Esperanza Spalding (via likeafieldmouse)
Mary Oliver, from “In Blackwater Woods” (via the-final-sentence)
When I see you face to face, will I feel as if a stranger? Will I feel the familiar pull of our embrace? Will I feel betrayal? Animosity? Indifference? Isn’t it funny to you, that after all our pain, our struggles, our fights, you will end up here afterall. And you’ll start going through those exact motions, only with her.
It’s not funny at all, actually.
It’s an unnecessary twist.
Never gets old…. I feel….
Who snuck into my room to draw pictures of me
I chose to be a red head yesterday!
I think that some people call it by a sacred name, cradle, treasure, and let it flourish underneath their care. They thrive in its existence. Instead, I fear it. I think love is, in most forms, such a strong likeness to fear that I cannot separate the two. I cannot say to love, ‘Consume me,’ without a sickly angst crawling up my spine. I feel weak when I love, but when I suppress the act, this choice, to love, I fear the echo of the chamber within me. I wonder if others empathize with this strange pattern. It so often pleads with me, pulling me up and dragging me back under. Into kindness, into resistance. Into trust, into caution. Closer to you, and further away. Like a game of tug of war, the weighing heave of each side. Hovering in the middle, my bones begin to ache.
We all carry these things inside that no one else can see.
They hold us down like anchors. They drown us out at sea.
I Wrote This For You