kjrr7llkbft - Tumblr blog

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The only wealth left from his years lost in a bottomless blind pit was his collection of individual writings from writers, poets, novelists and journalists.

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He was one of the "fallen" children of an old Istanbul family.

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A church is a place of quiet peace. 

A place where the ghouls and ghosts lay down to rest and the walls are alive, groans and creaks of each floorboard cracking with old age.

The pews, decrepit cherry wood, symbols carved into the ends of each bench, lay abandoned.

Soaked in dried tears, forgiven sins, silent pleas.

A church is meant to be a place of hope, faith, everything one looks for in the cloudy, darkened skies.

The walls are carved with the faith of their followers, each material given as a blessing from their Father who watches from above, waiting, grinning wildly and madly.

In the church, they pray to an angel, their beloved, their blessed father, ignorant and blind to the devil in the sky with soulless eyes and sharp teeth.

Blind to the body of their blessed Lord laying across the clouds in bloodied pieces, muscles and bones stringing across God’s kingdom in shredded pieces.

The night God died, there was rain.

Each drop felt like a bullet, pelting against the ground, soaking anything in it’s way as the kingdom of the sky grieved for their lost father, mourned for what would soon be coming to the world below, what would happen to his faithful, beautiful sinners and saints.

After the rain, there was thunder.

After the thunder, a storm, and eventually, hurricanes.

Tornados.

The world spared no mercy in its mourning, buildings collapsing into heaps of cracked concrete and shattered glass, bodies pierced by rusted, spiked poles, crushed into a mess of blood and flesh underneath their homes.

With each number added to the count of those lost to the angels grief, faith dribbled and dissipated until nothing was left, washed away with the rain and the blood and the tears. 

A church used to be known as a place of quiet peace.

Now it sits, history kissing each wall and each floorboard, each broken pew and frail wall piecing together the story of lost faith, lost hope, lost lives.

The ghouls and ghosts are no longer allowed in the church, cursed to drag themselves along rivers and pavements in a decaying body, groaning and weeping for all that they lost; the sweet, harmonic peace of death they will never be able to grasp.

The floorboards have sunken in, the wood juts out threateningly, waiting patiently for anyone to dare step foot into the abandoned relic, protecting the building with each splinter that lay scattered across the floor, hidden beneath the pews.

The windows, painting pictures of women and men, children and elders, have cracked and fallen into the cold embrace of the church.

Colourful shards stick out, a futile attempt to keep the wind out and the faith in.

The glass pools beneath the crucifix in the middle of the stage, each shard glistening and reflecting off the crucifix above, where blood drips from Christ’s eyes, hands, feet, chest.

Warm and thick as it pours down his marbled body, a quiet drip echoing through the empty, faithless building, blood meeting wood, staining each mark, each line.

The blood has pooled across the wooden table holding the crucifix up, the blood crawls towards the floor agonisingly slow, the blood of Christ, the blood of God, the blood of the angels, the saints, the sinners, the world.

A church used to be a reminder of faith, they will say.

A church is a memorial, a mass grave, a never-ending funeral for God and his disciples, they will say.

A church holds the guilt of the dead, the faith of the living. 

When there are no living who remain, a church is a place of quiet grief.

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Cliffs of Moher

@i_roamireland

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The silence depressed me. It wasn’t the silence of silence. It was my own silence.

Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar (via resqectable)

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No temas el último capítulo, teme dejar páginas en blanco.

Dariann.

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i feel like the necessity of romance/hookups in popular media, wifely "duties" pushed by religions, blue balls and the supposed male "need" for sex and therefore prostituted women or wives or girlfriend to provide it are all different shades of the same technique, with the same end goal; providing men with women to fuck. whether the woman is convinced by romantic notions or religious ones or economic desperation is arbitrary to men, they don't care how you fuck them, just that you do fuck them. it's why they fight so hard against anything that gives women the chance to say no, to refuse. why they devote so much of their effort into creating media, religion, laws, and culture to convince women to fuck men.

where women won't be convinced, degrees of coercion are used. from emotional guilt tripping ("but i really need sex babe!") to outright economic coercion and physical force ("human trafficking, bride kidnapping") all the way up to institutionalizing it into the culture. different paths to the same end goal. new paths are continually invented, such as convincing women that they "need" sex the way men "need" sex so go out there and fuck loads of men and be sure to send loads of nudes so men can digitally share you with their friends! men are desperate for you to fuck them, they just find it fun to argue about how/when/where exactly you should do it.

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Freight brakeman, New York Central Lines, 1921.

Photo: Lewis W. Hine via the J. Paul Getty Museum

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why people on the internetdo a shouting? small letter, small voice, small baby bird. thank u

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One of the most amazing things that can happen is finding someone who sees everything you are and won’t let you be anything less. They see the potential in you. They see endless possibilities. And through their eyes, you start to see yourself the same way. As someone who matters. As someone who can make a difference in this world.

Susane Colasanti (via thoughtkick)

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Gougar