(via allthe-prettythings)
1148[Across what instrument are we stretched taut?
And what player holds us in his hand?]
O sweet song.
“Love Song” by Rainer Maria Rilke, trans. Edward Snow
(via the-final-sentence)
monster.
my monster is the intelligent kind. the kind that takes the very things that make me - me - and attacks them head on. it tears at my strength, my foundation, and it breaks them until those things by which i have always defined myself are too exhausted to fight. and then i falter. and lose my momentum. and then i lose myself. and i’m never really convinced i’ll get it - me - back, because every time i think i’m getting close, my monster appears again and destroys me in a new way.
it’s been this way since the beginning. first, i wasn’t more than an idea. i became the product of love and hope and life. and then, before i even saw the face of the world, my monster found me. it tore at my throat, and threatened the deepest part of me - and i fought back. i thwarted my monster’s plans, persevering and managing the chaos within me. adapting. surviving. and so, by the time i was born, i was already a warrior.
but my monster knew what it was doing. it planted land mines during that first battle, and it hides in the dark, detonating them from time to time, always just as i begin to finally feel safe.
my monster designs it’s attacks cleverly. it seeps into me and my very belief in myself, my sense of strength, my confidence, my fight, they become my monster’s playthings. “she feels strong” - cue the explosions. i am again weak. and it’s gotten creative recently - the mines are getting too predictable for it’s liking, i imagine. now it has taken to planting morbid thoughts in my nightmares. it tears holes in my safety net. and i feel hopeless.
every time i feel i am moving forward, making progress, learning to love the warrior in me, the monster comes back and i retreat. the warrior is a coward. and i remain feeling broken.
(via rose-tea-in-paris)
April 28, 1948: This photo ran as part of a two-page photo essay about the “Washington scene.” The hats, piled on an eight-foot mahogany table in the lobby of the East Wing of the White House, were deemed “a barometer of presidential activity,” the caption read. “All but the most important visitors leave their gear here. This collection was deposited by a delegation of magazine editors who obtained an appointment with the president.” Photo: George Tames/The New York Times
(Source: nickthejam)
