Olive Oil and Vignettes

i find it hard to tell people how i feel
i find it hard to trust people with what i feel
i am never able to explain
why i do what i do
i feel like a stranger
to myself and everyone around

rbcages:

“Where do the words go / when we have said them?”

— Margaret Atwood, from “The Small Cabin,” Selected Poems I 1965-1975 (Houghton Mifflin, 1976)

(Source: memoryslandscape, via alonesomes)

Is junioritis a thing

How am I already this stressed. It’s literally week 1 day 4.

(Source: weheartit.com, via imperfectlyyyy)

(Source: andlifemovesonn, via thatsthat24)

soracities:

Sophocles, Elektra (trans. Anne Carson)

(via alonesomes)

(Source: desnos, via writingsforwinter)

Everything is temporary. The deep aches pulsing beneath your skin. The claws that grip your heart, the voice that desperately gasps im here im here im here.

Everything is temporary, capable of dying away with each resounding step, every silent exhale- someday there will be ash where we once sat and bent heads over words long gone, there will be hollow silence where breezes rustled leaves and shirt sleeves

Or perhaps there will only be noise, raucous reminder that in the nothing there was once something.

Something temporary. (at Monterey Old Fisherman’s Wharf)

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