruh there's something comforting in knowing that no matter what I do or where I am, some part of me is always back here or back there with those characters and those stories that changed me, sometimes in small ways, sometimes in fundamental ways. And I know it's not real, but it's nice to imagine, to feel, that no matter what's going on with me, somewhere out there teenage boys in armor are chasing things that go bump in the night and two kids are experiencing a love story on the streets of New York and princesses and kings are sleeping underground while a group of friends are becoming family, orange cars are driving the streets, Spiderman is off to school, horses are being raised and raced by another love story on a faraway Celtic isle, and adventures are happening even if I'm not there to see them. But man is my heart out there with them

this is what it means to be human

Everything, Mary Oliver

The Breathing, Denise Levertov

A Prayer by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

The Laughing Heart by Charles Bukowski

Like a Small Café, That’s Love by Mahmoud Darwish (translated by Mohammad Shaheen)

Having a Coke with You by Frank O’Hara

Eating Together by Li-Young Lee

The Orange by Wendy Cope

The Quiet Machine, Ada Limón

To Go Mad, Paruyr Sevak

Our Beautiful Life When It’s Filled with Shrieks by Christopher Citro

Hammond B3 Organ Cistern, Gabrielle Calvocoressi

Peace XVIII, Khalil Gibran

Your Unripe Love, Paruyr Sevak (from “Anthology of Armenian poetry")

Here and Now by Peter Balakian

Ich finde dich (I find you) by Rainer Maria Rilke

The Thing Is by Ellen Bass

One Art by Elizabeth Bishop

Miss you. Would like to take a walk with you. by Gabrielle Calvocoressi

I Want to Write Something So Simply by Mary Oliver

What's Not to Love by Brendan Constantine

Where does such tenderness come from? by Marina Tsvetaeva

You Are Tired (I Think) by E. E. Cummings

Living With the News by W.S.Merwin

What the Living Do by Marie Howe

obsessed with mass market paperbacks. their pleasing rectangular proportions. how they fit badly in a hoodie pocket so you can drag them around everywhere with you like a temporary little buddy. the way they fit in your hand because they're MADE for human hands and not as bookshelf decoration. the way the pages feel when you riffle them gently with your thumb. How pristine and crisp they look when you get them and how creased and folded they look when you're done, even if you try to be nice to them. how that wear is okay, how that's correct actually, because they're made with the philosophy that books aren't meant to be PRETTY, they're meant to be read. that little ripple new ones get on the left side from where you hold them when you're reading, the way the ripple only goes as far as you've read, because u change stories by reading as they are changing you. how you can find thousands of these creased and folded and loved little dudes in every thrift store and used book shop and neighborhood library and you can instantly see the ones that someone carried around in a backpack for weeks or read to pieces or gave up on halfway through because they wear being read like fresh snow wears footprints. I love these poorly made, subpar little rectangles so much. truly the people's books.

someone tell the grandma to put the sword down

This world will never be enough for me. I'll never get to lead an army into battle and drink to our victory. I'm never gonna be the first wanderer to map the skies and lands of an unknown world. But, gods, will I try to. My mind is one of an explorer, a wild soul that cannot be tamed, but can be lost in books, music and poetry. A spirit that is kept alive thanks to the beauty of nature, whose eyes are filled with stars. Such a soul knows no death. I have roamed the Earth since the begging of time, searching for that spark of excitement that will ignite a fire. I have had millenia to adore what I am and what I've conquered and learned, but it will never be enough. I don't want it to be enough. An explorer with no places to go, or no hope to drive them, is dead. Thus, I have given myself to immortality.

gonna start decomposing soon for so many reasons

reblog to decompose

you know you want to

my kindle watching me unload the five books i bought today 👁👄👁

me buying more books because the ebooks i download “don’t count”

all im asking for is a good life. im a simple girl with simple needs. i just want to live in a small cottage or a mansion full of art, it doesn’t matter which. i just want to be surrounded by art. art like the warm scents of wild flowers, the smell of soil, the varying colors of the earth which its flowers bear, and art like the wide fields where i want to run through with my lover hand in hand, like there’s no tomorrow. again, im a simple girl with simple needs, with a need for art.