"After they beat me, I heard shots. And I walked to the shop next door, and found my neighbor dead on the floor. He was one of the nicest men in the town. Every day he would put out food for the cats. I would tell him: ‘You must stop feeding the cats, they are overrunning my shop.’ But he would never stop feeding them. He would tell me: ‘I have to feed them. Or they will die.’" 
(Zaatari Refugee Camp, Jordan)

"Poems are never just poems. They’re compensating for something. Here are the words I wish I had written in crescent-moon bite marks down your neck. Here are a hundred words for “stay,” and a hundred more for “please.” Here is how I hold a pen. Here is how the pen holds me. Here are my thoughts, over-steeped in empty fervor. Here is nothing and everything all at the same time."

Fragment 5, Kristina Kutateladze (via poignantic)

(Source: neongospel, via gracia-divina)

Are you hoping for a miracle?

(Source: Spotify)

It’s been a while since I’ve posted music, so here’s a song.

(Source: Spotify)

If you could meet yourself at age five what would you tell yourself?


I wouldn’t tell him anything. He had the right idea, five year old me. Everything he loved was pure and unadulterated. Everything he was meant to go through needed to happen. Sure, I’ve had bad days. Sure, I’ve done bad things. But as terrible and lonely as life can seem, I’m proud of my life. My decisions. My failures. For better and for worse, this is my story, and I wouldn’t tamper with it.

I’d rather sit and listen to him to see what he has to teach me now.


Waking up in a Volvo in Eastern Oregon


Living in suburban Southern California, United States.

 I dream of open roads. I have no idea where I'm going, but I'd like to have a good time getting there.

This is my little tumblelog -- a collection, if you will -- of dreams and thoughts, art and images, inspirations and aspirations.