words strung together

This is a Vessel.

It contains hope. Within it are some of my favorite words ever to be strung together. It contains a message, a very important one at that. Within it are sounds that helped me quiet my fears. When used, it contains light and strength.

This is the Vessel that carried me home.

Happy Birthday, old pal.

|-/

She thinks about the things that have hurt her and then she thinks about beauty and how little of it she sees in even beautiful things. She wonders if people who’ve been hurt more see more beauty. She wonders how a few strung-together words can seem so meaningful when she doesn’t believe them at all.
—  Mary Miller, from “Instructions,” Always Happy Hour: Stories

Thoughts from my Childhood

When will I grow up
and become the hero I forgot to draw
when my teacher gave me the crayons
to imagine the engine to world peace
–I guess it’s too late now?

Dreams are easily forgotten
I am reminded everyday.
The memories quickly fade
the emotions barely stay
–one minute to recount the adventure.

Sometimes I succeed
and revisit the fantastic beasts.
I rerun the path to flee,
and sees that man again,
waving at me to please, please remember when.

Light-to-Dark Series: Clio, the Muse of history and poetry

Stories are written for friends and lovers. History is written from desperate winners and hopeless romantics. How many words are strung together out of endless sorrow and forsaken relationships? She knows the power words have over humanity and lets them drown in the emptiness of wanting more.

for @therepublicofletters

i hope tyler knows how important he is. his art and what he’s doing for so many people. what he started in his basement when he was seventeen in an attempt to save himself has saved so many people—it’s really incredible what him and josh are bringing into the world through their music. it blows my mind when people think that art is trivial, or unimportant, or just about being able to make things that look or sound nice. because what they’re doing with their music and their band is real art. the people they’re saving and giving hope to through nothing but a few words and melodies strung together, that’s art. they’re proving to the hopeless that they aren’t alone in their struggles, and that they genuinely understand what they’re going through. they’re connecting to the people who need connections the most with their music. and i just hope that when tyler questions whether or not the songs he’s writing are good enough or worthwhile, that he knows how important he and his art is to so many people. 

but my dear,” he said, “you are not a story.”
 
“you are not a book, given to them
as a means of escape from the harsh truths
that devour this world.
 
you are not a beautiful set of words,
strung together only to elegantly roll
off the tongues of passers-by.
 
you are not a spectacular tale
of good conquers evil, of light against dark.
 
you are a thunderstorm,
beauty and fear in the perfect balance,
kind yet frightening,
you, my dear, are painfully real.
—  e.m.b, the painful truth of the matter
A Reader’s Poignant and Insightful Email About UNWIND

Dear Neal Shusterman,

Books are simply words strung together on pages that tell a story to intrigue a reader. If they are good, they will have a hidden theme or message among the words. Many times an engaging book will touch my heart, capture my interests and I will eagerly be led through the series. Suddenly the series will finish and I will feel such a loss, as though there is a space inside of me that needs to be filled with more words and events that happen next in the series. But then after a few days, life carries on. The book that is so amazing is returned to the library, put back on the shelf, and forgotten. A new book is picked up, and the cycle repeats. Your book Unwind, Mr. Shusterman, does NOT fit into this category.

After reading Unwind, I could not continue to read another book. I was stuck. I have never before faced a book that has kept me from moving on and finding the next story. Perhaps it is just that. Your book is not really a just a story, and it has more than a simple message. Your book has a voice.

The voice is quiet, and probably not heard by all. It repeated itself over and over in my head, as my mind attempted to decipher what exactly it means to be alive, and how our modern society functions. This concept turned into an internal battle, as it did with many of the characters in Unwind. The thoughts of when your soul develops and the importance of life itself engulfed many hours of my day. Repeating over and over inside me. Every time I thought I had come to a conclusion, new questions would form.

The exaggerated form of our own society that is depicted in Unwind has truly transformed the way I view our modern culture, and allowed me to question society itself. Reading your book has made me focus on the way our society overcomplicates and creates inefficient and unproductive methods to “solve” controversies. When looking at society from the outside, steps taken forward to resolve issues are in fact steps moving backward. By writing Unwind, you have stimulated the bystander viewpoint, and gifted a new perspective for readers to explore. This alternative view permits readers to not only see into their own future, but the future of my generation as a whole.

That is why in I would like to thank you Mr. Shusterman. You have disguised in a book a large concept for young people to discover. We are society, and we are the future. No matter what happens, the world will one day be in our hands. Whether we decide to make a change for the better is our choice now, and I know more of us must grasp this idea and use in to our advantage. The Unwind Dystology pointed out to me a direction that displayed what my capabilities are, to clearly see the large influence I can have on our future.

Sincerely yours,

Grace H.

This has got to be one of my favorite fan emails ever! It captures the point and purpose of Unwind in a way I haven’t seen before. Thank you so much, Grace.

Enough

Fic summary: "Iwa-chan, what if I’m not good enough?“ Oikawa asks, still staring at the ground. His voice is hollow. "What if I’m never good enough?”

Read below or on AO3

Not good enough.

The first time Hajime hears those words strung together, he is fourteen and Oikawa is on his hands and knees on the floor of the volleyball court. They lost to Shiratorizawa a week ago. Tears are streaming down his cheeks and his shoulders shake with stifled sobs. His fists are clenched against the wood floor, and Hajime thinks of his own balled hand, hanging useless at his side still stinging with the contact with Oikawa’s jaw. They’d had this interaction before, Hajime telling Oikawa to stop working himself into the ground and Oikawa needing to be physically forced back into listening. This time, though, Hajime is out of things to yell at him. He thought the problem had been solved for the most part. Oikawa had taken it to heart that the team supported him and that he supported the team, and Hajime had thought he’d been doing better. He hadn’t melted down at the end of the tournament, and Hajime had thought things were finally going to be okay.

Really though, he should’ve known better. No matter how much he smiles, how much he talks about teamwork and encourages the people around him, Oikawa still carries that seed of insecurity on the inside. Hajime is stupid to have thought it would’ve been buried after just one breakthrough.

“Iwa-chan, what if I’m not good enough?” Oikawa asks, still staring at the ground. His voice is hollow. “What if I’m never good enough?”

The seed had been buried, Hajime realizes belatedly. And it had taken root and grown deep within Oikawa, all while Hajime had been complacent, thinking it was gone for good. He tries at first to be harsh, because it’s what he knows best. He yells at Oikawa, telling him he’s stupid to think he’s anything less than outstanding, because why the hell would someone who isn’t good win the goddamn best setter award? Doesn’t he know that the team gave him everything they could, and it wasn’t fair to think so low of himself when everyone else gave him so much trust? He shouts that Oikawa knows he’s better than this, that the team knows he’s better than this, and that Oikawa had given them the strength no one else could give them and if he wasn’t such an idiot, maybe he could see that.

But instead of looking up at him with understanding in his eyes, Oikawa is shrinking away from him. Hajime’s voice grows quiet as Oikawa gets smaller and smaller, until Hajime is silent and Oikawa is curled in on himself, clutching his knees to his chest and breathing shallowly, his small sobs making the only sound in the empty gymnasium. Hajime stares at Oikawa, at a loss for the first time. He’d always known what to say to him, how to pull Oikawa out of the depths of his head and back to the surface where he could breathe. Now, however, the depths have grown deeper, and Hajime isn’t sure if he can reach far enough to save him. Horror settles into his stomach and despair yawns in his chest, consuming him as he realizes he cannot fix this.

Defeated, Hajime falls to his knees beside Oikawa, the dull sound of his flesh hitting the hard wood reverberating with a finality that is not lost on him. The gavel has fallen, judging them both harshly. Oikawa, now beyond fixing, Hajime, sentenced to the knowledge that he’d been unable to stop it.

Hajime isn’t sure when he starts crying, or how long he kneels there next to Oikawa, impossibly unsure of what to do next. He wants to reach out to his friend, but the ghost of the impact of his fist with Oikawa’s jaw haunts him as he thinks of how Oikawa flinched away from him, crying and broken on the floor. So he waits, holding himself inches away from Oikawa hoping that the other knows that he’s there, if only he wants him.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa whispers after what seems like forever. Hajime stiffens, afraid of what will come next, but remains silent. He can’t push Oikawa now, not when he’s this close to the edge. “Hajime.” Oikawa’s voice is more urgent now, and Hajime turns to look at him. Oikawa has finally lifted his head, his brown eyes peering up at Hajime with such vulnerability and sorrow that Hajime wants to look away just to spare Oikawa’s pride. But now was not the time for things like that, so he looked back and hoped his face could convey what his words could not.

“Do you ever get scared, Hajime?” Oikawa asks after several moments of silence, his voice cracking on the word scared. Hajime considers the weight deep in his chest that he’d felt when he had walked into the gym to find Oikawa slamming serve after serve into the ground, tears streaming down his face and his bad knee wobbling dangerously as he landed. He thinks about the horror that had settled in his gut as he realized Oikawa was getting smaller as he yelled. He thinks about the crushing sense of failure he’s feeling right now, having failed his best friend. He’ll never understand Oikawa’s fears, he knows, but oh does he know what fear feels like.

“Yes,” Hajime breaths. Oikawa falls forward then, allowing his body to slump against Hajime’s and wrapping his arms around Hajime’s waist. Hajime can feel Oikawa sobbing against him, and there’s wet spots in his shirt where Oikawa’s tears are soaking through the fabric. Oikawa’s fingers claw at his back as if they’re searching for something, anything to anchor themselves to, and Hajime gently reaches up and pries them away. After a moment’s hesitation, he tangles their fingers together and brings their hands to his chest, pressing them to his heart. Somewhere along the line Hajime has begun to cry in earnest, his body quaking almost as much as Oikawa’s as he fights to keep himself under control.

“I’m sorry, Tooru.” Hajime cries into Oikawa’s hair, dropping one of Oikawa’s hands to wrap an arm around him and cradle him against his chest. He hopes that this gentleness can convey to Oikawa what his roughness could not, that Oikawa was valued and cherished and the furthest thing from “not good enough” that he could possibly think of. But Hajime knows it doesn’t work that way, that he can’t fix Oikawa with just a hug and an apology for things he can’t possibly understand, no matter how much he wants to. All he can do right now is support him and hope that, for now, simple support is enough to get them through to better days when maybe, just maybe, they can be okay.  

S.coups: Anatomy

Summary: angst angst angst angst I hope this is sad enough for you


It started off as nothing more than a simple kiss on the cheek, void of feeling and emotion. When one too many ‘I love you’s and been missed and the feeling of arms wrapped arounds waists was nothing but a distant memory. It started off as nothing more than a simple kiss on the cheek, void of feeling and emotion.

“You’re an adult, Seungcheol. It’s time to start acting like one.” You say when he comes home for the third night in a row, a faint hint of alcohol on his breath and slurred words sitting on his tongue that he would regret in the morning.

He nods, letting his eyes close as the buzz in his brain takes over. He falls asleep to the sound of your voice, nonsense in his ears, words just barely strung together by your worry for him. The ‘I love you’ that presses against the cage that is your teeth, screaming to be let free, but is never unlocked. You pull a blanket over him and try to convince yourself that it isn’t his fault. It started off as nothing more than a simple kiss on the cheek, void of feeling and emotion. One that is pressed to his skin at the brink of dawn while he’s passed out on the couch, your plaid patterned blanket draped over his hips. You sleep alone in a bed that’s too big for just one person.

Keep reading

I’m standing in the middle of a garden
and saying I love you, I love you.
It’s your garden, I think. I’m standing
in your garden saying I love you
and the garden is on fire.

You, rose bush girl. You, with your
thorn studded hands. You, an oak tree
splintered by lightning.

I say I love you and suddenly I feel
more like words strung together
than like flesh and blood.
I say I love you and I am standing
on a cliff face screaming and the
next second I am free falling.
I say I love you and my clavicles
are clanking together under the
too big skin of my body.

I’m standing in your garden saying
I love you and I am burning and you
look at me and say I love you too
but then

you turn around and run.

—  Darshana Sureshuntitled 

“No, you don’t get to touch me.” Mike slurred, his words lazily strung together as the alcohol on his breath filled his eyes with a drunken haze. “You don’t get to look at me with concern, you don– you don’t get to just waltz in here and touch me, all knight in shining armor. I’m fine. I don’t need your help, not your help– because… because you? You scare me. You scare me.” He mumbled, swaying close to his friend that had somehow become his lover before quickly pulling away to rest against the railing of the stairs leading into his apartment building.

You exist.
Past my own horizons,
On what feels like the edge of the world.
Further than the streets and roads between us;
Yet somehow closer.

You exist.
Brighter than undiscovered stars.
With a smile that lights worlds,
And a touch that sets bodies alight.
In your wake I have smouldered to ash.

You exist.
As a parable, a myth, a bedtime tale…
A collection of words strung together,
By an inadequate poet.
No words could ever do you justice.

You exist.
Both in another’s arms
And in my memories; Simultaneously.
I feel you everywhere I go,
With every painful step.

But you exist.
And that has always been,
And continues to be my reason to smile.
And weather you exist in my world or not -
I will always be forever grateful
… that you exist.

—  Ranata Suzuki, Existential Love
Hm” she muttered under her breath, “You seem different now.”
In a time only recently becoming distant, these words strung together from your familiar voice would have been all I needed.
They could’ve been all I needed to feel like maybe there was enough room in my heart and under the same sky for me to grow into something your light couldn’t reach.
For so long, you leaving signified a loss, a loss of myself, a loss of love. But now, these words meant nothing to me.
My branches had long since spread onto new minds and been graced with new love.
“Yeah.” I offered as genuinely as I could, “I’ve had to be.
—  Lovebug (cured)

untoglory  asked:

☯ Maedhros' return after his captivity

SCENES FROM THE CANON || accepting

          Morifinwë cursed. He cursed at great length, and he cursed with great creativity. He invented new words when his extensive stock of them ran out, he strung words together in ways the language had never intended. He was become a loremaster of the vituperative arts; had he been a bard like his brother, he might well have altered the world with the force of his blistering, poisonous tongue.

         He cursed; and he slammed both fists against the wall of this miserable, wretched, hole-ridden building which served as their home. Mud-and-straw insulation daubed between the raw-wood logs cracked under the blow and sent down a fine, pattering rain of dust upon the rush-lined floor. Animals, they lived like animals here! They were to have been lords, kings of their own realms, and instead they found themselves squatting on the marge of a frigid lake where the harsh cries of swans reminded him daily of the screams in Alqualondë.

         He could not sleep without hearing those screams; and his remedy was quite simple. He did not sleep.

         And his brother, his oldest brother, his king… his brother had come back to them only to live in this place as wretched as the rest of them and more so for he came back scarred and thin and wounded, he came back half-broken and uncrowned! Morifinwë’s curses at last ran out and he leaned his forehead against the wall, heedless of the rough splinters where the logs had been smoothed too hastily. 

         He had fought his brothers over it, had wanted to go after Maitimo, bring him home, bring him back to them! Not him, not him too! How could they lose father and eldest in one blow, so soon after the loss of their first and greatest king, their grandfather, their fountainhead? The three losses were one loss, great and enormous and crushing. Three kings of the Noldor, taken by darkness and ruined and thrown down. 

         He had fought them; and Morifinwë had cursed then, too, had cursed their logic and their reason; he had thrown things, had broken things, had let all the wrath inside him out in a wild torrent that made the edges of his vision darken with redness like blood and narrow down until the whole world went away.

         He’d heard screaming; and knew it for his own.

         But when the world had come back, he had been not screaming but laughing, two brothers clinging to each arm to hold him down. He remembered the sound of his own fey laughter and how he had recognized it as his father’s and fallen still and silent so abruptly that Kano had worried.

         He took a deep breath and straightened up from the wall, brushing black hair from his face – how long had it been since he’d worn proper braids? how long since he’d bothered to care? – and putting back his shoulders, lifting his chin. He could be proud, even now. He could be strong. 

         He collected himself, and then turned on a heel to take in the sight of his tall and proud brother, the one who had always been there, always been so strong for them—sitting bandaged and scarred and weak and in need of someone to be strong for him now, instead. Not him, too.

FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FOR MAKING ME FALL IN LOVE WITH YOU LAST SUMMER FUCK YOU FOR MAKING ME THINK I WAS WORTHWHILE FUCK YOU FOR MAKING ME STAY UP UNTIL 4AM I STILL STAY UP EVERY NIGHT I USUALLY DONT THINK ABOUT YOU BUT WHEN I DO I GET SO ANGRY I JUST DONT GET HOW YOU LET ME SLIP THROUGH YOUR FINGERS I WAS FUCKING GOLD I COULD HAVE LOVED YOU BUT INSTEAD YOU STOMPED ON ME LIKE GUM UNDER YOUR SHOE YOU PEELED ME OFF LIKE I WAS JUST FIFLTH I AM NOT FIFLTH I AM HAPPY NOW I SEE SUNSHINE NOW I FEEL LOVED NOW FUCK YOU FOR MAKING ME THINK I COULDNT BE LOVED WHEN I SAW YOU FOR THE FIRST TIME YOU LOOKED RIGHT AT ME AND STARED LIKE OH SHIT I BROKE HER AND THEN MONTHS LATER YOU APOLOGIZED AS IF SOME BULLSHIT WORDS STRUNG TOGETHER COULDVE TAKEN AWAY THE NIGHTS I SPENT CRYING OVER YOU THE DAYS I SPENT TURNING MYSELF BLACK AND BLUE TO NUMB THE PAIN I STILL FORGAVE YOU THOUGH I ALWAYS DID I LET YOU COME BACK TIME AND TIME AGAIN UNTIL I WAS BLEEDING AND COUGHING UP BROKEN RIBS BUT THEN I SAW THE BOY WITH BRIGHT BLUE EYES AND IVE HAD MORE SUNNY DAYS EVER SINCE AND IVE LEARNED TO DANCE IN THE RAIN NOW IT NO LONGER STINGS MY SKIN SO FUCK YOU FOR TEARING ME OPEN YOU SHOULD THANK HIM FOR SEWING ME SHUT AND SHOWING ME HOW GOOD IT FEELS TO LAUGH WITHOUT MY SEAMS BEING BUST OPEN

hersanity  asked:

grabs her hand n pulls her over to her n cups her cheek n kisses her right on the lips / but like platonically ? like strictly heterosexually , straight , friendly make out session :/

@hersanity​!


     hands  interlocked  ,  clumsy  legs  stumble  forward  at  the  tug.  tongue  has  strung  words  together  ,  but  these  words  never  make  it  through  pink  lips.  instead  ,  a  kiss  is  planted  on  her  mouth.  the  pair  of  lips  on  hers  taste  like  STRAWBERRIES  and  they’re  soft  like  cotton.  she  BLINKS  ,  cheeks  burning  with  a  blush  ,  before  she  rests  hazel  eyes  to  a  close.  heart  thuds  in  her  chest  ,  fingers  TREMBLE  with  nerves.  a  sudden  burst  of  CONFIDENCE  blossoms  in  her  chest  though  ,  and  she’s  quick  to  respond.  she  presses  forward  ,  hands  finding  their  way  into  jordan’s  bouncy  curls.  there  was  NOTHING  wrong  with  a  bit  of  friendly  kissing  ,  right?