notnocturne

[notnocturne]

we are melodic beings. we live in harmony with this reality. how is it, that our earth is rotating at the exact angle to accommodate our fleshy warmth? the trees sing with greens that only our eyes can appreciate, and breathe with the life-source our lungs reach for?

beneath the soil is flashes of heat and flame, yet it does not dig itself up to the surface. beyond our atmosphere, the stars dance with each other yet bathe in only their gravity. we live beside one another, watching the embrace where divine meets rhythm.

our inhale is a rhythm. our steps. our blinks. two eyes, not one - one, two. our spine crawls with marching vertebrae - three, four. dna is a strand of music, a twirl of flaming coral, made uniquely like marbled ivory.

we are lured by sirens who lurk in the deep, pulling us with voices of foam and salt. our hearts are stained by anything without sweet melody - anything but cold, defeating silence.

[notnocturne]

i thrive on possibility.

[notnocturne]

a piece about being colourblind;

your eyes are purple. not just any purple. it's a brilliant violet. the specks you call gold are actually rings of azure, circling your pupil like the moons around a planet. they bleed into each other, rearranging the gap between them until they can't tell whose thoughts are whose. is it your warmth, or mine? is it your gasping breaths, or mine?

your eyes turn darker in the sun, dancing like the cold embrace of watery depths when the light hits it just right. it's a contradiction, a scratch in the stanza. you can still see the flames, if you inspect closely. they weave between the glares, the light, moving to the nudge of the tide. did you pull, or did you push? did i let go first or did you?

the glassiness blurs, a wink and then gone. it shattered like a plate across the tiles, a ripple across the lake, a smudge in your lenses.

was it blinking or suffocating when you held my gaze? was it your eyes that flinched blue, and mine that glared red?

[notnocturne]

No, we're not soulmates. This is not divine intervention. And this is most certainly not chance. I willed this. I knit the threads of fate myself until they spelled your name.

I love you intentionally. I love you with every bit of conscience I was born with.

-marsadist (via twitter)

[notnocturne]

the candle spluttered out and so did your life. i'd be telling a horrible lie if i said I couldn't still remember the depth of your fiery heat.

it twinkled, dwindling down to the waxy residue left to melt into the cracks where it would stay. stay with me. slowly, the flame we'd danced around grew smaller, smaller, smaller. until it was nothing but a speck in the distance. i'd be telling a wretched lie if i said I couldn't still recall the exact shade of orange.

i held you close to my chest, but fire scalds. you left your scorched marks across my torso, leaving stains of tainted flesh in your wake. the tips of the fallen flame licked at my ego, telling a story of infinite possibilities snatched. infinite opportunities untaken. infinite chances left to rot.

but i'd be telling a miserable lie if I said the colour of the destruction you left didn't also remind me of the dawn.

[notnocturne]

i wonder if a candle and the moon feel a strange fondness for one another, if a piece of them was carved out just right in the shape of the other.

I wonder if this fondness translated to a familiarity; a routine. in the same way a baker could roll dough with his eyes closed. the same way i know how your breaths feel against mine. the way the grass bends with the weight of dew each morning, or how a mother's womb loves its child so dearly that it molds to her babe. because these things know no different.

they must recognise it in some layer of consciousness. the way they both wax with the swells of indulgence, or wane in the pulls of the tide. surely they wink at one another when night rises up to meet them, or blush when the sun opens a bleary eye. they both drip and splatter; one with oil, the other with stars.

do you think they admire each other's fires? the one that sits atop the candle, flaming brightly and dancing to its own heat? the one that spills its light across the moon, casting deep groves across her features, and reflecting for the universe to behold?

do you think they know we watch them with inane fascination? do they spin for us? in the depths of their incomprehensible embrace, do they glance at yearning souls who wish for a moment -just once- to bathe in that gravity? the sheer fantasy in the way the moon laughs, the way the flame licks at its wounds?

[notnocturne]

the graffiti sprayed across the walls say "I was here."

as if this small declaration, the barest shell of a whisper told to one's self in the silent of night, was all that mattered. it was a public plea, a yell from the rooftops; remember me. i was here. i walked on those stones. i sat by those trees. i existed. i breathed the same air as you, and stared blankly at the same moon, and wrinkled my nose at the same smells. i was a being. i had a soul, and thoughts, and opinions. i tapped my foot to the same music, and found myself laughing at the same jokes. i had to cut my hair when it was too long, and wash my off-white sneakers when they were dirty, and flick the page of the same second-hand textbooks. it doesn't matter that you'll never know who i am, but i want you to know that i was here. i was here at the same time as you, or years before, or minutes after. remember me, see me, acknowledge me.

[notnocturne]

things writers should do:

write, you spineless cowards.

[notnocturne]

mutual: has rarely if ever spoken to me but consistently likes my text posts

me: i would die for you

[notnocturne]

“Why does my back hurt?” I ask, hunched over at my desk like a shrimp who learned how to type.

[notnocturne]

the reason im in writer's block at the moment and can't freely express any of my usual emotions in my writing is because....im happy?

what the heck this is not good for my tumblr

[notnocturne]

reblog because I'm currently in a standstill at #4 and the only thing looking me in the eyes is the sliver of hope I see in the lining of the clouds.

the stages of writing

amazing, new idea

realisation of having to write it

doubt

despair

self-loathing

coffee

**inhales** ahiodfghaoufelfhe;ufvnaur;oawujkeflne **screaming in the background**

ta-da! a story

[notnocturne]

I think this speaks for itself

[notnocturne]

“What difference is there between the figure of the conqueror and that of the pirate?" said the ancients. The difference only between the eagle and the vulture,—serenity or restlessness.” 

-Alexandre Dumas, The Black Tulip

[notnocturne]

“I thought to myself: if it’s true that every person has a star in the sky, mine must be distant, dim, and absurd. Perhaps I never had a star.”

- The Blind Owl by Sadeq Hedayat

[notnocturne]

you guys can still vote! help me out pleaseeeeeee

I recently read White Nights and Animal Farm. should I start posting my book reviews on here?

[notnocturne]

I recently read White Nights and Animal Farm. should I start posting my book reviews on here?