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Light refraction. Incredible.

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"Sam sat down and started laughing. Patrick started laughing. I started laughing. And in that moment, I swear we were infinite.” ― Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower

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My heart yearns for you in silence

The silence that my phone's beeps filled when you messaged me during hours when it could only be you because everybody in my timezone is probably asleep.

My heart yearns for you with words

Words I had always felt failed me but stretched across the world and touched your heart for me. But I suppose they also tire. Now I hover my fingers over the keyboard in fear that these words will break and fall apart before they reach you. Or worse, that they would lose the fire I write them with and their ashes will suffocate me.

My heart walks confidently towards you in the darkness of uncertainty.

The hours I have spent with you mark 0.04% of my lifetime There's a 0.001% chance I will hold your hand again There's a 0.000001% chance that you will run through late night traffic to kiss me through the window of a moving cab (again) Yet I've spent 4% of my evening reminiscing over each detail of that 0.04% and rationalising the plausibility of it growing to 40%.

My heart yearns for you implausibly. It beats violently in my chest when I think you and my hands tremble when I write about you.

Plane tickets should be cheaper.

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My brain has set you on fire but the smoke and ashes remain to suffocate me. mutually assured destruction (I thought) except in reality you exist and remain unharmed whilst I’m stifled by my own anger. I could if I would project it onto you but the very thought of you builds up lumps in my throat and I’m too busy fighting back tears and hiding the wounds of your making.  but refer to attached picture.

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Nobody really knows you. You, a web of wild wishes and broken dreams Look back at your past and realise that all the hands you touched are bleeding, Your petals slowly wilting, glad to go dry and dissociate with you.

Your heart grows heavy and you don’t cry because tears never saved anyone. Your scribbled words lay still on paper for seconds but quickly rise up to haunt you. The illusion of your self grows tired and you remain heavy with emptiness, You pick up any book you can to fill that emptiness with more illusions of others. The emptiness grows only heavier and the boulders in your throat refuse to pass, The oscillation between pain and indifference smoothes into a continuous function of dysphoria. It all looks like a random plot of chaos A constant chase of inevitable nothingness Wouldn’t it just be great? If the nothingness could reach you now?

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Handstands at the beach :) #beach #muizenburg #bikini #fitness

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This book is hilarious! An extract from Politically Correct Bedtime stories by James Finn Garner Little Red Riding Hood

"The wolf said, 'you know, my dear it isn't safe for a little girl to walk through these woods alone.' Red Riding Hood said, 'I find your sexist remark offensive and extreme, but I will ignore it because of your traditional status as an outcast from society,  the stress of which has caused you to develop your own, entirely valid, worldview. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be on my way.'

Red Riding Hood walked along the main path. But, because his status outside society had freed him from the slavish adherence to linear, Western-style thought, the wolf knew a quicker route to Grandma's house. He burst into the house and ate Grandma, an entirely valid course of action for a carnivore such as himself.

Then, unhampered by rigid,traditionalist notions of what was masculine or feminine, he put on Grandma's night clothes and crawled into bed."

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The gentle soul with two left feet

I met him that weekend I was not supposed to be out He was not much of a dancer and he mirrored me all night He was shy with his words but his eyes illuminated mine with their green light

Monkey see monkey do The dance went on and the drinks flowed His body followed mine, his eyes followed mine and then his lips met mine His lips met mine. His hands met my thighs. My hands met his chest and his back. His lips met my neck… And so continued the story of the night.

The night was through but there is always tomorrow So I placed my hopes on the morrow With my heart heavy with sorrow

But not for long Tomorrow delivered on its promise to continue the adventures of that street Long My heart had remained strong Holding onto itself and hoping you come along But there you were!

Monkey see monkey do The dance went on. His body followed mine, his eyes met mine His hand met mine, swayed through the dancing crowd, pulled back a chair for me and sat down.

I would tell you what transpired if only I hadn’t been hypnotised by his green eyes and his kind words and casual strokes on my thighs.

Hotel room. His soul met mine. So here we are, with our souls stretched over thousands of kilometres. Holding on tightly to each other, hoping that once again his body follows mine. His eyes follow mine and that his lips meet mine.

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Gratitude

I've watched butterflies fill blue skies with their magnificence and fill my heart with a lightness so heavy it could only be love. Stood in the middle of the rain pounding my skin with so much passion then gently sliding off my arm to remind me it was capable of gentleness. The fresh smell of grass filling my nose, its sharp blades piercing my legs whilst sun rays where dancing on my skin and kissing it brown to perfection.  I have stared at the stars and the moon and all my senses besides sight shut down and my entire being was attentive to the beauty. A beauty so mesmerising that my body momentarily forgot its functions only to be reminded by the tears falling out from my eyes that I hadn't blinked in minutes.  They thought I was crying for daylight but that was just my physical trying to emulate and echo the gratitude of my spirit.  Gratitude that I could wake up everyday and experience a beauty so simple yet so breathtaking.

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Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else’s opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.

Oscar Wilde (via observando)

"There was no such person as Mrs Wayne Wilmot; there wad only a shell containing the opinions of hef friends, the picture post cards she had seen, the novels of country squires she had read" -From Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead.

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There is no room for the love of others within the tight, crowded miser's hole of a private ego. Be empty in order to be filled.

The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand

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Karma be eco-friendly.

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Lemony Snicket’s short letters for his dead ex-fiancee written in his books “A Series of Unfortunate Events”