Leaves-in-the-Wind

I sit beside the fire and think of all that I have seen,
of meadow-flowers and butterflies in summers that have been;
Of yellow leaves and gossamer in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun and wind upon my hair.
I sit beside the fire and think of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring that I shall ever see.
For still there are so many things that I have never seen:
in every wood in every spring there is a different green.
I sit beside the fire and think of people long ago,
and people who will see a world that I shall never know.
But all the while I sit and think of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet and voices at the door.
—  J.R.R. Tolkein
all roads

for @baggvinshield my wife, an early gift for your birthday 



It takes the better part of five years before they return to the Shire.

Erebor didn’t have the amenities that Bag End does, it didn’t have the portraits above the fireplace or the specific warmth that came from it on a particularly chilly autumn night with a glass of cider. It didn’t have the song that the wind carries through Hobbiton, rustling leaves and speaking of journeys. There were no gardens, or weekend markets that sold goods only known to the Shire, spices and seedcake, or blackberry tarts. There wasn’t sunlight streaming in through the kitchen or the comfort of a good book.

The Lonely Mountain was very much that for Bilbo, lonely. He loved Thorin dearly and that is why he stayed, why he accepted his role as consort but the halls in the mountain had shadows, memories, and whispers that trailed down Bilbo’s spine. Whispers that lingered in his ear and gave gooseflesh to his skin.

Keep reading

drstanakatic: Listening

What is the deep listening?
Sama is a greeting
from the secret ones inside the heart,
a letter.
The branches of your intelligence
grows new leaves
in the wind of this listening.
The body reaches a peace.
Rooster sound comes,
reminding you of your love for dawn,
The reed flute and the singer’s lips:
The knack of how spirit breathes into us becomes as simple and ordinary as
Eating and drinking.
The dead rise with the pleasure of listening.
If someone
Can’t hear a trumpet melody,
sprinkle dirt on his head
and declare him dead.

Listen,
and feel the beauty of your separation,
the unsayable absence.

There’s a moon inside every human being.
Learn to be companions with it.
Give more of your life to this listening.
As brightness is to time, so you are
to the one who talks
to the deep ear in your chest.
I should sell my tongue
and buy a thousand ears
when that one steps near
and begins to speak. -Rumi

i havent washed my hair in over a week,
its spilling over onto my pillow like an oil slick without the rainbow in it.
the dishes in the sink lie untouched and green.
the hot breath that comes from my mouth reeks of unbrushed teeth and words too fragile to speak.
my eyes have become permanently accustomed to the lights off and the shades drawn.
there is a hole in the middle of my bed, it fits my body like a casket.
it whispers, “no, dont leave. the wind out there is far too cold, and fast. it will leave you raw and naked, the shade of pink only an infant could manage. stay with me.”
there are no tears, only this swarm of ravens with their endless caws.
i swallow down the nothingness to play at being whole,
but i am left with only stomach ache and work piled up on the doormat.
i dont know how to make my sadness poetic.
there is nothing eye catching about this emptiness inside of.
there are no stars to pick out of the void in my chest.
there is nothing beautiful about my family praying over the phone that it wont bring the message of my death.
this is not what love is, this is selfishness embodied.
i am not a match or a candle,
i am a house fire that will take everything with it.
when i melt, i stain the hardwood;
i ruin the carpet.
this constant push and pull i feel towards love is not endearing, it is not interesting.
i am a black hole, sucking in all of the light in my path.
—  my pain is not romantic, k.b.
Intangible

Pairing: Hoseok x Reader

Rating: M

Genre: smut/daddy kink

Word Count: 3,535


The moment you had walked into the studio and laid your eyes upon Hoseok, you could not look away. The bright lights reflected the gloss of the chestnut floor as his feet squeaked across the surface, his toned body moving with a certain lithe that had you addicted to the way his muscles rippled with every wave of his arm and twist of his body. He moved like autumn leaves being carried away by crisp wind, dancing in a magnificent swirl of blurring colors blended into summer bonfires.

To you he seemed intangible- ethereal, almost.

And as he spotted you in the mirror, sweat dripping down his gloriously tanned complexion, he smiled.

“You must be the new student I’ve heard so much about.” His movements stopped, and when he turned towards you, the rest of the students did as well, curiosity marring their discernible features.

Keep reading