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Walking home from work and admiring some late night Parisian bookshops 🍂📚

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𝙽𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟷𝟷, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟷 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝙾𝚏 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚣 𝙺𝚊𝚏𝚔𝚊, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟶 -𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟹

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The thing about rewatching Gilmore Girls is I always start thinking about how much I love sweaters and books and that I should finally get through Ulysses this year and I always end thinking about how much I fucking hate rich people

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Straight Up

One sip graces my lips,

A red stain marking the beginning.

How easily a sip becomes

A swallow becomes

A glass.

I am undoing myself by the bottle.

Undoing everything I hate to feel

Along with everything I love.

Everything I am unravels by the 

Deepest burgundy.

I cannot face it all on my own.

There is a torrential downpour

Raining on my shoulders.

So grab the corkscrew,

Open another.

Like blood pouring out of the 

Green glass,

I am bleeding out.

Emotions too great to 

Feel straight up.

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Pomegranate

Here we trod on sacred ground

To pay homage and atone

For the sins we have made

Against one another.

Take the blade

And slice my palm

Like a pomegranate.

Here we make our blood pact

To forever stay in this moment

Of extreme discontent.

For our love is a battle

And our bodies the warzone.

I adore you to the point

Of decay and destruction.

Until death do us part.

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“E S C A P E” by | Kenneth R LeRose

Cape Disappointment St. Park, Washington

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Comet Leonard l optiquevideo l Québec Canada

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Enbaru River, Yamagata City, Japan // 癒しの自然風景 ♡

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“Kindness begins with understanding we all struggle.”

— Charles Glassman

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Cockburn Street / Misty Edinburgh

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rory mcmahon

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Miles

For the most part, I have let it all go. The resentment, the anger, the hurt. I have resigned myself to an apathetic existence when it comes to the ground you walk on. I have memories of the person you once were. The man who shattered a family so young is a ghost that haunts my journals and the words that seep from my pen. Nearly twenty years trail my feet as we drift further apart. I know that this distance is for the better. I know the miles between us keep me safe from the damage you could so easily wreak. 

So, imagine my surprise when I walked through my halls, decked for the season, in the cold November air and caught another wound stitched across my heart. Whether you know it or not, you have barred the door to a family that, in another world, I could have called my own. By resenting me for something beyond my control, I have lost out on a gift so rare that it must be torn from the hands that possess it. Yet the scars on my hands are self-inflicted. I have carved them on my own, inspired by the lack of understanding, the rejection, and the disgust you have thrown my way. Trace the patterns on my palm. Read the scars like a list of grievances. 

I was a child when you left. I lost that innocence the minute you closed the door.  We were all so young. Three destroyed tearful kids that had nowhere to turn. Now I find myself looking for the children you have used to replace us with. They are whole and happy and adored by a father who has yet to find a reason to reject them. I pray that they never know the pain you have caused me, or worse, that they feel it for themselves. They may never know me. I always wonder if my absence is noticed. Do they ask you why they never see their half-brother and, if they do, how on earth do you explain it away? Oh Heavenly Father, why did you give me this earthly one? A question that haunts the quiet room around me on this winter’s night…

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Mahmoud Darwish, from "In the Presence of Absence," originally published in 2006