I wish I didn't write in riddles

I read writing that is clear and bright and open, like water. It overwhelms me. I feel so connected to the person writing, wanting nothing more than to get to know them. It's like my soul reading their soul free from language. And then I remember how words come to me—the tangled way they leave my lips is the same way they crawl onto the page. I write vines. I write dead things. Things that even if alive are never perceived to be. I write seaweed. I want to write the sea. I want to write spiderwebs because they are patterned and ornate and beautiful without losing their clarity. They are translucent and the threads are light. I write cobwebs aged in attics. Bent by dust and fallen bodies, they have no structure. I write corpses without skeletons.  

i love everyone and noone, everything and nothing

pressure

a beautiful body
a beautiful mind
a beautiful face
beautiful hair
beautiful skin
beautiful art
beautiful ideas
beautiful execution
beautiful words
beautiful stories
beautiful relationships
beautiful soul
beautiful memories
beautiful form
beautiful rallys
beautiful winners
beautiful walk
beautiful style
beautiful taste
beautiful touch
beautiful photos
beautiful carriage
beautiful mannerisms
beautiful movement
beautiful smile
beautiful laugh
beautiful hurt
beautiful tribute
beautiful kindness
beautiful goals
beautiful thoughts
beautiful thoughts

You know that moment when you’re reading a book and you just have to stop and bite your lip and squeal or sigh or close your eyes and wrinkle your nose and forehead and press the book against your heart and just like sit there and try to soak up the gorgeous literature via osmosis? That’s my favorite part of reading. 

-tommyshawsboots, via scatteredtealeaves 

When I was ten years old, my father and I took a trip to Paris, leaving my younger brother and mother in London where she was filming a movie. My dad believed in one-on-one time with us, and sometimes that extended to a weekend away. We stayed at a great hotel and he said I could order whatever I wanted for breakfast (French fries). We went to the Pompidou museum, the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre - the usual spots. It was pretty great. On the plane back to London he asked me if I knew why we had gone, just he and I, to Paris for the weekend. I said no, but I felt so lucky for the trip. He said, “I wanted you to see Paris for the first time with a man who would always love you, no matter what.” From that time on, Paris was and continues to be very special to me. I lived there for five months in 1994 and I have made many trips back. These are the places in Paris I stay and eat and toast my dad.

- Gwyneth Paltrow

We Are Carved Like Marble

Snarl of crackling Earth: a sound like shovel scraping stone. An utterly sly, serpentine uttering unpleasing to the ear, but brought about by the rolling of four wheels onto the street perpendicular to the driveway, my father's rendition of "Honey, I'm Home", it could be wind chimes.

"All the strands are interwoven, often in grotesque patterns, but everything echoes everything else..."

-Isaiah Berlin, The Soviet Mind: Russian Culture Under Communism