There's love. And there's THIS love. For that Chameleon favors not the same thing twice. Let these little bottles kiss for color exchange every now and then.
taylor price
NASA
Peter Solarz
Misplaced Lens Cap
Sade Olutola
Today's Document
Monterey Bay Aquarium
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year

Stranger Things
Sweet Seals For You, Always
Game of Thrones Daily
trying on a metaphor
todays bird
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"

@theartofmadeline
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

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@mirettesaleheen
There's love. And there's THIS love. For that Chameleon favors not the same thing twice. Let these little bottles kiss for color exchange every now and then.

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Killing Time, you Sweet Savage!
Nows, my good friends. #OfFaves #Nows
The Day I Sat On The Windowpane (I Bring Down The Skies)
Did i ever tell you about how I feel looking down a window..?
With my little holder of grief and glory of fear and false hope, burning down fragments of memory and smoke circles of days ahead, whether they wait or I as we both shoot up my brain, i sat on the windowpane.
For the first time.
I... watched, the lives on feet. They are many. Rushing. Talking. Heavy. Or light. It does not matter. I can even tell if I can see them at all. I see, but...
And the endless blue that never ends, heavy with the grey and the heavy, of the sad days and weather.
And the people again, and the buildings. And the other windows. Behind the windows. Is there anyone else who's also sitting on the windowpane..?
I listened to the voices down there. I was so afraid they'd all leave. That it would get darker,
... and I'd get heavier. Head. And body. As my lips and tongue were tingling. I press my teeth against my tongue. What do I feel..?
I did not want to be alone.
How I wanted to turn around and drop my legs outside. I looked down and I saw that frame. I want to walk on it. But, I did I not want anyone to know that I'm there. Soaked. Soaking. Sinking. With a head that I can't tell if it's getting heavy or light.
Like it would fly away. Like helium balloon.
Let me tell you now about my looking down window frames and the open spaces; how I always felt like I need to drop down. I never wanted to fly, isn't it ironic..? Not of fear! But...
I do what I do where I am and...
Do I not bring down the skies..? Is not flying is for the ones who can't reach..?
Say I.
Still, I feel like dropping down and piercing the air. But I have been so afraid to die.
I still am.
But I'm more afraid of other things. And... now, that I have dared sit on the windowpane... I fear the day I'd turn around, and let my legs fall to the other side.
They soften a man And let him swim In his own juice It's always when a man's swollen With love and everything Else That it keeps raining Sloattering Flooding Rain Good for the trees and the Grass and the air Good for the things That live alone. #Bukowski #PrayerInBadWeather

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Caught the sun, and we played with her.
Quenchers
Midnight Company… is not just for midnights though. But there it begins. Well… at first, I’ve had this silent companion, with whom I’ve shared all my times, of goodness and pain. And anger. And many others. It’s a She to me. She, has shared my times, happy and sad. A listener. A very good one, and as She speaks to me, in the way She burns. Slow. Or fast, when winds are too unfriendly. She has many of her type. And She, is always there. She asks me to be. Other times I invite her, between my lips and fingers’ gaps. And in times when they are filled, she shares the the moments, beautifying them with passion. That drag, slowly, watch and hear it burn, and deep down my chest, I let her in. Inside me. She’s beautiful. She’s friendlier than time. And times of loneliness, she keeps my company. But she has become not the only one. She has a friend whom, i, have also invited. Who, too, drips down my throat again. He, fills my mind when I need. My friends don’t like him, for they say they have missed me without him. Shall you know more about Him. Downer..? Not only. Our first time was a runaway. He did not taste that tough back then. He has many friends, too. To whom, with more time, we got introduced. Now a bit more tough. He has been my reason for what I wouldn’t dare do without him, despite my far far daring. He was my bittersweet explanation, for mine wouldn’t have been so friendly. It was easier to flow with Him. And they believed. All but one, who has once been a good friend of him too. I, fell in love. And he loved me too. I fell in love with that smell. Hit my nostrils, and the taste. Having to kiss the glass lips to taste. Shoot it down. The way he dripped down my throat, it burns. And shoots up my head, with full force. Still nice to me. I, have fallen in love with the pain of him turning my inside to the out. Giving back all i had and had not. We, got then so close. No doubt there were times he listened to me too long, longer than I needed. Felt my sorrow so heartily. Or, thundered from laughter, with laughter. That I could even dance alone. We got closer than that ability i push too far. Too often. With a dark caress quenches an obsession with a very self made passion, until I’m quenched to my last over time that seems so endless. Emptied. The moments I felt so sorry for the other companions, for the worry, for having to care too much. But as for myself, I wasn’t so sure how I felt. I loved the sorrow I felt for myself, that I could still do more. And repeat. Refill. But no longer than the flash of lightning have i questioned why I do this to myself. Fill. Empty. And fill to empty. With this very moment of the last drop, that won’t be least, striving to run out, I see moments flooding behind my squeezing lids. It was my physical state that goodly reasoned breakdown. I reached out for him when i was happy. For i wanted to feel even more. I reached out for him when i was not, for i wanted to feel happy again. I, reached for him when my waterfalls couldn’t breakout, for he was the breaker of walls. A few walls that I hardly see. They, burned together inside me. And I welcomed them both. My other ones don’t like them much. My other ones don’t like me much, accompanied. They say I’m no longer like myself. The way I speak and laugh. But they know not enough. They know not of that other universe that speaks what i want to hear. When I can not hear otherwise. When, in my creation of denials, I’m started to get faced while time is not on my side. And i see that look on their faces that I cannot name. Disappointment..? Close to that, I just know it’s heavier than words. And ugly. And they won’t care to know. For who reads between lines that seem, to them, of thin sense. They know not what darkness does. They know know not how the burning feels. And when they know they are afraid. But for the love of my companions, i so have them inside of me. For how they feel. How they make me feel.
Resolutionlessly Unkind
In every mind there are these topics that too often repeat. In other words, cores that thoughts mostly revolve around, or pour back into; like time, existence, god, death, mankind, associated with a some emotions. A few of them is loss, reminisce, pain, malady, passion, love - of everything, and the special things that make us happy. These are mine, or mostly the ones I have known so heartily. And still knowing. However, so scarcely do we spare the time to word in moments of glory. And this evening, I walk in again and realize that my Little One is still not here, haven't been for a while, and not that soon will she be. Even though she's not that far, just a few hours far, it doesn't change the fact the she's not home. And, as denial has been my ritual to stay contained, even if I don't, I carry the weight of the wait of her return. That this is just for a while. Until moments like these; when her room is empty, looking the same in mornings, and nights. It has become like a dark hole between two rooms so occupied. The talks. The frequency of talks. The being available, and not. Holding her, spoiling her. Even the fights. And silent moments. Is it her leave, or my not going. I look back at pictures, some of the mornings we rode together, others of other various times. And there's this very one thing have I always repeated, to her, aloud; "How can i ever be without you." I look at me now and here I am. So without her. Just without her. Tonight, I pour down the words of one pain; departure. Will she be another one leaving things behind..? Another of the ones who haven't yet left everything, and me behind?! And in such moments i get lost, if it's the agony of the ones who left, or fear of the one who are yet to leave. Countless times I've questioned if it's about the way I look at it. And them. Should we just stop waiting and let them be where they want to be..? I even question if it's me who knows not where to stay but I know. Answers brings some light, but such resolutions are so resolutionlessly unkind. I know where I want to be and what I care heartily not to leave. The faces and the voices and and minds and the bodies. The places. And their times. I know them all. And to leave... is just another way to die. And it changes not much if I stay, for it's just the slower way to die. Like all else. For even happiness is one way once you know it, and lose it. Or cannot find it in times of need. Even if you learn to fall in love with the pain. And loneliness. And a poisoned mind. To embrace it and treat it nicely. Until it's gone and you are fine. But does it ever go at all. We pretend it does as we get to know that love, of everything, suffocates.
Did You Also Know About The Overseas..?
It's just some time until you go. Too. And you won't have to take all this. You won't have to worry about how many drags i puff or my drunken nights. My scars and pills and fears and running away and screaming. And banging my head against walls when words run away. You'll leave, like everyone else. Did you also know, like everyone eles, that everyone leaves?! I didn't. I learned to learn that love is temporary. For everyone. Why did we learn to love so much. Family. Friends. Lovers. Why did we share too much. Laughters. Cries. Choices. Desperations. Calls. Time. More than Time. Kisses. Beds. Books. Thoughts. Anger. Sense. Nonesense. It's so funny that I'm the one who wants everyone around to stay around, and I'll be the one dying alone. No I don't just want them near me. I want to be there for them. Cry with them and laugh with them and hold them close. Hold their hands and wrap my arms around them. Hear them breathe and breathe with them. Feel their hearts pumping against my chest. Their smell. My smell. Watch their eye color change. Their hair. Fix it. And that inwards bent collar too. I want to watch the veins in their hands and play with their fingers. Did i ever tell you how these moments scare the shit out of me?! I fear the time they won't be there. I'm afraid they feel my fear. I'm afraid they know that I turn my face to hide my waterfalls and pretend to smile. It doesn't work. They know. They know i want to die with them. But they also know that we'll be alone. Apart. They know that everyone leaves. They know that staying is also letting others depart. But how can I follow them all?! I'm one. Now scattered. Now many and shattered for everyone that one day, had to leave. Of fear of tomorrows and after these tomorrows. Maybe this is the way it should be?! Love overseas.
Everyone, and No One.
Birthday. As we break this down, birth refers to a beginning of someone, or something. A certain duration, maybe forever. Day; a unit to measure time and frame it with a lower unit of measuring. Tonight, here I lay with an undefined diversity of thoughts. And emotions. Warming up the room and my cold feet, for these nights are reckless. Cold. I'm also accompanied by my newly gifted Kafkad pages between covers... and, something to pour down my throat and strong enough to burn all the way – down, to up. And, my red pen to line under the text. For I have always favored to mark the special lines; whether they relate to me, or if I admire the thought itself, or the way the have been thought of, or the writing style. Even if I might as well disagree with the content of the text itself. And, the pen is also there to fill the empty spaces over the pages what a thought is suddenly beginning to formulate, finding a way out to life through wording. Sometimes I also draw. I am also enduring the new curse of losing passion of my ultimate pleasures. There was a time when I got cursed with losing the love for the taste of coffee. Another when smoke made me sick. And now the worst of all, at least by now, I cannot be touched by music. Can't hear it. Not even the ones I could feel deep down my chest. Not even the pleasure of good new ones. It feels so cold to lose passions and pleasures. Does it even feel at all..? Back to the Birthday. I've had this person with whom we've mostly spoken in themes. I remember his first metaphor about the people in our lives being like passengers on a train journey, with further elaboration. Tonight, we spoke of flying time. Of hours that pass with the absence of awareness of where the fuck they have gone. Nobody knows. Too many things, and nothing. Like a Birthday Party. Are you familiar with that next day calls of the birthday party when everyone complains about not spending enough time with you..? Everyone, and no one. A table, with a festive state and everyone's talking. Everyone's busy. And you, the birthday person, ping ponging among them all. Everyone, and no one. And no you. Do you even remember the conversations you had..? The ones you spoke to..? I don't. Time. Steal you not yourself from us with faces passing like visions behind a transporting box with windows and other breathing bodies. Some are inside, others are out. Did we just get back to the train journey. Too much noise. Too many voices. So many talks. And peopleless time followed by the desire to be everywhere all the time. But nowhere is the where you're taken. How it feels to take the time to study the faces, distinguish every voice from the other, inhale the scents of each one. Breathe it in. Do not smells remind us?! As well, study the movement of the hands, their eyes and the way the look at you, the way their legs are crossed or spread. Or parallelized. The way they want to speak. Doesn't all this enhance their existence?! And ours too.

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Three Dots
Hanging. A sentence unfinished, or unsure, at least in my phrasing, remains three times dotted in the end. With no end. Hanging. Like decisions unmade. Cannot be made. Undefined. Unaligned with the current layout of what you see. And prefer to only see. The longer they take, the more the commas. And i carry on. Turn a blind eye. And wait for today to come to an end for that thought you're escaping. Maybe it doesn't come tomorrow... Run away. Commas... The First Dot; Came with the first loss. Not loss, but rather the physical broken existence of a beloved one. But that actually put a dot. A single dot, for that had put an end to mirages of faith and beliefs in prayers being one day answered. For that one was not answered. And I know it's not only mine. Grandma, they say he took you away. I actually can no longer find the phone ringing with your voice on the line. But I won't believe them. And I can't believe me. I just can't believe. Or maybe just, cannot can do. Denial. The Second Dot; I learned that no matter how i can love something so much, I just can't keep it. I learned that wishes are acts remaining afraid to come to life. That hopes, are fears in a false smile. Did you know that smile that promises tomorrow..? Promises, too, are false. How can you ever promise tomorrow. How can you know. How can you not know that tomorrow is neither yours, nor mine. I promised you tomorrows too. Disappointment. The Third Dot; I learned that no matter how someone can love you, it doesn't mean they'll stay. It means that one day, they may have to leave. And for they have become a part of you; from under the skin to the flesh and into it, in your blood and bones, that very one day like exorcism they'll dismiss your body with your very soul. Can you still breathe..? Mother, why did you love so much. Mother, why did you teach me to love that much. Did you not know that despite their love, they leave with that love..? Diverged. ... They have followed most of my sentences. All the way. And as I stand, torn between my strengths and cracks, everything remains hanging. Don't ask me questions I cannot know. Don't ask me of what I won't approve; the words I won't say for denial is my current bliss. And curse. For some days I wake up. But i pour that fire down my throat and the time passes like tornados with waterfalls. But they pass. Sometimes... Don't ask me questions of what I have become, for my disappointments are not based on what I could not find; but rather on you whom, in the storms of yours and mine, it was yourself you needed to keep. And as i fought for your tomorrows, yesterdays were where you stayed and kept alive. Don't ask me questions that remind me that the roads diverged will not take me somewhere different, but rather tear me. For here i cannot leave, and there should I go. Dotted. Three times.
Night Trains Don't Stop
A sip. Bitter. And sour too. It burns. On my lips. To my tongue. Down that throat. It burns. Nostrils burn. And eyes feel... full. Watery. Full. Teardrops. Fill my eyes. Down, they fall. More. Pour more. Let it burn. Pain. Heartache. And that sound of Pain and Heartache. Visions. And Voices. From the past. Fear. From tomorrows. And after tomorrows. More. And more of those flowing burns. Numb. The lips. The teeth. And tongue. Heavy. Teardrops down my face. I fall in love with them. They tell stories, can you see..? Cries. And do you hear that sad song next to me..? It's not only outside. Swallow again. The burning goes down. I fall in love with it too. Don't you know..? The love of physical pain..? Don't you know it just keeps you busy. Far from the mind. The scary images. Agonies. Memories. Those times that won't happen again. Even if you die for them. They'll watch you torn. But time cares not. Like a train. When did train ever stop.
Ants On Elephant Skin
Speak of my memory, and hear them speak of elephants. Today, they spoke of mice. Are you also afraid of mice as elephants are. Question mark. Let me tell you. I picture an elephant with little mice running all over him. All over and around. How can he not be. But, this picture was not enough. Shall you hear me speak of what is even more petrifying. Watch that elephant skinned with ants. Small. Moving. Fast. Too fast. That feel. What you see. But... will you also feel. Question mark. There's worse than fear. The fear of fear. Even worse..? Sedate the fear. And wake up. This hour I write in broken voices. Yes. Many. We speak of strength and stands. Then there are these cold nights. Winter winds that smash you down. Smash me down. I have let my fears be. Alive. TOO alive. They lived on my behalf. Breathed me in. I tasted them. On my lips. On my tongue. They filled my mouth. Down my throat. Filled me. I heard them shout and scream and yell at my fuckin face. Even in smiles my eyes could melt. Of fear. Of the day they will be gone. Pictures. Pictures. PICTURES. FEARS. Ants. Eat you. After a while, after they have celebrated their years and yours, those tiny feet that skinned the once upon roughened skin, now thin. It pretends to cover your flesh and bones, and it's the first to crack when the rain dries and winds pierce through. I have tried to sedate the fears. They don't go away. Like ants, they walk slowly so that you wouldn't know where the fuck they are, and to which hell they go. So that you wouldn't feel. Have they skinned your senses as well as mind?! Sedating fears. Like a poison flows. In your blood. Pinpricks. Slow. Ants. Until it bites the heart of you, you wouldn't know it has been there. Eating you. Like Ants... I cannot sedate the fears anymore. For these colorful pills have filled my throat. But... Fear aches. Anger aches. Malady aches - forget not how have I fallen with sickness of the mind. But they eat you to death. I do not want to sedate the fear anymore. For this too is a malady, to be face to face with feels, know the feel, and not feel, is death. But... Fear.
Rain Don't Wash The Asphalt
Maybe, have i poured myself into others' souls. Their glory brings me happiness. Their grief brings me pain. Not that I live for others. Selflessly. My universe revolves around me. Not only mine, but that of others too, the ones I shine and shine for. Should I not die, for an endless rise of thoughts would come to an end. Should they not. Thought shall live. The form of mind. Sequence, of cause and effect. Of what had made me become. So beautiful. So ugly. How could i ever age..? Die..? Under my sealed lids I've seen me haunting something made of paper. Out of breath, i laid down on the street. Raining. Let it rain on me. Sleep on the asphalt. And rain wash me. The skies are grey and the streets are empty and humid. And unfamiliar. She. I don't know her. Wanted to wash me. She did. And i was clean. I've showed those pieces built by me, the best I've done. They fell apart. Did you see..? I'm putting them together. I can't remember. The pictures don't remind me. I can't remember. The pictures. They don't remind me. Of the pieces i have lost. Of my pride. The utmost. And there they stand, watching. But them, i do not know too well. Still I wait. And others. Others bring me happiness when they smile. When they feel care. Content. Glory. I feel warm. Love. They remind me of the reasons why I'd still hold on to more breaths. Days and nights. To want more of this life. To want more... lives! Show me the suffering and sacrifice. Speak of heartaches and watch my cracks. Watch my pieces fall and burn. Ashes. Can they be put together..? Not again. Not again... If you stumble upon those dusts of mine, fetch for pieces with your fingertips. For maybe. Just maybe. You'd find a few remains unburnt. Can we put them back together..? Wait! I don't ask for help... I just fall in love with care. Just in case. But don't you fall in love with mine. And if you don't pass by at all, storms can always rise dust again. So don't you worry, I'm not worried and I don't care. I lost care. But i won't die. For storms, if they rise not the dust, they scatter it. Everywhere. But rain, don't wash the asphalt.
Tomorrow tonight. Of #time. Of #now. #CatchingTime #Mirrors #Repetition #ZeroHour #0000 #8888

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“Buddhist literature is full of statements that sound paradoxical. In Mahāyāna sūtras, for instance, we repeatedly find claims of the form, “x is not x, therefore it is x.” This has led to the widespread idea that Buddhism, like some other religions, wants to point us in the direction of a reality transcending all intellectual understanding. But while this view of Buddhist thought may be common, it is rejected by most Buddhist thinkers.”
So what is the point of those seemingly paradoxical statements?
Image: A copper-plate picture of a sitting Buddha by Francis Chung. CC BY 2.0 via Flickr.
Dialethia.
Of #nows. #Time #CatchingTime #Mirrors #Repetition #TimePattern