SHE IS DOING RATES SO DON’T FORGET TO MESSAGE HER YOUR VOTE NUMBER!
Just some stories.
Please share, but do not plagiarize!
ALL OF THEM ARE ORIGINAL AND WRITTEN BY YOURS TRULY.
(unless credited otherwise)
www.embersofmyexistence.tumblr.com
Please share, but do not plagiarize!
ALL OF THEM ARE ORIGINAL AND WRITTEN BY YOURS TRULY.
(unless credited otherwise)
www.embersofmyexistence.tumblr.com
May 23, 2012
VOTE FOR THIS LOVELY LADY (clas-sic) HERE!!!! She is such an amazing person and she really deserves this! SO GO GO GO!
May 21, 2012
““…some people think the truth is the worst thing that can happen. The truth is not the worst thing that can happen.” -Tony Hoagland I. The first time your heart was torn from your chest, You thought you were dying. You knew you could not live with the empty space. So you replaced your heart with metaphors And set out to create a world where the metaphor was unbreakable. Now look what you’ve done— You can’t breathe so you write. You can’t hurt so you drink rum and pour our pirate chanties. You can’t want revenge so you leave. II. When I see you I have two thoughts: You are the reason The Smith’s wrote songs, And my god, you are beautiful. You are so beautiful Blinking stars go blind. But I can see this is going to get ugly. The metaphors don’t make you feel whole anymore. You sell out your deepest insecurities for a handful of laughs. This life has you wound so tight you make grandfather clocks look relaxed. You hold your body like banks hold money—all locked up. Your shoulders are glass rocks waiting for the next attack. But you’ve got it all wrong. You don’t survive history. History survives you. There is no breakthrough without breakdown. III. If you’re going to break, shatter. No explanations. No limp-legged dog excuses. No messing with this bullet proof vest fury So popular with the cops and the presidents. You’ve got to break like Texas. You’ve got to take the pain from the safety valve of your heart And return it to your fists. Fight your better judgment ‘till you’re sinister again, ‘till your body remembers what it already knows how to do— bend back and manifest grief. Scream torches ‘till you embarrass the enlightened. Please. No more polite conversations with your death wish. Give it something useful to do. Change your life. Cause I can’t stand to see you like this. So blue, my eyes turn green in your presence. Listen—you are so beautiful, Grass pushes through sidewalk cracks just to kiss your feet. IV. Maybe no one ever told you, But the heart IS a metaphor. Yours is growing so strong You’ll have your rhythm back any day now— Loving like rumours spread. Dreaming like lunatic spacemen jump from their suits. Living like you never forgot how.”—
“The First Time,” Mindy Nettifee
May 17, 2012
The Grey Picket Fence
Movies aren’t as long as they used to be, I mean the classical 2 and a half hour long movie just had so much depth, don’t get me wrong there was the beautiful people and a story line, but they felt complete. now a days, the movies are just nothing and the time if essence is lost.
rarely do you ever see something complete. One has to wait still part 2 or even part 4 till they get the whole story. Now don’t get me wrong, Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings they are excellent series, they were meant to be that way, but I recently watched two very predictable and yet incomplete movies. I mean the guy was the most beautiful ever, but I just felt as if everything was filled with holes and the audience constantly had to just assume what happened and move on.
Such things also take away from the realness of the story line. Because people that actually think while watching movies questions the random next scene that pops up on the screen without any transition. They question every single aspect of it.
May 16, 2012
There are times when we wish we feel nothing.
Well I guess it’s finally worked.
I am numb.
My head and heart heavy, but numb.
I feel nothing.
I feel nothing, but anger, frustration and pain.
May 10, 2012
Chapter 7: The Letters and The Stamps
The winters were bitter, there was no warmth in anything. How could anyone be wed in such weather, but that was only the concerns of those who actually cared for the wedding in the first place at all. He just wanted to be wed as soon as possible, before I had any time to change my mind or anything else could go wrong. Men usually never cared much for the aesthetics of a wedding anyway.
My mother was ecstatic. As if she was carrying out another wedding of her own. All the passion and excitement I was supposed to have, she fulfilled the need for them.
I let her, because with all of that I had left, I could only maintain a feeble smile… pretending that things had turned for the better and that I was okay.
I wasn’t… I know that saying “yes” meant that I had given up hope on your return, but thinking that if you ever did, that once in a blue moon, you’d ask me to explain…
So I decided to write to you, the best explanations I had was in my words, not my speech. These letters, they contain everything… stories of how we first met, your compliments, my tears, your promises, and the coming together of this wedding… and his paintings the wait…
I started on the first one… and my mind went blank, the words were no longer there, that were eager to escape before.
So I just wrote to you, “Dear Charlie”, “I’m sorry”, “Goodbye”, “Love Ella.” …folded it up neatly and placed it with in the envelope and added the stamp. I had no address on the top, just your name, and I didn’t put down my address either, it was changing soon, and it’s best you not know that at all.
I went out for a walk that morning, just in a simple cape… I let the cold embrace me, the chills brought me a certain confidence to actually carry this out.
Just a few roads down was the town’s mailbox. I stood there thinking of how silly it was to mail out a letter to an unknown man, with no address and no heavy content… just a few words. It would probably never reach you, of course it would never reach you… but for some comfort of the heart, I pushed the letter through the slot.
I feel those words were enough, not for closure, or to move on, but sending out a signal and hoping for a response…
If you read the letter, and you cared enough for a greater explanation, you’d come find me… and if you are content with what you read… maybe your were just a day dream.
(Maybe my existence was meant to be a lifeless soul)
May 1, 2012
OMG THE ONE ON THE FAR RIGHT…. SO FREAKING ADORABLE. ALL OF THEM ARE… haha
the one on the far left… ahahhaa… ALL OF THEM HAVE THESE UNIQUE PERSONALITIES… hahah.
I want them all, I’ve never wanted anything so bad ever… I’ve never really wanted cats, but this one ….AW MAN!
(Source: amandafiske)
May 1, 2012
April 30, 2012
"
Once there was a shock
that left behind a long, shimmering comet tail.
It keeps us inside. It makes the TV pictures snowy.
It settles in cold drops on the telephone wires.
One can still go slowly on skis in the winter sun
through brush where a few leaves hang on.
They resemble pages torn from old telephone directories.
Names swallowed by the cold.
It is still beautiful to hear the heart beat
but often the shadow seems more real than the body.
The samurai looks insignificant
beside his armor of black dragon scales.
— After a Death, Tomas Tranströmer (via passade)
April 29, 2012
"This is what you tell me: you’re writing a book
about forever. My children are in the pages, their
children’s children. The dog that got hit by the car
but still got three good feet is somewhere in there.
The cat from the comic strip, too. He eats some
spaghetti on page 74, tells me I’m looking
a bit husky on page 86, & can he have that last
meatball? By page 311, my children’s children
are in college, smoking pot from an apple, forgetting
to brush their teeth. I’m alone the most when I close
the book. Keep it open you tell me. On page 94
I think about all that mercury in salmon. At Winn-
Dixie I promise a package of fish sticks that I’ll never
visit a fish farm. Page 299, there I am walking around my
neighborhood, my sideburns graying, my irises the shade
of a used Q-tip. How old am I? There are 437 pages
but I’m too scared to look at the last dozen or so —
can you wake up one morning & forget how she tasted?
20 pages after I sprain my ankle from falling off a ladder
while putting up Christmas lights over the garage, my
daughter gets her braces off, says We can eat the bones
together. I’m putting bbq sauce on ribs, I’m wearing
an apron that says I’m wearing an apron. From pages
270-281, my children’s children bring me lost treasures
they find down by the lake. A tadpole with legs. Two rocks
that feel like flesh. If this were a movie I’d wake up
& realize how I wasted my life in an empty apartment,
how fiction is the quietest way to die. Find me you’d say.
There are too many hours to not be touching. On page
403 I only want to play chess in the park. I have a cane
but I don’t like to use it. Carry me I say to an idea
I once read. You’re there, I think, writing this down."
about forever. My children are in the pages, their
children’s children. The dog that got hit by the car
but still got three good feet is somewhere in there.
The cat from the comic strip, too. He eats some
spaghetti on page 74, tells me I’m looking
a bit husky on page 86, & can he have that last
meatball? By page 311, my children’s children
are in college, smoking pot from an apple, forgetting
to brush their teeth. I’m alone the most when I close
the book. Keep it open you tell me. On page 94
I think about all that mercury in salmon. At Winn-
Dixie I promise a package of fish sticks that I’ll never
visit a fish farm. Page 299, there I am walking around my
neighborhood, my sideburns graying, my irises the shade
of a used Q-tip. How old am I? There are 437 pages
but I’m too scared to look at the last dozen or so —
can you wake up one morning & forget how she tasted?
20 pages after I sprain my ankle from falling off a ladder
while putting up Christmas lights over the garage, my
daughter gets her braces off, says We can eat the bones
together. I’m putting bbq sauce on ribs, I’m wearing
an apron that says I’m wearing an apron. From pages
270-281, my children’s children bring me lost treasures
they find down by the lake. A tadpole with legs. Two rocks
that feel like flesh. If this were a movie I’d wake up
& realize how I wasted my life in an empty apartment,
how fiction is the quietest way to die. Find me you’d say.
There are too many hours to not be touching. On page
403 I only want to play chess in the park. I have a cane
but I don’t like to use it. Carry me I say to an idea
I once read. You’re there, I think, writing this down."
— “Fiction,” Gregory Sherl, from Heavy Petting (via clavicola)
(via embersofmyexistence)
April 29, 2012
"
My sister told me a soul mate is not the person
who makes you the happiest but the one who
makes you feel the most, who conducts your heart
to bang the loudest, who can drag you giggling
with forgiveness from the cellar they locked you in.
It has always been you. You are the first
person I was afraid to sleep next to,
not because of the fear you would leave
in the night but because I didn’t want to wake up
ungracefully. In the morning, I crawled over
your lumbering chest to wash my face and pinch
my cheeks and lay myself out like a still-life
beside you. Your new girlfriend is pretty
like the cover of a cookbook. I have said her name
into the empty belly of my apartment. Forgive me.
When I feel myself falling out of love with you,
I turn the record of your laughter over, reposition
the needle. I dust the dirty living room of your affection.
I have imagined our children. Forgive me. I made up
the best parts of you. Forgive me. When you told me
to look for you on my wedding day, to pause
on the alter for the sound of your voice
before sinking myself into the pond of another
love, forgive me. I mistook it for a promise.
— Sierra DeMulder, “Love, Forgive Me” (via fleurishes)
(via passade)
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