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In my head, my brother is still six years old,

A little thing that tugs at my sleeve for my attention, walks hand in hand with me,

Believes all the lies I tell him,

Eyes very wide, hanging off my every word -

Let's play together, he says, toothless and round cheeked and I

Would do anything he asks.

Except.

Hes not six, hes seven, eight, nine, ten, nearly eleven,

With a sneer on his face, an indignant irritation,

Eyes following me, even at this age, as though he can hardly believe we came from the same thing

Lips curled in a mockery as if to tell me that things are not what they were, an ever present reminder as though his absence from my side is not a reminder enough

We dont play together anymore, I say to him one day, voice hollow, and he looks up at me, rolling his eyes

I'm not a baby anymore, he says, and I hear the truth of it laced beneath his words,

I outgrew you.

I kiss that six year old goodbye. We had a good time, didnt we? I'm sorry. I wish I didnt need to leave you behind.

- The Things We Miss When We Blink

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You could start with the "classic" detective novels by well known authors. Off the top of my head I can think of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes and Agatha Christie's novels which have some poignant detective characters. If you want to go really classic you could always venture into Edgar Allan Poe's works if you like something a bit thematically dark :)

Recently I've been getting into the detective/noir genre for books but I'm kind of stuck on what to read, so if anyone has any suggestions feel free to let me know 😊

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the moon and her stars

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Perception is malleable.

Pluck the experience raw and wretched from the bed of lies, a grave of insolence where chaos reaps; a place of rest where slumber sleeps. Dig it out from its very root, nails caked in the crimson of my own mechanical labour, elbow deep in an agony so revoltingly neon that it repels even the connoisseurs of my fragmented suffering and leaves me walking on my knees like lady grief herself.

Experience is manipulatable. Acuity is subjective. Mould the memories into divinity, dance a bloodless ballad with death, ivory tones fashioning the figure of my sentient being, a pale flush of silence withering the night into a fragmented moment of loveless sin.

How do you manipulate a manipulator?

Kiss nostalgia in the dawn of a new day, insist that the memories are not deception, promise that things were beauty despite their confinement. Paint over the obscene darkness, exploit the exploiter, take the carving tool and pull the right strings- the puppet master, the corruption behind the mastermind. Paint over the filth with purity, breathe my own lies into existence.

(These things are lucrative, the white runs rivers beneath my skin. Your eyes are shrouded with a film of insistence. Paint it all gold. Watch it glow as the sun’s rays burn away my decay. Paint it pearlescent, watch it wink in the dark of night, a whisper in my ear, your lies are barely a step behind you. When they catch you, they will kill you, and the laughter beneath my tongue, first they will have to catch me.)

The thickets of people are a stifling, burning thing. Think wavelengths of salt and sea. Think frequencies of fire and destruction.

Think pain personified. 

What is one star in a galaxy? (Nothing, small, indistinguishable), and yet the sun which is annihilation in all its rife riot, a massive thing ensuring existence is of the same calibre, from a distance of infinite light years it too is simply one star among the masses.

What I'm saying is nothing is insignificant. What I'm saying is perception does not equate to actuality.

(What I mean is you are more than just the destruction you may have caused.)

People are dark, dehumanising entities, a foliage of thorns, a crown of condemnation. A cry of attention, the wicked shouts of narcissism. A filthy shade of envy lays dormant beneath my tongue and weeps in a ploy to be seen. The tastes dissolve like ecstasy in my mouth. My gaze wanders.

Your eyes are infrared. They burn two holes like bullets to the back of my head.

(Do you really believe I cannot perceive your incessant stares? I bathe in your achromatic valence. A tender change from all the red. The reconstruction of purity. Something good. Something aching to be seen.)

The light is a gaping vulnerability. You get eight minutes of naivety once the sun destroys itself. (I fear the naivety may one day be mine. I fear it may be yours.)

How do you manipulate a manipulator?

The truth is abstainment with a cleaner face. I have manipulated the reddened coals of love into existence, exploited those who have ever loved me into loving me.

Does that make me an exquisite liar?

(Or does it simply make me very unlovable?)

Our eyes meet across the chessboard and all the wavelengths come together, scream through the prism and emerge, holy and white.

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Archives

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Palazzo Vecchio, Florence.

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Palais Garnier - Grand Staircase (3D Model) | by walidlayouni

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Late evening calligraphy studies creating a Macaulay-twins-flat-like mess – tea cups and ink stains all around

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Sappho, trans Willis Barnhart

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First ever drawings of the moon made by Galileo Galeili after observing it through his telescope in 1609. [1418 x 1958]

Source: https://reddit.com/r/ArtefactPorn/comments/dws9vt/first_ever_drawings_of_the_moon_made_by_galileo/

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Nelly Sachs, tr. by Eric Plattner, from The Seeker: “Enigmas of Night,”

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LITERATURE : WHERE TO START ? | MASTERPOST

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Anna Kamienska, from A Nest of Quiet: A Notebook.

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I was yours once, ‘til death if you’d cared to keep me. But I’m someone else’s now, and he’s mine in a way that shocks you. But why don’t you stop being shocked, and attend to your own happiness?

— Maurice (1987) dir. James Ivory

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