you belong with queue

A few days ago I reached 2K and I’m so so happy because when I made this blog I didn’t think anyone would follow me, let alone two very cute thousand!!!!! So I decided to make an appreciation post for my mutuals!!!!

Thank you so much for being all so lovely and nice to me. If there’s one thing that makes me happy during the day is that I know later I’ll come home and I’ll be able to ignore all my responsibilities on tumblr, hehe. You’re all super important and I adore each and every one of you. You can all be dead ass sure whenever one of you do as much as like something I reblog I sigh in complete happiness because I look up to all of you and even if I barely ever interacted with you, I admire you more than you know.

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A part of me wanted to see you, touch you, exaggerate stupid feelings that belonged to you,
For once, in this long queue of all the chances that I blew.

That were true enough to make anyone fall,
Instead I blew off in a squall.
Nothing stopped me reminding of things that were yours, strokes that went up and then down, never stopped their chores.

All we extraordinarily shared were the number of affairs
But everytime they would come out on unaware unwanted questionnaires.

It was all a show off and now the Show’s down, you know!
And now once again seed of love has to be ploughed.

For once who were in shadows, have to be now in a portfolio.

I saw you today. And the funny thing is that I didn’t break down at the sight of you or completely fall apart at the sound of your voice. My heart didn’t shatter in a billion pieces and the life didn’t drain out of my face. I guess you can say that I’ve moved on, and boy, am I glad that I did.
—  except from a book I’ll never write #6 // D.P
English gothic

You’ve got somewhere to be, but it doesn’t matter—your feet gravitate towards the end of the queue. The sense of comfort that an orderly line provides will not save your marriage, but it fills you with a warm sense of belonging. It doesn’t matter where the queue is going; you’ll never leave.

A beautiful field blooms, full of wild flowers. Overnight, a trolley appears. Then another, then another. The uprising has begun.

It’s 5pm. A bell tolls, all work comes to a halt. People crowd around the kettle, pouring scalding tea down their throats. It doesn’t matter if you don’t like tea. You’re one of us now.

You stare resolutely at the ground as you pass a group of chavs, pretending you don’t see them. They watch you go, waiting, silent—when darkness falls they gather about your house, numerous, leaving cigarette butts and empty cider cans in their wake. Outside your windows, the chanting starts. “Bruv. Bruv. Bruv. Bruv.

There’s only one biscuit left on the plate. Everyone pretends like it doesn’t exist —you stare at it, hesitant. “Would anyone like the last biccy?” you ask. Confused eyes turn to you, and everyone shakes their head, mumbling excuses. You’re too ashamed to take it. It continues to sit there, untouched.

Someone bumps into you in the street. You know it’s their fault, but you duck your head anyway, mumble Sorry. Sorry. You don’t know why you’re sorry, but you have been your entire life.

It’s rush hour. You make plans to avoid the M25—it doesn’t matter. All roads lead inwards. You join the queue and put your car into first gear. You might as well cancel your plans, you belong to the motorway now.

Wherever you go, people comment on the weather. “It’s been raining all week,” they say. You can only nod dumbly. Yes, yes it has. “Look at this beautiful weather we’re having!” they exclaim, staring up at a tiny patch of blue amongst grey clouds. Again, you nod. Yes, yes. You go home—”How was your day, love?” Fine, fine—dreadful weather, isn’t it?

Martha replies to that email you sent her last week. She sighs it with a polite, emotionless, regards. You check your tea for poison and can never look her in the eye again.

After a long winter, the thermostat finally reads 10C. People pile outside in shorts and flip flops—their teeth chatter, fingers red and frozen. “The sun,” they whisper, brainwashed by months of darkness. “Spring is coming. Spring is coming.”


Happy Birthday Alastair Sim: 9th October 1900 - 19th August 1976

- It was revealed to me many years ago with conclusive certainty that I was a fool and that I had always been a fool. Since then I have been as happy as any man has a right to be.

We go to our childhood home looking for something we lost. Our mouths drip with questions of how we became old suddenly and where our feeling of naivety went, but all we find is another place we no longer belong. Instead of answers we are filled with the sense that something we never thought to give name to, that we never took the time acknowledge because we assumed it would always be with us, that it was in-fact a part of us, is gone.
—  Growing Up And Suddenly Feeling Like There Is Nowhere You Belong, Lora Mathis