“how dare you” usually either by having nothing left to lose, everything left to win, or someone to prove wrong
Category: Uncategorized
JUST FUCKING LISTEN.
THIS IS HALLOWEEN BUT NOT LIKE YOU KNOW IT
reblog so others can hear it!
Where the hell are the Victorian Goths they should be all over this.
*SMASHES REBLOG BUTTON*
this is some insta-reblog shit, my friends, i’m like 20 seconds in
HELL YES I LOVE THIS
who even has time for slow songs. we’re all catapulting towards death at a cell-decaying speed so turn that tempo to ribosomic vivace and unleash accelerando mania in your mitochondria
If magic was only alive for one month a year, that month would be September. It’s a time beyond what I understand, but I let myself get lost in it every year – because nothing says home like autumn’s gentle whisper of “welcome back”.
so I was on the bus today and just as I got up to press the stop button, something hissed behind me. I’m not talking cat hiss here. the sound that emerged behind my back was a lioness-worthy almost-roar. it was terrifying. I had to know what it was.
and of course I turn around, ready for everything because when I entered the bus, there was definitely nothing and nobody there that would have been capable of making that sound so what even could that be –
an old woman. just an old lady, and she looks at me. I swear I didn’t notice her when I got in. the bus stops. the doors open. I step outside and turn around, and there she is. I have no memory of what she wore or what her face even looked like, except for one thing: her eyes. bright like a young woman looking at me, not an old lady. I am unable to move. she stares at me, and then she says:
“don’t trust the little children.”
the bus doors close. the bus leaves.
I stood there and it took me a good minute to put myself back together. until now, I have no idea what entity I met there, and maybe I read too many books, but I sure as hell will not trust little children or old women any time soon.
and by everything that’s holy and cursed, let me be ugly in peace; because I don’t even owe the world a wish to be beautiful, let alone an attempt to.
And here you are, twenty-one, twenty-three, twenty-sixsevennine, a two before your age and a zero in your mind. Grown, they say, but growing you are. Adult, they warn you, act like it, but you just learned how to become a catastrophe and now you don’t know whether you’re a bonfire, the roar of a hurricane or the sobbing of the sea at night. You’re so painfully young and the world thinks you old over the fear nesting where feathers were supposed to sprout by now. It hurts, love. I know it does. Everything’s so large and ancient and full of years, or it’s younger and glinting with more ferocity already than you think you could ever be. And you feel like your era has passed, mouth purple from biting into the air that is all breath and no answers, but listen. There’s no path. There’s no siren when you stop to reach for the petals of a flower you’ve been looking for since you were a child. There’s no punishment for a pen in your shy fingers and paper that was crafted just to hear your words. There are so many lovers waiting for you, lovers made of flesh and bones or ink or music. There are entire continents of dust waiting to be left in your wake, and it doesn’t care what you’re coming for. It just knows that one day, one day, it gets to rise around your steps. You’re so lonely that it tears you apart, and you’re so painfully young and afraid but love, you are only just growing.
The stars are lovely tonight, don’t you think?
You’ll make it. There’s enough time to come.
Moami 