sixpenceandtwosense

[sixpenceandtwosense]

Don’t sext, hext. Send curses via text. Put magic in your messages. Cast spells through your cell.

[sixpenceandtwosense]

[sixpenceandtwosense]

Memory Lane is a path haunted by pain.

[sixpenceandtwosense]

This may sound weird, but

I love riding BART through Oakland during the late afternoon. I love seeing the sun shine through the dusty and broken windows of the abandoned shops and factories. It’s so hypnotizing to me. I personify these buildings, likening them to the same minds strewn about the city that were also forgotten or abused and left to fall apart pane by pane.

It’s that brief moment during my commute that I remember how lucky I am.

[sixpenceandtwosense]

I would get sick on Thanksgiving.

I was feeling miserable all day, and then one of our regulars came in. I hadn’t seen him in a while and was starting to wonder about him. Gene’s a really sweet guy, with a dry sense of humor and he always offers me a stick of gum and part of his newspaper. Today he came in and told me why he’d been away for so long. He’s got esophageal cancer, and is due to start ten days of chemotherapy tomorrow. He put his hand on my shoulder when he saw the panic on my face, and said this: “Don’t you worry honey- I’m 98 years old! I’ve seen the world, experienced more than I ever thought I could. I’m not afraid to go.” He patted me and slowly made his way to the breakfast bar, and, as usual, opened the next section of his paper and took a sip of his coffee. As usual, he offered me a stick of gum, and the section of his paper that he’d finished.

It will be strange not to see him giving the young, rowdy men coming and going a hard time. It will be weird not hearing the amazing stories of his time during World War Two.

I couldn’t help but feel incredibly selfish after we spoke. It is the eve of Thanksgiving. I am thankful for my youth and for my health.

I can’t imagine how our Gene must feel. I just hope it’s a profound sense of peace.

[sixpenceandtwosense]

23 Emotions people feel, but can’t explain

Sonder: The realization that each passerby has a life as vivid and complex as your own.

Opia: The ambiguous intensity of Looking someone in the eye, which can feel simultaneously invasive and vulnerable.

Monachopsis: The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place.

Énouement: The bittersweetness of having arrived in the future, seeing how things turn out, but not being able to tell your past self.

Vellichor: The strange wistfulness of used bookshops.

Rubatosis: The unsettling awareness of your own heartbeat.

Kenopsia: The eerie, forlorn atmosphere of a place that is usually bustling with people but is now abandoned and quiet.

Mauerbauertraurigkeit: The inexplicable urge to push people away, even close friends who you really like.

Jouska: A hypothetical conversation that you compulsively play out in your head.

Chrysalism: The amniotic tranquility of being indoors during a thunderstorm.

Vemödalen: The frustration of photographic something amazing when thousands of identical photos already exist.

Anecdoche: A conversation in which everyone is talking, but nobody is listening

Ellipsism: A sadness that you’ll never be able to know how history will turn out.

Kuebiko: A state of exhaustion inspired by acts of senseless violence.

Lachesism: The desire to be struck by disaster – to survive a plane crash, or to lose everything in a fire.

Exulansis: The tendency to give up trying to talk about an experience because people are unable to relate to it.

Adronitis: Frustration with how long it takes to get to know someone.

Rückkehrunruhe: The feeling of returning home after an immersive trip only to find it fading rapidly from your awareness.

Nodus Tollens: The realization that the plot of your life doesn’t make sense to you anymore.

Onism: The frustration of being stuck in just one body, that inhabits only one place at a time.

Liberosis: The desire to care less about things.

Altschmerz: Weariness with the same old issues that you’ve always had – the same boring flaws and anxieties that you’ve been gnawing on for years.

Occhiolism: The awareness of the smallness of your perspective.

[sixpenceandtwosense]

Hues (prose exercise)

My favorite color is Periwinkle. It is the perfect blend of gray, blue, purple, and white. It is a result born of the indecisiveness that has always been a small yet glaring stain on lapel of my character. It’s not aggressive, like red, or sleepy, like beige. It is ocular peace amid the relentless sensory assault of lights that linger like phantoms and sticky jingles that cling to the mind. As I sit staring at the endless stream of license plates, I am paralyzed, boring holes through bumper stickers sagacious or solicitous, held hostage by that burning crimson until the tentative lurching of wheels shakes me from my reverie.

As the aging afternoon births a milky twilight, I look forward and upward to the yawning glow of my beloved Periwinkle behind a warm yellow. It is not the blinding yellow of the summer sun. It is soft and gentle, somewhere between Scotch Butter and Sun Shower. Barely perceptible yet somehow vibrant, it beckons the eye as it whispers brightly against darker clouds.

[sixpenceandtwosense]

Your First Born

Your First Born

I am alive. Falling recklessly from your womb I am blinded by the intensity of my birth. Delicately, I excuse myself in a graceful arc that Mirrors your wrist as you calmly exit And yet I’m plummeting without a map I am the essence of your loneliness, you who bore me I am your frustration, your despair, and your savior. I gave you freedom in the searing heat of your blooming flesh I gave you solace in the gluttonous ache within your breast I am the manifestation of expression Unique Like a snowflake, I have no brother. Others follow along the path I have blazed A beacon Cutting a course down your blushing cheek I am the first, and will be remembered As the one who would not go unnoticed Glinting with purpose Defying your abject shame It is I who slipped your guarded gates Crashing soundlessly into your crumpled palms Along your wrinkled life line I write, With love and liberation, Your first born

[sixpenceandtwosense]

A mental monologue. Does that make me crazy?

Do you ever wake up and immediately feel exhausted? Not physically, necessarily, But your soul, that one thing that holds you up when you’re at your worst, your “grits,” that part of your character that serves as the backbone to who you are. It’s funny, the things that happen when you’ve been stuck inside your head for an extended period of time. It reminds me of a brief monologue from the movie Crash. “It’s the sense of touch. In any real city, you walk, you know? You brush past people, people bump into you. In L.A., nobody touches you. We’re always behind this metal and glass. I think we miss that touch so much, that we crash into each other, just so we can feel something.” I just want to jump up and down and scream at the top of my lungs, like the homeless and mentally incompetent, that stand around screaming, waiting for someone to acknowledge them instead of hurrying past. I wont pretend that I don’t breeze by either. I’m just as terrified of social interaction as everyone else. It’s totally fucked up, this feeling of invisibility, of utter loneliness on a crowded bus or street. It makes me want to suddenly shove someone against a window, just to make sure they’re real. Part of me wants something bad to happen, so that I know I’m real. Sometimes I wonder if those mentally broken wandering aimlessly were once mentally unbroken with a destination until they cracked. I watch them, and sometimes I see myself. I catch myself sometimes, letting my social tendrils reach out to brush someone. I open my mouth to a stranger, but they’re just as terrified as I am that I might be crazy, and I quickly retract whatever friendliness I had expressed and sink back into my head. Am I losing it? Or am I just being too sensitive? I feel myself breaking down sporadically throughout the day; my eyes start to sting and I can feel my chest start to ache and it’s all I can do to stare at the ceiling. My cheeks are raw from biting the tears back. It’s interesting how starved I feel for attention yet how terrified I am of attracting any to myself. I feel this boiling resentment for everyone else and I can’t explain why. Perhaps it’s the monotony of it all. Work, job. Work, job. Work, job. Commuting all the while, listening to catty conversations around me of happy people taking trips and doing interesting things beneath the screaming pouring through my ear buds. Back home, I always found myself wanting to escape. Now I’m afraid I got exactly what I asked for.

[sixpenceandtwosense]

[sixpenceandtwosense]

i fucking love the “family having fun” google search images

[sixpenceandtwosense]

“As a little girl, I was told that one day I would fall in love and get married. I was not told that sometimes the people I loved would not love me back and that it will feel difficult to walk down that aisle with the mountains of ashes I let people leave in my heart, but it will feel very easy to turn and run. So I did. As a little girl, I was told that drugs weren’t cool and I should never touch them. I was not told that one day I might hate myself so much that I’d poke holes in my veins in attempts to feel some sunshine inside of me. As a little girl, I was told by my grandfather on his death bed that everyone’s time comes when they must go back to heaven. I was not told that sometimes their time comes at 17 in their best friend’s car blaring their favourite song and heaven quits existing when the sound of colliding metal manifests in your dreams. As a little girl, I was told to stay away from men in white vans offering me candy, because they were the bad guys that would hurt me. I was not told to stay away from vibrant eyes and beautiful smiles offering me home in their arms, because good people can hurt you too. As a little girl, I was told that I would bring home boys that my father didn’t approve of. I was not told that I would want to bring home girls but I’d be too afraid my father wouldn’t approve. As a little girl, I was told I may be pressured to do things he wants me to do and I should wait until I’m ready. I was not told he wouldn’t care if I was ready and the word “no” isn’t always stronger than his hands cuffed around my wrists. As a little girl, I was told not to be scared of the monsters under my bed, because they were really only in my head. They were right about that, but I think I’m even more afraid now.”

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(trm) Little Girl (via acutelesbian)

This is so powerful

(via redwoods-and-sweatshirt-hoods)

[sixpenceandtwosense]

[sixpenceandtwosense]

This sign is in my doctors office above the scale and I really love it. It actually made me feel a lot better after reading it

[sixpenceandtwosense]

restoring faith in love

[sixpenceandtwosense]

[sixpenceandtwosense]