fernweh [feyrn-vey]
—  (noun) This wonderful, untranslatable German word describes the feeling of homesickness for a far away land, a place you have never visited. Do not confuse this with the word, wanderlust; Fernweh is much more profound; it is the feeling of an unsatisfied urge to escape and discover new places, almost a sort of sadness. You miss a place you have never experienced, as opposed to lusting over it or desiring it like wanderlust. You are seeking freedom and self-discovery, but not a particular home. There are too many feelings wrapped up into this wonderful, little word. Remember, the world is your home!  

I am trying to find a way to
communicate my hardness
without cutting anybody on my sharp edges.
I am opening and closing my mouth;
I am practicing different shapes with my lips.

I am searching for a way
to tell the truth without feeling empty afterwards.

I am trying to make this easy.
But I open my chest to speak and what comes is not words,
it’s blood.

Listen to me and you’ll be scrubbing
the metallic,
acrid,
bloody
smell of me
out of you for weeks.

—  What Good Am I? | Lora Mathis

I’ve been feeling tired lately.
Tired enough to look at alternatives to living.
I weigh the options in my head in-between yawns.
Work or a bottle of pain relievers?
Leaving my bed or jumping off a bridge?
The thing of rope in the garage or what,
an education? A landlord to pay rent to?
Another day to fill?

What’s the point?

I say the words aloud, hoping they’ll make more sense.
Three syllables. Three clicks of the tongue.
What’s. The. Point?

I sigh.
Pull my clothes on.
Twist my fingers tightly into a ball.
I don’t know.

Maybe there isn’t one. Maybe this question will continue to circle
over and over and over and over again in my head, acting as the only marker that I am the same person in the same body, housing the same thoughts.

Six years old, I stared tearfully,
with head pressed to window,
at the blur of dead hills.
What’s the point? I asked.
Eight, I ran with face down,
sweating through warm streams
in the California heat,
catching frogs in-between my fingers.
What’s the point? my feet splashed.
Thirteen, wiping away tears in a public bathroom stall,
trying to press myself deep into the bus seat
to keep from being seen.
What’s the point? I cursed.
Fifteen, thinking I understood love songs
as my lips learned about kissing
behind the community center.
What’s the point? I giggled.
Sixteen, scratching his name out of my desk
the rest of the semester.
What’s the point? I spat.
Eighteen, all moved in,
listening to my friends
sloppily clink their glasses together
as I lay in the dark,
feeling lonelier than ever before.
What’s the point? I shook.
Twenty-one, no longer amused,
feeling too old to not
have these things figured out
and too young to be gentle on myself.

What’s the point?
I don’t know.

But a part of me
(that has perhaps existed longer than my questioning)
says,

No one knows.
We are all here to find out.

—  Making My Own Point | Lora Mathis

im going to try 2 name them all ok lets do this

  1. donghay i like his eyebrows this is donghue right
  2. ive literally never seen this man before in my life
  3. wukwukwuk lipstick in my white valentino bag
  4. that skinny one from b2st w/ the cheekbones ?
  5. looks like an ex member of got7
  6. sungmin isnt he so beautiful 
  7. kyuhyubi he looks like a republican 
  8. george foreman
  9. siwon he luvs jesus amen
  10. heech

There are so many artists who refuse to recognize themselves as such either because they haven’t reached a predetermined level of success, be it monetary or through public recognition, or simply because they think their work is shit. This is nothing short of tragic. Being an artist has nothing to do with success. How many commercially successful “artists” are out there who have no idea what it means to be one? You are an artist simply because you have no choice. You have a thirst within you that will never die. You have a need to create, and you must create to survive. Show me an artist who doesn’t have some way to express himself and I’ll show you pure misery. To any of you out there who can feel my words, who have felt the need I speak of, and have known the pain I speak of, you are, regardless of your status, an artist.

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