poem scene


It cries in my heart 

 Like it rains in the town 

What is this languor 

That soaks to my heart?

“On the dark street of a foreign city, surrounded by the sound of the rain, he pressed his face into his hands and sobbed.” 

-Blackbird an amazing fic by @thetwoguineabook


If she whom I desire would stoop to love me, I would come hand-in-hand, and, kneeling, ask that she kindly receive me…and deign to understand that all I have is hers…forever and a day. Press but her lips to mine…and never let love decay.

There’s this girl.
She’s by far the brightest spot in the world.
Her nose wrinkles when she laughs,
nothing is as pretty as it.
The way she flips her hair,
and takes off her shoes,
it all shouldn’t matter to me as this.
I think I see her everywhere;
in the colors of the school
and my mother’s flowers.
In the music I used to hate,
and the dreams I never had before.
I can see her,
smiling as she sleeps,
cradled at my side on the grass.
The sky has never been this jealous.
She’s by far the realest thing in the world.
—  the girl i want to marry. // jackie on my mind. nc.
She can tear me open without even trying. She looks at me and all my stupid hopes and all my secrets and every single thing that keeps me awake at night comes pouring out. She’s the first person I’ve ever met who can do that to me, and it’s fucking terrifying.
—  from an unfinished story #850

Benedict Cumberbatch performs Hamlet’s Third Soliloquy - To Be Or Not To Be - Hamlet Act 3 Scene 1 - From the 2015 National Theatre Live production of Shakespeare’s Hamlet.

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.


‘That was an awesome red carpet. Did you do it?’

the dreamer.

i am forever falling in love with the utterly unattainable: people who will never acknowledge my existence, cities that will never embrace me with gentle arms, things and ideas and possibilities that are so ludicrous they may as well be considered fairy tales. upon realizing the avaricious desires of my heart, i can come only to one conclusion: i am eternally doomed to live a life just on the cusp of fantasticality. i am destined to stare out windows and dream incessantly, to have a plethora of wishes that will never be fulfilled. i will evermore have the light of unreachable stars dancing in my eyes and the beats of songs i cannot write pulsing in my fingertips. there is no hope for me; i am but an elusive dreamer, and i am afraid that that is all i will ever be.

Ralph Fiennes performs lines from Richard III, Duke of Gloucester’s soliloquy - From Shakespeare’s Henry VI, Part III - Act 3 Scene 2 - 9 June 2016:

I’ll make my heaven to dream upon the crown,
And, whiles I live, to account this world but hell,
And yet I know not how to get the crown,
For many lives stand between me and home:
And I, – like one lost in a thorny wood,
That rends the thorns and is rent with the thorns,
Seeking a way and straying from the way;
Not knowing how to find the open air,
But toiling desperately to find it out, –
Torment myself to catch the English crown:
And from that torment I will free myself,
Or hew my way out with a bloody axe.
Why, I can smile, and murder whiles I smile,
I can add colours to the chameleon,
Change shapes with Proteus for advantages,
And set the murderous Machiavel to school.
Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?
Tut, were it farther off, I’ll pluck it down.

I still think about back home, sometimes. The people back there. My family. I still miss them. Even with all the fucked up things they put me through, I still wake up once in awhile and want my mom. How crazy is that?”
“It’s not crazy at all. It’s human.
—  from an unfinished story #848