your tears can salt someone's earth or spice a gently prepared meal. depends on you. how did you grow to be who you are? do you need to reopen the wound to bleed out the infection or do you need to grow a scab to heal?
you can do anything if someone tells you you can’t.
petting stray cats that other people sneer at is punk rock and the kindest act of rebellion
It gets lonely, being human. Not because you can't find a soul to lie beside you at night; because you never know if their soul is searching at all, and if you want to be found.
moami
The stories you read change you once, but the stories you have written, those you write here and now, the others you will write one day, they change you at every crossroad. Our words will guide us. They already do.
And deep down, you know it as surely and certainly as the moon orbit the planet that brought you into existence:
You are desperate to learn. You'd do anything to understand. There's no path you wouldn't walk, no ocean you wouldn't cross to study the whispers of flaring energy between stars or the growl-told stories of evolution shining from the eyes of an apex predator.
Everything inside you screams for another glimpse inside the universe. Through the ribcage, behind matter and light, you yearn for an explanation of it all.
So be desperate. Be stunned. Stand in awe and full of questions so that you always find a spark of curiosity even when the world tries to fill you with darkness.
You're an explorer.
You're here to learn.
to you. to her. to him. to anyone who's afraid of the dark tonight.
not being beautiful is a relief. no 'so pretty' by family or friends, no 'you're so gorgeous' by strangers or lovestruck acquaintances. nothing. I am nothing. with a face and body so unremarkable, so average that neither breath is taken away nor lips pull up in disgust, so utterly ignored after one glance of recognition, I am invisible. I am not there. until they are introduced to my mind, I am a blank slate. I am nobody. when I speak, I become. when I create, I exist. when my shell is ignored and my ideas materialise into language, sound, ink, only then am I alive. I have no beauty. I have a mind.
Don't be scared that you'll have nothing left. You know, child, the universe used to have nothing and it disliked that so very much that it decided to exist. And to make sure that nothing would ever be nothing again, it said: Above all, there will always be something left.
Sure winter will pass someday. But in the meantime, I'd rather learn to bend the snow and its storms than sit and wait for summer.
And the season shall be yours to shape.
And he knew that he was loved
When this one didn't try to make him adore this one more than anything, more than his own breath and the earth beneath his feet
But instead
Took his hand and asked him about the rainforest of his mind
Put this one's lips on his shoulder and begged to learn about the night sky of his blood
Whispered a plea and wished to dead gods for him to see the twitch of his own muscles that could bear a roar of war-storms underneath
Instead of asking to be loved
This one leaned against him and spoke: I want to know how you love yourself
And when he could only answer that he had forgotten
This one watched, silent, just to say: May I stay and see how you remember yourself?
He thought about it, quiet, in the dark, and said: Yes. And then we can love me together, and you too, just as much.
Moami