you are what happens when two substances collide.




























and by all accounts, really should've died

a place to be

where did I go?

not sure.

Where am I now?

Well that's something I'm certain of.

do snails realise how stupid only having one foot is?

there was nothing

There was a moment

when tybalt left,

when she went somewhere even I couldn't go,

I couldn't understand, I wouldn't understand

she's back now, and I'm not the same.

autumn is here
i can smell the leaves

please come back

and now that she's gone I can only really look at who I am.
and pick at those faults

maybe I'm the reason she left.

because the part of me, that I felt was truly 'good'

is the part of me, that I never really was.

{Photos:weheartit.com}

where are you, when I need you most?

When we cease breathing, we do not part into two



How come one owns a body, until one chooses to make a sea change? The idea of oneself is only a collection of electrical impulses.



Without a whole, you are nothing.

no need

It's like trying to swallow a huge piece of cake without chewing, and backwards.

that's what it feels like right now.

I desperately need you.

[photos from we heart it]

dead-links.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm real, the kind of real that ants must wonder when they walk across my windowsill.

The kind of real that I wonder even exists, because when lightening flashes the only thing that reminds me it was there, is the thunder that follows eight seconds afterwards. I'm not quite sure I'm saying anymore. Lately, I wish I had a barcode, that told me who I was, and where I was going to go.

But I don't and I'm not sure whether I'm okay with that. I don't mean to be rude, but I wish sometimes God would understand that waking up one day in a place you don't understand, without the slightest idea of where you're heading is something quite daunting. I want to be able to remember something that makes my heart flutter. But the closest thing I can think of is the view outside my window (past and present) and how much it improves when it seems like the floor is rushing towards you.

Tybalt,

brought home some flowers today,

I stole them from Georgia's Garden.

don't tell her please.

The tourists smile and say cheese

cameras are basically sensors with a series of mirrors and lenses that distort the image.

light that is reflected off ourselves. light that isn't allowed to dwell.

so why does it seem like the camera chooses to take me, leaving the empty light?

thanks for the milk Bailey.
it was chocolate flavoured.

custard.

I've had a lot of spare time on my hand(s). If I can count a hand that isn't entirely useful. Tybalt sorry for coming home late last night, hope I didn't wake you. I left some money on the fridge and brought some milk. There's custard on the stove. (I love custard)

Lately, there are these moments I have, they remind me of tybalt's freckles, insignificant, tiny things, which will change if I don't glance at them everyday and sometimes change despite all my effort for them not to. Sometimes when things get darker, they begin to fade, and I forget, and her face gets pale and I get scared.

and the only thing I really want to do is open a window and let light in on her face, just so the freckles can reappear again. So I can have those moments back.

but its so cloudy here,

so Tybalt doesn't have as many freckles as she used to.

{photos from weheartit.com}

it was your birthday the other day.

Wow.

Thanks for the tag, Erimentha. It was probably Bailey who the tag was aimed at, but she's resting after 'falling' through a window. Her and my vacuum cleaner are currently not on speaking terms.

This month I tag. . .

Dandalily

Francesca

Christina

I'm only new to blogging, but you three have caught my eye.

The task is: fill in 12 likes, 1 love and 8 hates like Cassie in her therapy video. Below, the bold things are what you MUST include. Also, please make sure you link it back to me, and link it onto 3 other blogs you admire!

Abracadabra, Wow!

I like boys who can whistle and girls who laugh.

I like warm afternoons lazing on trampolines.

I like those small chains made up of tiny metal balls that are used with clothes tags.

I like the thinking sounds my laptop makes.

I like music makes you get up and dance.

I like old ugly jumpers that feel like bear hugs.

I like bear hugs.

I like scooters at inappropriate places.

I like being alone.

I like the country.

I like small cafes.

I like playing music loud and not caring if the neighbours hear.

I love the way light makes shadows.

Today I slept in.

In some ways, I love everything.

Its less, its less of a thing to like, its less distinct, its less particular

I like things that I like but I love everything

There’s more choice in like

Cos even the worst things have things you love in them

I don’t know what you mean about things I hate

I hate large crowds.

I hate people who are too much.

I hate when friends fall through windows.

I hate being musically untalented.

I hate when your favourite show is cancelled.

I hate when concerts used to be over aged.

I hate when bad things happen, but in a way, I deserve them.

I hate calling people.

I hate cockroaches.

I hate this, wow. . .Sorry.

[weheartit.com]

Dear Tybalt.

sorry for the broken vacuum and window

I decided to see if I could run.

like I used to.

It turns out broken glass is hard to pick up,

and your vacuum doesn't like eating glass very much.

I was trying to find something familiar.

then I remembered that I hate all those things I used to have.

{photos from weheartit.com}

She rocked up on the doorstep. It wasn't a cold and wet night. There wasn't even a chance of it being overcast.

The sky was clear and the sunshine crisp in the early morning.
We were friends. Not close, still not very. I guess it was enough for her to put her foot in the door.

She didn't ask for a spare room, she made one.

Bailey's rooms always reflect her subconscious and she is constantly reorganising. It is never planned, it was more how her mind fidgeted.

Her first room wasn't dissimilar to one you'd find in an convent.

Someone once spoke about the weather changing to suit one's mood. They lied.

Photos from weheartit.com.

how I left.

So, I guess you (or lack of you) already know how we met.

but you don't really know that tybalt hasn't paid me back. (I refuse for my good deeds to be untied.)

My name's Bailey. Sort of like the irish cream, and I like to think that maybe just as sweet.

No, really I am.

I'm not quite sure who I am, or how I am, or even really who tybalt is. I mean, I do know her. But I don't really know her, in the same kind of sense that I know myself

I used to live in a house with a fence, that had a window I could climb out of. With french doorways which would swing open with the slightest touch. Like one night, when the old house was quite, and storm would be brewing, I could simply slip away, into complete darkness, and then I would come right back again.

But I've gone so far- I used to be able to climb out of those windows,

and past those doorways with such ease, that now I guess I enjoyed doing that so much, and so often that I just never came back.

I don't regret it.

something has always confused me.

People have a fixation on vintage.


There's a supply of old clothes from mid 19hundreds onwards.

People like it. People go out of their way for the musty smell.


But.
What happens when the op shops run out?

Vintage isn't a renewable resource.


We can't set up a wind farm to catch it in the air.

Do we retire the diminished decades and move on to newer grounds?

Do we begin gang wars, using trackie pants as ammo against rivalling gangs?

Kids will take up dealing doilies and felt hats to pay the rent.

Grandmas will be robbed of the shirt on their backs.

People will walk the streets in fear, wearing the most modern clothes they own.

Vintage will only be brought out on special occasions.

Weddings and birthdays and anniversaries and funerals.
Giant companies will begin taking over any remaining vintage stocks, selling them off to the rich.

What a horrible world we will become.

Beginnings.

Bailey and I met, say, 3 years ago.

At a grocer's shop among city lane ways. Bailey was perusing through the magazines, patiently waiting for the line to move along. Most likely thinking about how trashy things are made to get popular.

Photo from weheartit.com

I was out of change. $2.65 short. Bailey chipped in, and I vowed to pay her back after a short discussion.

3 years ago we became friends. Not long after, we became house mates.