My best memory: 
I am on a bridge.
My worst memory:
I am on a bridge.
 
My father is next to me,
Smoking.
I look up –
The sky is clear;
The sun is bright,
My father says,
“I’m proud of you,
Son.”
 
He smokes his cigarette
Down to the filter
And drops it over the rail.
I look down –
Our figures are in the water,
Rippled, murky, dark.
 
“You’re a good kid.”
 
He keeps saying that and
I don’t know why.
 
He takes out his Marlboros,
Offers the pack to me.
I take it.
 
There’s tape on the box,
On the tape, there is a hair –
The hair is red.
 
“You remind me of me
When I was young.”
 
I look down at us
In the river –
My father has black hair;
So do I.

(via wearetheneonlights)

likeafieldmouse:

Andrei Tarkovsky - Instant Light (1979-82)

From a series of 60 Polaroid photographs taken in Tarkovsky’s native Russia and in Italy, where he spent time in political exile.

“Tarkovsky often reflected on the way time flies and wanted to stop it… The melancholy of seeing things for the last time is the highly mysterious and poetic essence that these images leave with us. It is as though Andrei wanted to transmit his own enjoyment quickly to others. And they feel like a fond farewell.”

kikachumartini:

do you ever get in the shower and feel like you forgot to take something off?

as if a piece of clothing is still there somewhere, a sock, or maybe your underwear

but it’s your skin, you’re so disconnected from your body that your skin doesn’t feel like it belongs to you

and the beating of the water is dull and faint and if you could only just

undress a little

more

(via roosterteat)

randomlinktime replied to your post: Thinking about posting some spoken word if I can…

oooooh do it do it do it!!! but no pressure. (but you should definitely do it.)

lol okay okay if i find the time

Thinking about posting some spoken word if I can find a time to record.  Maybe.  We’ll see. s:

(via zombielove74)

“at some point you just have to decide you’re done with being sad” 
she said
but you’re never really 
done
with being sad

you sink deep into the vague distortions of aching self-loathing
into places so numb and paralyzing that not even the
glutteral howlings of your primitive self
appropriately describe your despair
and just when the falling slows and the thick darkness evens out
when you catch yourself thinking
“ah, i’ve reached the bottom,
at last i can be 
done
with being sad”
a light flickers on
illuminates the chasm beneath
and you realize that your sadness is still
incomplete
you realize that you’re never really
done
with being sad
and that “despair” isn’t exactly the right word
either

it’s more like…

bereft

janelwritespoetry:

you never really
know someone
until you’ve read
what they write
at 3 am when
loneliness
consumes them
but does not 
destroy them

(via mydeardeadpond)

(via adventures-of-the-blackgang)