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Happy Birthday, My Son by Soulja Boy, Uncle Iroh.
via spiderjewel.
(Source: vondell-swain)
She said,
“write me a love poem,”
so I sat down and
tapped my pen against the typewriter keys
I wrote to her, “you are a trophy sword,
taken from foul hands
placed on the mantle of my finest house,
yet
all you do is cut,
you’re the reverb on my bass,
pedal,
I don’t know guitars that well,
you are as beautiful like all the things
they put in emperor’s garden,
just as fragile
with your wandering ways,
like a roe in a stream
with drops of eternity wet on her muzzle,
I think I want to see other people”
It’s a loveseat, lettuce. A loveseat is so many things - a place for two, a home for one, a metaphor -
Miss? Can I help you? Oh, no, we’re not using that chair. Go ahead. No, really.
What was I saying? Right. Humans love liminal places, the places in between things - where one thing meets another. Beaches, skyscrapers, et cetera, et cetera - and that’s where we come in. Being so close, and yet so far; that’s where the real beauty is. Getting there? Not worth it. Complete ignorance, absolute separation? None of the heartbreak, none of the beauty. It is in the almost that the joy of love thrives. It is in the never, but maybe that we begin to dream, and in the dreams we become alive. Success - a completion - is death. Things will come to a natural end - even the universe has as unwavering a terminus as the following full stop. But somewhere between the nothing before life and the nothing after it is an everything, and I want that everything with you.
Check, please?
- chels:if you were a boy, our relationship would be even fucking weirder
It wasn’t that she cared one way or the other about seeing that poor damned psycho, but shit, she hated to look foolish in front of waiters. Holding a table for half an hour right in the middle of the lunchtime crowd—”I’m waiting for somebody.”—”I’m sorry, I’m waiting for somebody.”—and so nobody comes and nobody comes, and so finally she had to order and shove the stuff down in a big rush, and so now she’d have heartburn. On top of pique, umbrage, and ennui. Oh, the French diseases of the soul.
-Ursula LeGuin, The Lathe of Heaven
"that's not fair"
- brian:why does my body hate me
- chels:why do I hate my body
- brian:I love your body if it makes you feel any better
- chels:why do I hate you
"Cento" Copyright © Andrew Brinker 2011.
