eloquence682

[eloquence682]

I am waiting for the flowers to open.

I wonder about mountains and lakes.

I want for all the people to live happily.

I worry that what I say will not be heard.

I am waiting for the flowers to open.

I understand everything; I know people.

I say, God doesn't exist, but if he were, he has done a poor job.

I dream about peace and quiet.

I am waiting for the flowers to open.

[eloquence682]

i think there’s actually nothing better than being randomly told “I love you” after doing something characteristically stupid. Like what do you mean I’m a lovable person and I just did something silly and you thought “of course you would do that. I love you.”. No better feeling

[eloquence682]

so hard not to become the most annoying person on earth if you're a little excitable and just learned a little about a topic literally no one around you has any interest in

[eloquence682]

I never notice how dirty the floors are until I’m on my knees crying

[eloquence682]

Each of us, at some point or another, have stared down the monster in the mirror. We look beyond the skin and the guts—look through them—and size up the very bones that hold us up. Who built this skeleton? Who is its creator?

Because surely I was not a mere accident? Surely, somewhere, someone planned this. Planned me.

But what if we’re asking the wrong question? Perhaps, rather than who am I, the question is actually, what will I burn for?

What we yearn for is a life that will break the bones in the mirror. A life that will snap them in half—grind them into dust—and rebuild them into something better. Something blinding. We want to fall into the final sleep knowing that we burned.

Burned with love—burned with pity and hate and everything in between. We want to burn for things both small and large, meaningful and meaningless. We want to smile at the dawn and then again in the wake of the dying sun.

We want to burn through life, taking a bit of the universe down with us and using it to scorch our names across the earth. Burn, burn, burn.

Because maybe then even the stars will see us.

[eloquence682]

“Wherever you are, be all there.”

— Jim Elliot

[eloquence682]

There’s something cosmically beautiful about bookbinding fanfiction. Not the bookbinding of fanfiction for monetary gain (which is undoubtedly morally wrong) but rather bookbinding as a gift for someone you love. Or simply bookbinding for the sake of having the story in a tangible form. After all, doesn’t it deserve a place on your bookshelf, too?

But that isn’t the beautiful part. It is this: the melding of something new with something as old as language itself. Fanfiction (at least compared with bookbinding) is a strikingly new phenomenon. Modern fanfiction has only been around for a few generations. Bookbinding, on the other hand? It can be traced back to 2nd century India. It’s a dying art — one that’s been reborn in order to immortalize freely written words.

Even better: the scribes in India who first invented the process of bookbinding used it to create religious texts. In a way, aren’t we doing the same? Fanfiction isn’t a religion, of course, but if you love a story enough to bind it, isn’t that a form of reverence in itself? Isn’t it holy?

Yes. You make it so. The needle and the thread, the newly creased paper, the hardly dried ink … your fingers consecrate it. And as you slip the book onto the shelf, you make it a temple.

And isn’t that just lovely?

[eloquence682]

Gandalf: So I’ve developed an elaborate plan to save middle earth from darkness

Elrond: does it-

Gandalf: it involves hobbits again yeah

[eloquence682]

My mother always asks me why I struggle to ask others for help. Why I would rather free-climb my own mountain than ask someone to hand me a rope. But how I could I? How could I, when I am but one small mind in a world of a billions? I am smart, but not especially so. I can be kind, but can’t everyone else, too? I am reckless, but in all the wrong ways. I put my foot in my mouth—speak before thinking and then question a hundred times the words now spoken into the folds of collective consciousness. I am not special. Not when there are others—bigger than me, smarter than me … holier than me.

How could I be worthy of help under the shadow of everyone else? Each of us are climbing our own mountains. Wind screaming, cold-knuckled grips on sheer rock faces. One slip, one wrong step, and …. well, how could I ever ask someone to let go—even for just a moment—to assure that I make it to the top?