maybes and ifs only

“Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red.”

– Kait Rokowski (via lucidsolitude)

“

There was no grand love.
There was no car crash so big,
it ruined the whole town.
Only the one,
years earlier,
but even then it was only one pulsing,
New York family.

Eventually,
you grew up, and you listened to the quiet.
To the shuffle of the townspeople in your local grocery store.
To the sound of their almosts,
of the holidays spent writing letters they forgot to send.

You dreamed of the wrong person.
You woke up broken. 
The kindness you knew
became undone.
The languages were forgotten,
left to rust with all the other
aching things.
By then, you didn’t have a word
for love.
Just the emptiness that came after.

When the tourists came and asked about the country of your body,
(as tourists always do),
you waved away the question.
The heart here: all legend.
The tragedy: all myth.

One morning,
you woke up missing the person 
you almost became,
but by then it was too late already.

There were bigger
things to mourn.
You didn’t have any room left for your own
name.

”

– Y.Z, an honest account of a dishonest history (via oxbridge)

“I’m not so concerned with [art] being ‘creative’ or not. It’s a funny word. Maybe because I was brought up in a working class situation and with the people I admire the most, like my grandparents and my family, if you’d look at their passports, not one of them says ‘artist’. But all of them have been very brave and completely stood by what they are made of. Sometimes just to take care of a lamp shop is a very creative thing…or to feed eight children can be a very pro-life statement, with all its hindrances and everybody wanting to stop you. My grandfather would show me a fireplace that he had just made, and he was just as proud of it as when I’m playing a song. We are all creative.”

– Björk, when asked “why are you creative?” by interviewer Hermann Vaske  (via hanabutt)