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Big Black Sunshine

[Beauty chased by tragic laughter]

"I tell my piano the things I used to tell you."
-

Frederic Chopin

(via kaleidoscopedreams)

(Source: batifoler, via awakenaffinity)

Tagged with:  #Phantasms
"I’d rather live in pain than live in denial."
"Great heroes need great sorrows and burdens, or half their greatness goes unnoticed. It is all part of the fairy tale."
- Peter S. Beagle, The Last Unicorn (via hqlines)

 

(via kushandwizdom)

(via titlemybook)

Tagged with:  #Phantasms
"I find myself in tears with both palms against my temples, begging the world to end its tireless spin."
"He asked, ‘What makes a man a writer?’ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘it’s simple. You either get it down on paper, or jump off a bridge.’"
- Charles Bukowski (via thatkindofwoman)

(Source: mynameiselly, via decaffeinated-caffeine)

"I’m a slave to my emotions, to my likes, to my hatred of boredom, to most of my desires."
"So why did I do it? I could offer a million answers - all false. The truth is that I’m a bad person."
- Trainspotting (1996)

(Source: tempe-r, via charlienightmankelly)

"I might think I can’t take it any more, that I can’t go on any more, but one way or another I get past that."
- Haruki Murakami, After Dark (via larmoyante)

(via wrekkkka)

Don’t be shy. Scoot

a bit closer, dear.

Let’s escape

to the rooftop. Talk

about everything and nothing and fire

up incense and cigarettes. Reveal

our dark faces

without remorse.

Listen to a lark named Yorke

croon till sun up

Read

our poetry aloud

without fear. And revere

the fact that

despite it all

we’re still here.

Have a drink with me…

you deserve it.

B.B. Sunshine

(Source: bigblacksunshine)

red-lipstick:

Franz Falckenhaus (b. 1975, Bartoszyce, Poland) - Dream aka Taking Off, 2013     Collages

red-lipstick:

Franz Falckenhaus (b. 1975, Bartoszyce, Poland) - Dream aka Taking Off, 2013     Collages

(Source: Flickr / franzfalckenhaus, via faerie-lit)

Tagged with:  #Phantasms

violentwavesofemotion:

Liv & Ingmar (2012): Both you and I have a lot of intensive presence. And an enormous ability to put ourselves in other people’s emotions. And especially each other’s. We also have an intensive ability to affect other people and make them experience what we experience. And we have an ability to affect each other. We make each other alive. It doesn’t make a difference if it hurts.” — Ingmar Bergman

(via feedingthewolf)

Dread

So many things have invaded my mind this week. So many, many things.

The possibility that my father would need to move into my cottage because his wife can no longer manage his fits. She is truly reaching her wit’s end. And who can blame her: he’s an overly aggressive, misogynistic, racist bastard of a man. The great representative of all the reasons why most of my friends are women and why I don’t get along with most men. If he were to live with me, it would be a matter of days before I lost my temper and we’d be tearing at each other again. Whenever I think of this, a cold dread blankets me. A coldness that can only be thawed by a glass of whiskey.

Then there’s his mother, my paternal grandmother, who is currently occupying a quiet room in the ICU, 82 years of age and likely breathing her last handful of breaths. My father plans to fly into the city in the next day or so to see her and has been pushing me to go as well. Another gust of coldness comes over me. I remember all the ways, small and great, that she mistreated me when I was a defenseless boy.

And I’ll never forget the tale of how she and my aunt did everything they could to coerce my mother into aborting me. How they used threats, shame and even violence to destroy us. Attacking my fragile mother on a sub-zero December night; pulling at her blonde hair and pushing her swollen body onto a sidewalk covered in ice and broken bottles. They pushed her and pushed her and pushed her back onto the pavement, but each time, she got right back up, swinging wild. Bruised and bloody and aching - she kept getting back up – still swinging. Stopping only after neighbors had come to her aid.

My mother was taken to the hospital. So were my grandmother and aunt. Same hospital, same doctor, different modes of transportation. My mother recovered quickly and gave birth to me a week later. My mother said the doctor had told her that grandma and auntie were in worse shape than she was. Between their wounded pride and their wounded limbs, they never made it to my baby shower. And they didn’t send any gifts. (Likely broke after paying their lawyers their due.)

But of course, my father forgot all about that. It’s irrelevant. “Happened a while ago, son.”

(Source: bigblacksunshine)