I’m not going
to tell you
that I’ll love you
forever .

I’m not going
to string you along
with fake promises
of being all yours
till my last breath .

I’m not going
to close my heart
to stop others
from evading it .

Because I know
I’m a mere mortal ,
being flawed is
my essence .

My imperfections
assure me
that my heart
is still pounding
inside the cage it’s
guarded in .

What I’m going to
tell you is that -

I’m going to love
a thousand different
things and people .
I’m going to be
person of my own right,
of my own might .
I’m going to choose
not to suffocate
myself with
marveling expectations
and unspoken apologies .
I’m going to travel to
places I’ve seen
in pictures flooding
across magazine covers .


I’m going to do
everything I think
I was meant to .
And ,
I’m still going to love you
with all my
consciousness ,
till the time I can .

- Mortal Love Comes And Goes , Dear .
“I dream
about a million
different things .
But ,
vivid images
of sleeping
in your arms
on a cozy summer night
are my
all time favourite .”
- when will I get to live my dreams ?
“.الجيات أحسن من الرايحات
What is coming is better than what is gone.”
“I’m not good with people.
I have a habit of taking their hands,
walking down the street of happenstance
with (blind) trust between our fingers,
and making memories along the road.
I let them become a habit
and a part of my daily routine.
I take their words and keep them
sheltered and safe
in the walls of my mind.
I find life in their eyes and their smiles
and make it my skin,
shedding these layers of sadness
that have covered me for quite some time.
Eventually, I think this is my ultimate weakness.
It’s scary to open your ribcage,
allow your monsters to come out,
and let people in
because there is a possibility that
they’ll become monsters themselves,
trapped inside your chest.
(But I hope someday,
someone will take my hand
and be the habit I won’t have to try to unlearn,
the routine I won’t have to try to forget,
and the presence in my chest
that won’t turn into something
I’ll have to extract).”

You want to say Hi to the cute girl on the subway. How will she react? Fortunately, I can tell you with some certainty, because she’s already sending messages to you. Looking out the window, reading a book, working on a computer, arms folded across chest, body away from you = do not disturb. So, y’know, don’t disturb her. Really. Even to say that you like her hair, shoes, or book. A compliment is not always a reason for women to smile and say thank you. You are a threat, remember? You are Schrödinger’s Rapist. Don’t assume that whatever you have to say will win her over with charm or flattery. Believe what she’s signaling, and back off.

If you speak, and she responds in a monosyllabic way without looking at you, she’s saying, “I don’t want to be rude, but please leave me alone.” You don’t know why. It could be “Please leave me alone because I am trying to memorize Beowulf.” It could be “Please leave me alone because you are a scary, scary man with breath like a water buffalo.” It could be “Please leave me alone because I am planning my assassination of a major geopolitical figure and I will have to kill you if you are able to recognize me and blow my cover.”

On the other hand, if she is turned towards you, making eye contact, and she responds in a friendly and talkative manner when you speak to her, you are getting a green light. You can continue the conversation until you start getting signals to back off.

The fourth point: If you fail to respect what women say, you label yourself a problem.

There’s a man with whom I went out on a single date—afternoon coffee, for one hour by the clock—on July 25th. In the two days after the date, he sent me about fifteen e-mails, scolding me for non-responsiveness. I e-mailed him back, saying, “Look, this is a disproportionate response to a single date. You are making me uncomfortable. Do not contact me again.” It is now October 7th. Does he still e-mail?

Yeah. He does. About every two weeks.

This man scores higher on the threat level scale than Man with the Cockroach Tattoos. (Who, after all, is guilty of nothing more than terrifying bad taste.) You see, Mr. E-mail has made it clear that he ignores what I say when he wants something from me. Now, I don’t know if he is an actual rapist, and I sincerely hope he’s not. But he is certainly Schrödinger’s Rapist, and this particular Schrödinger’s Rapist has a probability ratio greater than one in sixty. Because a man who ignores a woman’s NO in a non-sexual setting is more likely to ignore NO in a sexual setting, as well.

So if you speak to a woman who is otherwise occupied, you’re sending a subtle message. It is that your desire to interact trumps her right to be left alone. If you pursue a conversation when she’s tried to cut it off, you send a message. It is that your desire to speak trumps her right to be left alone. And each of those messages indicates that you believe your desires are a legitimate reason to override her rights.

For women, who are watching you very closely to determine how much of a threat you are, this is an important piece of data.

satisfiedparadise:

Augustus Waters offered to write hazel a sequel to her favourite book, and you can’t reply to my text message

“Touch me .
Without hands ,
with thoughts .”
- 6 word story , Momentary Cravings .

Watch "Nindiya Re HD, Kaavish, Coke Studio Pakistan, Sea…" on YouTube   

Nindiya Re HD, Kaavish, Coke Studio Pakistan - Best thing I’ve heard in a while , the best I’ll ever hear maybe . The music is hauntingly beautiful .

I’ve never loved her more .

saudade [sou-dahd,dahj]”
- (noun) A Portuguese, untranslatable word romanticizing nostalgia in its purest form. This beautiful feeling captures the yearning for someone or something that you love, which is now lost. It a is melancholic longing. Saudade’s pronunciation varies according to the speaker and country, which only adds to its sincerity and vulnerability. (via wordsnquotes)
“Music is liquid architecture; Architecture is frozen music.”
- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (via mirroir)
all-good-die-young:

t
“All right, so I exaggerate, and
in bad taste. Let’s say Love has put away its balance,
tape measure, and nails and is poking around in its tin
lunch pail. So how can I measure how much I love you?
Except the way the willow measures the universe.
Except the way your hair is tangled among the stars.
The way the turtle’s shell reflects the night’s sky.
I’m not counting on anything anymore.”
- Richard Jackson, from “No Turn on Red,” Heartwall (University of Massachusetts Press, 2000)