139: congratulations

found via weheartit

This is hardly a congratulatory letter. I'm just saying that things at this stage have finished and we're all moving on. From now on, there are two stages you'll come to know: move ahead or linger in between. Move head with vigor and expectations, great ones. I'm not sure what may come for you, good or bad, but I can tell you what happens with the in-between. This is definitive.

Impressionist have captured it between sunset and sunrise, an ever changing board that finally settled right in between. The middle is where the heart hurts the most, where the pain is dragged across the floorboards leaving stains that appear unwashable by time. Always fixable but never fixed, to be unable to move forward but have nothing to turn back to. It's the impression failure has left upon you.

138: numbers and counting

 found via fullofstars

Some numbers exist because they can be created. Likewise some words are said because they can be said without any meaning. The universe is said to have expanded at thirty-fourth of a second, something altogether happening faster than the speed of light. Parts of those sentences may be impossible, but they are written and then believed because the words look and feel tangible. Words, like impossible, have a ridge and surface, they create a world within the ink just as the numbers create a time that may not have been. Numbers and words slip in between the spaces, creating a pocket for dreams.

while dreaming.

She heard his voice in her dreams again. She had been dreaming a lot lately, where he appeared like the mist on her windshield. The songs he played on his guitar trickled like the raindrops outside, and danced in her mind without a partner. It was his haunting that convinced her she still loved him, how his voice slipped in and out like a whisper to find him. All this and how she left him so easily only proved that she didn't need him again. They were all lingering moments of wasted time, never given the light of day. But these dreams with him can only be described as nightmares.

Muse 133: will you love me forever

photo credit: zseike

There's an urban legend about a wedding in Canada. The ceremony took place in a clearing of someone's vast four acre backyard where a canopy of maple trees would shaded the bride from the harsh sun. As a result, the place was rather dim and poorly lit. The bride herself requested the theme autumn, so gorgeous leaves of red, brown and yellow burned in the middle of summer. By tradition, the groom is never to see his bride - it's considered bad luck - but these were modern times, where superstition and religion were just by products of fear. The groom met his lovely bride the night before and they made plans to only have eyes for each other. Their love would be as sturdy as a tree; the rings around their knuckles would grow like the rings of age. When he kissed her goodnight, he said he looked forward to the morning and slipped into the bride maid's room for their final secret rendezvous.
As the bride stepped onto the maroon carpet the next day, her movements were stiff and aching until she reached the other end. The groom could barely make out her face, underneath the floral veil, but smiled eagerly. And she smiled in return. When the pastor finished the speech, the groom reached to lift the veil. His fingers quickly swept the cloth away, and he stalled. His face fixed with a mask of terror as he stared at his wife. She had the hollow eyes of a tree trunk, where the rings went around forever and ever.

Muse 127: the masked butterfly

 butterflies part II

I leaned down to cradle the butterfly in my hands, before I noticed it's crafty body. The center of it was nothing like its wings, the most beautiful part. In fact it was fuzzy, covered in little spikes that mirrored it's caterpillar form. Its eyes were small and invisible, black piercings while the rest of the body was section like two rotten sausages. Completely horrified by how it looked up close, I got up, dusted my hands, crushing the butterfly into the sand as I walked away.

Muse 126: butterflies

found via 365vignettes

I was walking on the beach when I saw a butterfly. Its brown wings were the colour of wet sand, the black lines, neat dark grooves drawn by my pinky. The butterfly was neatly pressed, like a dried flower in between pages of books, into the shaven rocks, unmoving. I felt sad, my heart getting heavier by the second. This butterfly, magically kept perfect underneath this shoe, caused the world to collapse around me. My tears would be for this single butterfly, a beautiful winged creature that represented a class of metaphors beyond simple description. Love was represented in this single insect.

Muse 125: glass cases

found via becylouise

They'll put us in museums one day.

For what?

Well, for changing the world, Frankie. We're going to change the world.

You make us sound like Pinky and the Brain.

He smiled. Hah, well it's easier now. We'll do it one follower at a time.

Hm.

What, you don't believe me?

I don't know. I always thought the people they put in museums didn't think they were important. Like artists... like Monet, Van Gogh. The other people, they put in magazines.

Muse 121: the worms we eat

found via inspireme

If we were made of the objects that we loved, the emotions that we sleep in or the thoughts that we share, we'd be an unfortunately looking bunch. We're ghosts imprinted from the skeleton of others, under different coloured skin. Make myself fifty percent translucent, underneath this body is worms from the same can you were from. I would say more, but that is all I have thought about today. It's enough. 

Muse 118: Loveliest.

 found via Second.Daughter

Your back. Oh my god. Just.
Your back.

I think it just may have been the loveliest thing I've ever seen. Your hair is intrusive, and your bra delicately frames all the space I have to explore. Your body is - yes, yes - a canvas, but that is an overused metaphor. Your back is the hills of misty, untouched sceneries, the new floorboards where my ballet fingers dance. Your tones are muted like pastel chalk dust, curdled milk with a hint of lemon shades. Anyone else would find your skin pale in comparison, but your back - oh my god - shines against the world's colors, which are pure and refined.

Muse 114: Karma

Everything comes back. It's not hard to believe. Everything comes back in a full circle and you feel deja vu hit you like an earthquake. Spots like your heart, spots like your pulse, places and parts of a body that were never known to exist suddenly hurt. Either simultaneously, or in sections like orange slices, take it whole or take it to pieces. Where the feelings are the same but could be reversed, where the situation's the same, and somehow I'm still on the suffering end.

I can't complain. This is the only way I'll see you again.