Latest Posts by pazzied - Page 2
"I started calling him the swan cause he wore that funny swan outfit & then he started calling me a mongoose I don't even know what that is"
REBLOG IF you tell people you're tired when you're actually sad.
Ha ha. Oh. Yes.
inkstone | idothattoo
The Capitol is seen at twilight at the end of a record snowfall, Wednesday, Feb. 10, 2010, in Washington.
I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.
from ‘The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath’ by Sylvia Plath (via casinegro) (via yoursummerheart)
Head, Heart || Lydia Davis
Heart weeps. Head tries to help heart. Head tells heart how it is, again: You will lose the ones you love. They will all go. But even the earth will go, someday. Heart feels better, then. But the words of head do not remain long in the ears of heart. Heart is so new to this. I want them back, says heart. Head is all heart has. Help, head. Help heart.
The Listeners//Walter de la Mare
"Is there anybody there?" said the Traveller, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence champed the grass Of the forest's ferny floor; And a bird flew up out of the turret, Above the Traveller's head: And he smote upon the door again a second time; "Is there anybody there?" he said. But no one descended to the Traveller; No head from the leaf-fringed sill Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes, Where he stood perplexed and still. But only a host of phantom listeners That dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men: Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair, That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveller's call. And he felt in his heart their strangeness, Their stillness answering his cry, While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, 'Neath the starred and leafy sky; For he suddenly smote on the door, even Louder, and lifted his head:-- "Tell them I came, and no one answered, That I kept my word," he said. Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone.
