bottledsalt

[bottledsalt]

Melbourne

I want you always to remember me as a laughing blur in the city lights, running across the street, hair wild and streaming, swinging a stolen pineapple from my hands.

I want you always to remember us at the bottom of those dark stairs, how it was still possible to feel your blue eyes bore into mine. I want you always to remember intoxicated nights when we could barely keep our hands off each other, limbs tangled hair fingers mouth forgetting to exhale.

I want you always to remember the words you could never say to me in your foreign tongue, how you hoped to be able to translate the world by meeting my eyes across the crowded room.

I want you always to remember feeling this young and thirsty, like you had all the time in the world but the nights still felt too damn short. Like we could wake up the next day and do it all over again.

I want you always to remember me, sparkler in hand, dancing on a rooftop parking lot for the sake of rum and freedom. 

Because we were not made to last. Not for these memories to be washed down by the tribulations of time and boredom.

I want you always to remember that the sweetest things in this world are fleeting, and that you once held something too wild to be kept.

[bottledsalt]

I’m beginning to recognise that real happiness isn’t something large and looming on the horizon ahead but something small, numerous and already here. The smile of someone you love. A decent breakfast. The warm sunset. Your little everyday joys all lined up in a row.

Beau Taplin (via themotivationjournals)

[bottledsalt]

remember the night i came home and found you burning on the lawn for the first time? remember how i locked the door behind me because i can never sleep with the smoke alarm going off? sometimes i let things burn a little too long. sometimes i am angry and cannot make a poem out of it. - we should have been better than this. you have always played with broken glass and i have always been this angry but sometimes i just can’t make a poem and i need something to blame. - we are steel and flint and i don’t know how to hold on to you without making this erupt. but haven’t we have always been an eruption? haven’t we have always been unsafe? it has always looked like this. remember how we played kristallnacht with our dollhouses and burnt the holy city down? remember how your mother wept and we kept laughing? - sometimes i make my poems into altars and sacrifice you so you can finally be burning for a reason. i remind god of your name so i can give him another chance at redemption. i don’t think this is how the game is supposed to be played. i don’t think we were supposed to turn unhappy so young. - it took rome six days to burn to the ground but it took us six years to even realize we were burning. you stop calling the fire department and i stop writing poems about rain. there is something about the way an entire body can burn that i find too beautiful for my own good. - i still cannot write poems about the night i came home and found you on the lawn, already embers. remember how i left you there? remember how i drew pictures of you while your little sister cried? and it is always summer. and it is always nighttime. and we are always burning.

always burning, sarah kate osborn (via allthesinkingships)

[bottledsalt]

I don’t want to be a sad girl/sharp girl/broken glass girl/cockroach girl/empty bottles girl anymore. I want my bones to stop dripping lead into the hungry maw of exhaustion. I want my want to stop claiming so much heart. I’m so much mouth. I’m not enough woman.

So Much - Cecilie K (via ceciliewriteswords)

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"Our hands touch, our bodies burst into fire. The chair, the cup, the table - nothing remains unlit. All quivers, all kindles, all burns clear." - Virginia Woolf

[bottledsalt]

[bottledsalt]

I used to scare myself when I felt how much love I was holding in that had no where to go. That everyone would run away once they got a taste of the love oozing from my open wounds. So I clamped myself up. Sealed it all away and pretended to not give a fuck. I got so used to waking up and putting on my morning layer that it soon became more like a second skin. And I grew cold and hard keeping all of this love in that had no where to go, afraid that if I opened up I would drown all who was in my path.

But now I am older. And I realize this love does have somewhere to go. It can be absorbed back into my flesh and bones in which I learn that I am content with my body and my mind. It can go to strangers on the street, to strangers on the dance floor, to chance encounters and connections made so instantaneously you swear the universe had planned for it. It’s love to these fast friends and fast lovers. To those 4am sessions lying in bed listening to soft acoustic music swelling in your heart. It’s to the sights and sounds, to the landscapes that take your breath away. To the experiences whether they come wrapped in a bow or with soggy newspaper tossed at your doorstep. It’s love for the people and the world, and how things can still remain so simple and pure despite it all.

And maybe one day, when you have loved far and wide and love has flown you around the world twice over, you will find a place to land. And you will find someone to take that little bit of love you had been saving. Not all the love. Never give someone all your love because this will leave you with nothing to give back to the world.

Find someone who understands just how deep and varying your love can be. Someone who has also buried themselves, suffocating in the soils of too much love, but who has learned to slowly dig themselves out and hand love out like seeds found in the dirt. And then learned when to save some in his two cupped hands, waiting for your salt water. Open up your flood gates, for it will feel like a godsend. 

[bottledsalt]

Inlaid flowers across Sheikh Zayed mosque’s 183,000-square-foot marble courtyard.

Photograph by Dave Yoder, National Geographic

[bottledsalt]

What is my life for and what am I going to do with it? I don’t know and I’m afraid. I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones, and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited. […] I have much to live for, yet unaccountably I am sick and sad.

Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via eveninglesbian)

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People seem to think embracing life means to jump off cliffs and kiss strangers. Maybe it’s just slowly learning to love yourself.

(via carteir)

[bottledsalt]

I like imagining your body is Saturn, my body ten thousand rings wrapped around you.

Andrea Gibson, The Madness Vase, “Andrew” (via adimlylitmirror)

[bottledsalt]

Write to tell other people your story. To fall back in love with yourself. To explain to the world exactly why the fuck you’re here. Write to give your life meaning and to fix those imperfections you despise to much. Write as if your life depends on it. As if your stuck in the cold on a February night and you have to burrow your pen into the ground to start a fire to ensure your survival. That fire will burn the most beautiful shades of ocean blue, and orange that can only be described as fluorescent embers, embers that resemble the specks in your eyes. Write to make it known that this world isn’t a hopeless and cold place. That it isn’t February all the time, that sometimes it’s July. And that fire is just there as an aesthetic, and the fireflies are fluttering, making the field appear as its own constellation. Dipping and diving as if competing for a synchronized swimming team. The sky as dark as a cellar, one in which you have no desire to escape. Sit back and enjoy the peace, serenity, and loneliness that is black. Write because if you do not, you will surely implode, as the thoughts that carry such a heavy burden race and wind throughout your mind, they will have no escape plan. Write so you can love yourself again.

ahhhhhlicia, Write to help. (via wnq-writers)

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I used to do it for the love of writing now I write for something to do

The Love of Writing (via mikefrawley)

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[bottledsalt]

I will never not love this film

Blue Valentine (2010, Derek Cianfrance)

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When everything is going right in life but you just feel like having a good cry