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An Ode to Lost UmbrellasHe sees her on a rainy day, when she is not looking. Her eyes are blue and her hair is red and her frown, he thinks, does not quite suit her. It wasn’t so much her prettiness that caught him, nor her bright, bright hair. She has a white umbrella. It is quite simple and it is quite plain but it is an umbrella (something that he forgot). Everything else just rushes up in the masses like all the stars in the sky as he just happens to notice that her long, slim hands fingering something hanging round her pale, slender throat and a lock of hair just curls adorably, settling on the side of her face as she turns (and that he really has been staAn Ode to Lost Umbrellas
by ~dancinginferno
cosmogony.*cosmogony.
she likes to think about the rainy days. and the sunny nights.
*
when she writes, she likes to write of love that has the wrong beginnings. and really, no endings.
it makes everything so much more romantic.
*
and when it begins it is beautiful and it is shining and it is new and it is there and she does not doubt and she just knows it will wait and she sometimes wonders what will come next but that is for tomorrow and tomorrow’s dreams and yet delaying is never an option and where dreaming is optional and she’ll grow out her hair and
by ~dancinginferno
And it deafens me.She just listens.And it deafens me.
It is so … indescribable.
So much so that she simply has to try.
It is - a sound of lost laughter. It echoes. It resonates. It is the sound of lost locks –
She runs a hand through shorter hair. It is the sound of awkward hugs –
and bursts of hope and joyful smiles
and frustrated tears and overused clichés
and leaving important words out
and the wrong beginnings that make the right endings
and letting things simply ‘play out’
and watching the raindrops fall onto the windows of the family car –
by ~dancinginferno
The School Library.It is the sound that many have already grown accustomed to. It is the short, quiet time that resides between the eerie silence of evening and the stressed, crammed light of day. The printer hums quietly in the distance, its soft, constant presence a gentle harmony against the low murmur of the surrounding students, the tapping of keys and the scratching of pencils, the flicking of pages and the scraping of chairs. There is the emptying of bags and finishing homework; weary procrastination lingers not so far off in the distance. It is the sound of the School Library.The School Library.
by ~dancinginferno
Random Favourites
receptary01. i’m spending the summerreceptary
pretending i’m beautiful since you once told me
things aren’t always what they seem.
[but we both know that’s hardly true.]
02. i wasted the better half of yesterday trying to untangle all my split ends so that i could remind myself to be perfect for a second longer but instead i tied up all my bad intentions and wove silk ribbons between my teeth so i could make a pretty package
out of something that’s far too simple.
[you once told me it’s the simple things in life that m
by ~paperheartsyndrome
Butterfliesby =CasheeFoo
L Petby ~musk-parfait
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Devious Info
- Current Residence: Melbourne, Australia
- Interests: Ancient Mythology, Various manga & anime, various periods from history, reading.
- Favourite movie: V for Vendetta, Pride and Prejudice (only some of the versions.)
- Favourite genre of music: Classical
- Favourite poet or writer: *pulls out a list* - you really want it?
- Operating System: Windows XP
- MP3 player of choice: ipod
- Favourite game: Maplestory
- Tools of the Trade: Microsoft word + my pacerr <3
- MSN: just ask me for it =]
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--
'Dream as if you'll live forever... live as if you'll die today' by James Dean
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Now be a good little girl and drink your medicine...
Ave Atque Vale
(member of darkclub [link] , [link] , [link] , [link] and The-Cruxshadows )
--
"It tastes like soap but it doesn't really taste like soap
And then i lower in my whole mouth and take a gulp
...and start to feel mortality surround me" - regina spektor
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Tread softly because you tread on my dreams
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The dream was always running ahead of me. To catch up, to live for a moment in unison with it, that was the miracle. (Anais Nin)
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