A Sugar-Filled Life

Your mother warned you about places like this.
humansofnewyork:

"I came to Dharamshala when I was nine years old. Back then, we weren’t allowed to learn the Tibetan language in school, so my parents sent me to India. For a whole month we walked over the mountains. It was very snowy, and we only walked at night. One night I almost fell off a cliff, but one of the adults grabbed onto my hand and pulled me back up. It’s been twenty years now since I last saw my parents. Just a few months ago, I had a really bad stomach problem and had to go to the hospital. Even though I’m an adult, I’ve never missed my mother more. Being that sick made me realize that I have nobody watching over me."
(Dharamshala, India)

humansofnewyork:

"I came to Dharamshala when I was nine years old. Back then, we weren’t allowed to learn the Tibetan language in school, so my parents sent me to India. For a whole month we walked over the mountains. It was very snowy, and we only walked at night. One night I almost fell off a cliff, but one of the adults grabbed onto my hand and pulled me back up. It’s been twenty years now since I last saw my parents. Just a few months ago, I had a really bad stomach problem and had to go to the hospital. Even though I’m an adult, I’ve never missed my mother more. Being that sick made me realize that I have nobody watching over me."

(Dharamshala, India)

I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited.

 Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via wordsnquotes)

(Source: wordsnquotes, via aphroditea)

It’s Late

Some parts of this world will consume us 
in a fashion like lava leaking from the tips
of a dormant volcano.
The way it rises from the insides, desperate to break free
to sprawl across the fragile surface of the world it created, 
it seeps into edges and corners, devouring all that is before it
some things will swallow us whole
things we have staged and created
it will break from our insides
and play to the time signature we conduct
we will never know because the music will sound of
the hollow calls that we lullaby to every night
that our heavy heads sink into the desperate oceans
of our worn pillows
weighted with all of the uncertainty we hold for ransomed.
Some things will consume us and we will never have the right
needles or thread to stitch together the types of sentences
that will keep loved ones warm and enemies bundled to their
own devices
We will wallow in the wilted willow of our eroding spines
But some things will consume us the way the ocean does
when kissing the weathered coast line
it will be gentle and passionate
quick all the way it paces itself
in it’s controlled chaos 
it will take every grain of what we stowed away in the archives
of lifetime achievements and noble pieces
tossing it to the flips of crashing tides
and we will never know.

for our thread has thinned
and our needle has never been sharp enough
to create a quilt.

instead we have a million fragmented clothes-
tossed around the room- 
while the ocean laughs in all it’s mysticism.  
Some things will consume us and never tell us 
never have the audacity to hush the whispers of 
all the context clues and foreshadowing that had be paved for us
instead it will seep into every groove and rise and dip and break 
in our forever altering shoreline 
and we will do nothing but marvel at its generosity
some things will always consume us.