Supersonic.

saw you post on someones tumblr... try: small feet big kicks. less of a style blog but have all the trainers ;)

Tue, 11 Oct 2011 23:54:52 +0100

Thanks, stranger! :)

Photo

Wed, 13 Apr 2011 17:09:17 +0100

Photo

Wed, 13 Apr 2011 16:53:43 +0100

Photo

Sun, 10 Apr 2011 12:29:59 +0100

Somebody, please, find these and bring them to me.

Sun, 10 Apr 2011 00:33:55 +0100

Somebody, please, find these and bring them to me.

mechamorgan: The extent to which my mood is dictated by the weather is shocking. For all the dark...

Fri, 08 Apr 2011 18:38:18 +0100

mechamorgan:

The extent to which my mood is dictated by the weather is shocking. For all the dark months of the year I am turned to the blackest reflection, but on a day like today, without a solitary cloud in the sky, I am so full of joy I could cry.

Ah for a child’s summer without end! To be warm and unrestrained by responsibility! That is my dearest dream.

Mine too. People say SAD doesn’t really exist, that it’s a a figment of the subconscious, but I really believe everyone experiences it to some extent.

Photographer: unknown. If you know, please tell me so I can...

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 14:32:00 +0100

Photographer: unknown. If you know, please tell me so I can credit it.

andrewharlow: by Dustin Humphrey

Mon, 04 Apr 2011 12:11:22 +0100

andrewharlow:

by Dustin Humphrey

Old news.

Mon, 04 Apr 2011 00:05:56 +0100

I thought about my sadness as such a perpetual thing for so long. A thing that I could quietly slip into like a swimming pool full of leaves And there is it’s own fractured kind of beauty in being wrapped and soothed by that hurt. Hurt of abuse, fear of the dark, desperate loneliness, but it was only beautiful because sometimes I would open my eyes and see light moving through the water, creeping around the scum on the surface. Eventually I learned how to breathe in that state and I forgot my face, my hands, woke up in the early afternoon and wondered how my life had gotten that way. I’d sit on the balcony with a bottle of vodka and try to pick out the stars when they were blocked by the ambient light and trees. The only time I could ever see them was if I ran out into the street and stared hard at the dome of the sky where the muddy brown darkened just a little.

I have seen a lot of different kinds of hurt. A lot of times when I think about those things I wonder how this was my life. It is like the person I was and the life I had broke off somewhere in the desert.

I think about my sadness as something that is still present, but I’m not longer pressed inside it. It blinded me every so often when we were lying in bed and I’d think I’ll be split in half by it. I got scared of the past, that he’d leave, that I’d leave, that gradually I would stop loving him like I did then. But then I’d focus on his hands on my back, how quiet his voice can be, and I am lulled by it. A crying child being sung to sleep. I always thought it would make me less to give up these parts of myself to someone else, to rely on someone to hold me up when I couldn’t do it on my own. I don’t think I abandoned myself by swallowing him and letting the sunlight move through me, perpetually. And occasionally I wouldn’t recognise my life, my face, my voice, but it was for better reasons.

When you make soup, slowly chop the onions, measure the milk, crush rosemary. Stand and stir it....

Sat, 02 Apr 2011 02:17:00 +0100

When you make soup, slowly chop the onions, measure the milk, crush rosemary. Stand and stir it. It’s too thin, so you boil it for longer than you’re supposed to, and forget that the potatoes always burn onto the bottom of the pan. It’s too thin even after you’ve let it cool to the point where it just burns your mouth and you sit in bed and eat it gingerly. Spoon to lips until it’s gone and you forget to taste it; only remembering after you’ve swallowed.

It’s the cooking that means something now, the quiet actions of slicing, peeling. How you scrape the knife along the bottom of the cutting board, pushing the vegetables to rest in your palm and then slide the edge along your skin so they all fall into the pot. Nothing going to waste.
My favorite part of baking is the eggs. Shell against white ceramic. And how after you’ve run the mixer across them for a few minutes, they lighten, turn lemon yellow.

I’m reminded of my worries and turn a slightly paler, lemon version of myself when I think about them. About guilty pleasures, the appointment with the doctor next month, the self-destruction, the boy; I sleep too much lately, ignoring work and everything else to swallow my emotions - if this pain doesn’t recede soon I feel I will keep getting lighter and lighter, all the other hurt sliding forgotten onto the shower floor.

I collected the broken pieces together in the same way adults collect grey hairs and parking tickets - slowly, and when I least expected to. So I sleep a lot because I need somewhere for all this aching hum to go. To spend time forgetting how to feel, if just for a while. Some blank wall to absorb all the things I’m afraid of happening, and all the crying and this painful silent treatment we have leveled against each other over the last few weeks.

We are both separately searching for our blue and gold days but I feel so heavy for missing you at times I think there must be nothing that’ll let the pressure in my chest out. I worry and feel so bad about everything lately that I can feel the hurt in my bones, in the skin along my ribs, and I am almost positive that the bones are going to split open.
That there is some river crashing where my organs are supposed to be, licking along my veins and it’s the reason my eyes overflow.
That there is just not enough room in me for all this feeling, all at once.