Ink

A place for dreams.

Socially Unacceptable

Sometimes I just want to tell people that they’re beautiful.  That they’re wonderful.  That no one else can see the world the same way that they can.  That no one else can tell their story.  That no one else can change the world like them, if they would only reach for it.  

I want to tell them that they shine brighter than the sun, and that they can run freer than summer. 

I want to speak and call out all of the qualities I see in them that stun me into silence.  Silence at the wonder of a person, of a personality that is like no other.  Wonder at the beautiful and terrible creation that is a human being.  

I want to say, “I love you.  I think the world of you.  You are amazing.” 

But to the rest of the world, this is a weird thing to do.  This is not socially acceptable, until this person and I have been acquainted for quite a long time—and perhaps not even then.

But the truth is, this often happens to me when I see people on the street.  And I want to walk up to them and tell them that they have the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen, because their soul is blazing out like a lighthouse from them. 

But I stay silent.  And I regret that silence, every time.

Children’s movies surprise me by how wise they are. 

(via tine-ghealain)

Dinner: Ginger garlic Shitake mushroom soup with a poached egg. 

Dinner:

Ginger garlic Shitake mushroom soup with a poached egg. 

Tonight I stuck a song on repeat, locked myself in my room, pulled out all of the notes people gave me while I was in Colorado, read them, and cried my eyes out.  

I reread my journal from then, too, which provided some much needed reflection.

I discovered some flowers I’d pressed from the Rockies in my journal, and spent some time Mod-Podging them into my journal.

I have no regrets. 

“The Good Left Undone” by Rise Against








All because of you,

I haven’t slept in so long.

When I do I dream of drowning in the ocean,
Longing for the shore where I can lay my head down,
Inside these arms of yours.

All because of you,
I believe in angels.
Not the kind with wings,
No, not the kind with halos,
The kind that bring you home,
When home becomes a strange place.
I’ll follow your voice,
All you have to do is shout it out.

Pastor declares all homosexuals should be killed—Maiden, NC


You guys I am so ashamed of my state and my religion right now.  This pisses me off. 

Peter Pan by J.M Barrie A mischievous boy who can fly and who never ages, Peter Pan spends his never-ending childhood adventuring on the small island of Neverland as the leader of his gang the Lost Boys, interacting with mermaids, Indians, fairies, pirates, and occasionally ordinary children from the world outside of Neverland. I’m pretty sure you can guess by looking back through my archives that I am a bit … enthusiastic about Peter Pan.  And not the Disney version, either—which, in fact, I hate.  I always have been.  One of my earlier memories (and incidentally the only memory I had of my paternal grandparents until I was fifteen) is sitting in front of a TV, watching Cathy Rigby’s Peter Pan.  I loved it.  I would watch it over and over and over again and I think I eventually wore the tape out.  There was something in me, even as a toddler, that was entranced by the story.  And that hasn’t changed, even now.  It’s beautiful, and reading it I feel like I’m holding something so infinitely fragile in my hands, and I don’t want to breathe lest it break.  It is beautiful, and it is so sad, and the ending always makes me cry.  If you’ve never read Peter Pan, I encourage you to do so.  It’s a bit heavily written (surprisingly so), but it is wonderful.  If you can’t wade through it (and it’s short), find a production of the play—which was it’s first format, the book was written after the fact—and watch it.  Please.  You won’t regret it.

Peter Pan by J.M Barrie

A mischievous boy who can fly and who never ages, Peter Pan spends his never-ending childhood adventuring on the small island of Neverland as the leader of his gang the Lost Boys, interacting with mermaids, Indians, fairies, pirates, and occasionally ordinary children from the world outside of Neverland.

I’m pretty sure you can guess by looking back through my archives that I am a bit … enthusiastic about Peter Pan.  And not the Disney version, either—which, in fact, I hate.  I always have been.  One of my earlier memories (and incidentally the only memory I had of my paternal grandparents until I was fifteen) is sitting in front of a TV, watching Cathy Rigby’s Peter Pan.  I loved it.  I would watch it over and over and over again and I think I eventually wore the tape out.  There was something in me, even as a toddler, that was entranced by the story. 

And that hasn’t changed, even now.  It’s beautiful, and reading it I feel like I’m holding something so infinitely fragile in my hands, and I don’t want to breathe lest it break.  It is beautiful, and it is so sad, and the ending always makes me cry. 

If you’ve never read Peter Pan, I encourage you to do so.  It’s a bit heavily written (surprisingly so), but it is wonderful.  If you can’t wade through it (and it’s short), find a production of the play—which was it’s first format, the book was written after the fact—and watch it.  Please.  You won’t regret it.


Last Round of Peter Pan Quotes

“It is only make-believe, isn’t it …?”

“I’m youth, I’m joy … I’m a little bird that has broken out of the egg.”

“…And she stretched out her arms for the three little selfish children they would never envelop again.  Yes, they did, and they went around Wendy and John and Michael, who had slipped out of bed and run to her.  ’George, George!’ she cried when she could speak, and Mr. Darling woke to share her bliss, and Nana came rushing in.  There could not have been a lovelier sight; but there was none to see it except a little boy who was staring in at the window.  He had ecstasies innumerable that other children can never know; but he was looking through the window at the one joy from which he must be forever barred.” 

To die will be an awfully big adventure.

—Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie

ee cummings - You Are Tired (I Think) 

ee cummings - You Are Tired (I Think) 

(via write2life)