revolverism

[revolverism]

ur twenties are for seeing how many mistakes u can make in the shortest amount of time possible and getting a cool haircut

[revolverism]

“I will not be another flower picked for my beauty and left to die. I will be wild, difficult to find, and impossible to forget.”

— Erin Van Vuren

[revolverism]

— Darren Shan, from “Cirque du Freak.”

[revolverism]

— Franz Kafka, from “Letters to Felice‎.”

[revolverism]

Woodworking at the End of the World, Ocean Vuong

[revolverism]

this blog is a museum of my heart

[revolverism]

—about god

[revolverism]

Katherine Larson, from Radial Symmetry; “Gardens in Tunisia”

[Text ID: “There are days that walk through me / and I cannot hold them.”]

[revolverism]

people are always like “are you a morning person or a night person” and I’m just like buddy I’m barely even a person

[revolverism]

I AM WORKING ON BEING KINDER WHEN I AM HURT.

the-poetic-boy / paige lewis / safia elhillo / nutnoce / jane rule / carole maso / anne carson, edit by heavensghost

[revolverism]

Do you understand? When I am done telling you these stories, when you’re done listening to these stories, I am no longer I, and you are no longer you. In this afternoon we briefly merged into one. After this, you will always carry a bit of me, and I will always carry a bit of you, even if we both forget this conversation.

—Hao Jingfang, ‘Invisible Planets,’ in Invisible Planets: Contemporary Chinese Science Fiction in Translation, tr. & ed. Ken Liu

[revolverism]

“Almost all of our brokenness can be tracked back to the quantity and quality of the love we have experienced.”

— Dale Partridge (via perfectquote)

[revolverism]

imperfect consistency rather than an all or nothing mentality

[revolverism]

art journal

[revolverism]

Bessel van der Kolk, The Body Keeps the Score

[revolverism]

Bessel van der Kolk, The Body Keeps the Score

[revolverism]

Scheherazade

by Richard Siken

Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake                                       and dress them in warm clothes again.          How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running until they forget that they are horses.                    It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,          it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio,                  how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple                                                              to slice into pieces. Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means          we’re inconsolable.                                Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us. These, our bodies, possessed by light.                                                                 Tell me we’ll never get used to it.