the brilliance of life

I’m in love with New York. It matches my mood. I’m not overwhelmed. It is the suitable scene for my ever ever heightened life. I love the proportions, the amplitude, the brilliance, the polish, the solidity. I look up at Radio City insolently and love it. It’s all great, and Babylonian. Broadway at night. Cellophane. The newness. The vitality. True, it is only physical. But it’s inspiring. Just bring your own contents, and you create a sparkle of the highest power. I’m not moved, not speechless. I stand straight, tough and I meet the impact. I feel the glow and the dancing in everything. The radio music in the taxis, scientific magic, which can all be used lyrically. That’s my last word. Give New York to a poet. He can use it. It can be poetized. Or maybe that’s mania of mine, to poetize. I live lightly, smoothly, actively, ears or eyes wide open, alert, oiled! I feel the glow and the dancing in every thing and the tempo is like that of my blood. I’m at once beyond, over and in New York, tasting it fully.
—  Anaïs Nin
4

modern!Hogwarts Houses

Now Gryffindors are fêted for persistent feats of bravery,

And Righting every Wrong from Third-World Debt to House-elf Slavery.

They’ll throw you in the thick of fine adventures that should not be missed

If you can stick their heartiness and aren’t too individualist.


The Hufflepuffs are loyal, fair, hardworking and meticulous,

Which makes up for the fact that Helga’s surname was ridiculous.

You’d never cheat or take short cuts for laziness is criminal,

An excellent philosophy when praise you win is minimal.


The wise Rowena Ravenclaw creamed off the intellectual,

The scholarly, the witty and profoundly ineffectual,

Whose credo “Cogitamus ergo sumus” makes the best hot air -

And if you didn’t get all that, don’t panic, I won’t put you there.


The virtues of the Serpent’s house are swathed in deepest mystery,

But only slaves to simpleness would shun its chequered history,

With drive that sends you far in life and calculating brilliance-

A Slytherin, for good or ill, will make the greatest diff-er-ence.

A Sorting Song by Textualsphinx

I’m in love with New York. It matches my mood. I’m not overwhelmed. It is the suitable scene for my ever ever heightened life. I love the proportions, the amplitude, the brilliance, the polish, the solidity. I look up at Radio City insolently and love it. It’s all great, and Babylonian. Broadway at night. Cellophane. The newness. The vitality. True, it is only physical. But it’s inspiring. Just bring your own contents, and you create a sparkle of the highest power. I’m not moved, not speechless. I stand straight, tough and I meet the impact. I feel the glow and the dancing in everything. The radio music in the taxis, scientific magic, which can all be used lyrically. That’s my last word. Give New York to a poet. He can use it. It can be poetized. Or maybe that’s mania of mine, to poetize. I live lightly, smoothly, actively, ears or eyes wide open, alert, oiled! I feel the glow and the dancing in every thing and the tempo is like that of my blood. I’m at once beyond, over and in New York, tasting it fully.”
Anaïs Nin

What was it like to love him? Asked Gratitude.
It was like being exhumed, I answered, and brought to life in a flash of brilliance.

What was it like to be loved in return? Asked Joy.
It was like being seen after a perpetual darkness, I replied. To be heard after a lifetime of silence.

What was it like to lose him? Asked Sorrow. There was a long pause before I responded:

It was like hearing every goodbye ever said to me—said all at once.

—  Lang Leav; Love & Misadventures

The death of King George VI, on 6 February, 1952, brought to a close a life unsurpassed during the last thousand years of English history for quiet heroism and selfless devotion to the royal duties laid upon him. […] At the news of his passing there was sorrow everywhere for the loss, not only of a king, but of a brother; for in a quiet unique degree King George was at one with his people. No exceptional brilliance set him apart; while the happiness of his family life, the unaffected sincerity of his Christian faith, the friendliness and ready sympathy he showed to everyone, regardless of class or wealth, kindled in them a feeling of intimate fellowship. He was no remote potentate, but their brother King. And while they mourn, they thank God at every remembrance - Malcolm Thomson, The Life and Times of King George VI, 1895-1952.

Above all, I have been a sentient being, a thinking animal, on this beautiful planet, and that in itself has been an enormous privilege and adventure.
—  Oliver Sacks (a professor of neurology at the New York University School of Medicine, and the author of many books, including “Awakenings” and “The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat.”)
timeslip

an IwaOi drabble 

“Don’t you know, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa said, breathless and exhilarated. He threw his hands in the air, tipped back his head and laughed. “I’m in love with you! You and the stars!” He spun around and around and around, his grin threatening to split his face, and he grabbed Iwaizumi’s hands and pulled him into his orbit.

And from that moment on Iwaizumi knew he never wanted to let go. Oikawa was his star and he was Oikawa’s satellite. Pulled along, maybe, but by his own choice. He wanted to do nothing more than commit snapshots of Oikawa’s brilliance to his memory for the rest of his life.

They stopped spinning, puffing breath in nebulous little clouds into the winter chill of midnight.

Oikawa glowed.

Iwaizumi kissed him.

The snow and the moon and the two of them, alone on the hilltop in the park they used to play on when they were kids, they all seemed to float, ethereal and intangible.

“This is the happiest I’ve ever been,” Oikawa mumbled against his lips, running his fingers through Iwaizumi’s hair, slow and reverent. “I-” His voice cracked on a sob. “I didn’t think I’d ever-” He cut himself off with another kiss.

Iwaizumi let him put a stopper in his thoughts for tonight and kissed him back, hands buried in Oikawa’s thick-knit scarf.

They had all the time in the world, after all.

All the time in the entire universe.

If many days ago
Someone asked me
If I would take a hurricane over a breeze
I would’ve laughed
Yes, a hundred times yes
A torrent was always better than a trickle, an avalanche more alive than a rolling stone
Chaos and the promise of probability it sustained
I lived for that
For time was running out.

The allure of madness, the illusion of sheer brilliance weaved around disarray as a way of life
Was all that I had idolised
From one tragic love story to the next
I was collecting heartbreak and personal awakenings like flowers
Except, my sunny days were tearful nights
And sleepless hours counted with cigarettes
Strewn amidst half hearted resolutions
And poetry that told me I was special
I loved it
I loved the rush of each new beginning
And I knew the horror of the endings
But I had never known the middle
For life was short
And middle takes time
But time was running out.

I met you and I wouldn’t say
That lightning struck or stars were brighter
Because they weren’t
For the first time
Stars shone as they should
The World was still moving
And life as I knew it did not change
For the first time
I was at the beginning
And somehow, there was a middle
It was happening to me
With no end in sight
I asked you, and you said
You would take a light drizzle over a storm
That made no sense to me
I said we wouldn’t last long, the end was near
You just said
There’s still time.

I no longer collect heartbreak
In fact, I no longer want to think of myself as someone
Whose mornings are new beginnings
And nights – some kind of rebirth
This is my middle
And it’s beautiful
The sun and the moon ascend each day
And I still go on
For chaos spread evenly over a long, long time
Is what the middle should be
And that’s how the planets were built
And cities and monuments
And human history
Because love only feels like chaos when we count the days
And I’ve stopped counting, with you
There’s still time, there always will be
For time doesn’t exist.

Written by Malvika Arora

What was it like to love her? asked Gratitude.
It was like being exhumed, I answered.
And brought to life in a flash of brilliance.

What was it like being loved in return? asked Joy.
It was like being seen after a perpetual darkness, I replied.
To be heard after a lifetime of silence.

What was it like to lose her? asked Sorrow.
There was a long pause before I responded.
It was like hearing every goodbye ever told, said all at once.

~Three questions (Lang Leav)

anonymous asked:

what's so bad about ron/hermione anyway? that's what JKR wrote so

I love and respect JKR dearly, but the epilogue left much to be desired. The ending of Deathly Hallows gave our imaginations a jumping off point to figure out what would happen next with the reconstruction of the wizarding world. We could have hope for redemption, or fear of retaliation. Voldemort’s death was the conclusion of Harry’s hero quest. At the (real) end of DH, none of the romantic relationships between characters was truly settled: Harry and Ginny had just gotten back together, Ron and Hermione had only had their first kiss at the battle of Hogwarts, etc. There were no expectations, it was the end of an era.

JKR’s epilogue boxed us as readers into this extremely corny view of what happened after the war. At the end of the plot twists, character development, foreshadowing, symbolism, and literary brilliance of the series, we got a sitcom ending. This life or death tale that we put so much time, money, and energy into was over like the last episode of Lost. The concept of a one chapter epilogue 19 years later for something as massive as the Harry Potter franchise just seems a bit ridiculous.

But that’s not the answer to your question..

Keep reading

The dancing shadows deceive, the light of revelation blinds. At times I sense the architecture of my soul, moments I roam its wilderness. Leaping, vertigo, a contact that echoes through eternity. The enemy is apathy, numbness; a death before death, worse than death itself. The discarnate wastes no opportunity, while the apathetic stares idly into the distance while sand slips quietly through fingers, falling, falling… My life must be incandescent brilliance and deepest inky blacks, no greys, no idle-noise-CMB-chatter cruising aimlessly into the void. The staff cracks earth, the nail is struck; the moment ignites, a declaration: here! now! attend! Deep calling unto deep, I dissolve, I become, I, I, I…

What was it like to love him? Asked Gratitude.
It was like being exhumed, I answered, and brought to life in a flash of brilliance.

What was it like to be loved in return? Asked Joy.
It was like being seen after a perpetual darkness, I replied. To be heard after a lifetime of silence.

What was it like to lose him? Asked Sorrow. There was a long pause before I responded:

It was like hearing every goodbye ever said to me—said all at once.

—  Lang Leav, Love & Misadventure

                              weariness drags at bones carved by prophetic message, drawing long yawn from royal lips. they have traveled far, walking upon legs of flesh more than that of steel or feather. battles have drained him of energy, the power stripping him of the will to keep his eyes open any further. it is with slow movements, and a selfish desire that he is drawn toward the comfort of one close to his heart that he may lay claim to his legs. contentment draws long sigh as he sinks against that of warm presence, hand to rest loosely upon leg, and arm to drape across his own waist. a comfort beyond measure sought and given by one of precious value. though he is wary of possible refusal ( fearful of his rejection ), he hopes that he might take sanctuary here, and find rest where trust lay abundant. trust, and the ever growing feeling of love beyond that of simple innocence. it is with waning conscious that he turns lidded gaze toward his companion, a fair vision haloed in light, glowing above him that he speaks, voice low and words slow to part lips.

                              ❛  yeah……that okay?  ❜

@argentlined cont. from here