petting stray cats that other people sneer at is punk rock and the kindest act of rebellion
Tag: prose
It’s autumn.
The leaves aren’t the only thing that’s going to change.
Dream.
Dream, dream, dream.
Hold onto hope until you burst with it.
Hold on. Hold. On.
There is no path. From here on out, it’s the unknown. It’s your new world.
What’s beyond? Who are you?
things might not always be okay but boston’s more than a feeling is playing and somewhere a cat is purring and you live in the same timeline as your best friend who sometimes brags to other people about the cool things their best friend does
It’s September, it’s my birth month, and I like to think that humans celebrate the anniversary of their existence on earth not because being born is a monumental feat but because as humans, we can always rebirth ourselves. If we feel we must be born again, then we will bear it all.
September won’t change your soul. You will change your own soul, and she will stand behind you, touching her cold-wind-and-whispers fingers to the small of your back, speaking your true name.
I’m convinced that the only reason cats can’t fly is because they don’t want to. They’re close enough anyways with their flexibility and zero fall damage and their strange combo of can climb anything, can stick to anything, can fit into anything. If cats really wanted to fly, they’d find a way, and I am both terrified and curious to see how they’d do it.
the stars know what we do but still watch us
if you find bones in the forest, sit a bit and listen. they are old and have some good stories to tell. maybe they’ll teach you a spell or two, or explain where the water on our planet came from.
if you find bones by the ocean, run. don’t look back. run, faster, faster. the sea may love you but there are nights where she knows neither mercy nor science, and the bones warn you only once.
I accidentally deleted my own post so I hereby reblog it back to my blog. Proceed. Nothing to see here, especially not the bones that appeared in my flat corridor after the deletion and now have begun growing larger.
When they called Latin a dead language, it was possibly the single most influential mistake ever made in the history of translation. Because – dead? Oh no.
Those that speak it, those few in today’s fast and worried times that still listen to the old words, that can decipher sentences and myths, they know. They felt something dark and old seep into their bones.
Not dead. A beginner’s mistake, really. And isn’t undead, as it should have been called if everyone had done their job properly, just another word for immortal – no matter if it refers to paper or flesh?
Moami 