I am the air in the room. I am the mint in the planter in the corner of the room. I am holding my breath. I do not need to breathe. I am numb. I am the girl I was in high school who cut herself to feel, even if the thing I felt was pain. Because she was numb in every other way. Because I had locked up every feeling, because I was taught that vulnerability and sadness and helplessness were unacceptable and I would catch those feelings in a net every night and tamp them down, so that I became the expert fisherman of my emotions. But like mint, they never died. — Mint by Christine Hyung-Oak Lee (via therumpus)
there is literally a species of bird who builds his own art gallery and fills it with flower petals, beetle wings, berries, seeds, etc, all organized into little piles of individual art pieces that he arranges just so to make them as aesthetically appealing as possible. then the lady birds come and walk through it and decide whether or not to be his mate depending on the quality of his aesthetic sense!!!
NYT: What books are you embarrassed not to have read yet?
Hand-tinted footage of roses, c.1925, filmed by Arthur Edward Pillsbury.
(Source: tarassein, via seeszarun)
It was the days of ghosts. Still is. Not the death, but the actual forgetting, even of the death of sexuality and wonderment, of all but those who control and those that which can be controlled. Since an emotion’s an announcement of value, in this society of the death (of values) emotions moved like zombies through humans. —
Kathy Acker, My Mother: Demonology. (via arielia)
need to re-read asap(via braidedhate)