It was nearly October so the sun had been gone for hours by this time. I sat down on the steps leading down into randomly placed outdoor tables, with wilting umbrellas which I had never seen open. Steam burst out of the back of the restaurant, heavily under the street lamps. The smell of cooking duck, noodles, and other oriental wonders wafted towards me, and I realized how good of an idea it had been for me to make food. I lit my cigarette, enjoying the feeling of the smoke filling up my insides. I watched the embers dance along the end as I exhaled. I was struck by the memory of pretending to be smoking when I was young in winter, and so my breath was clearly visible. I used to roll up my parents receipts and those would be my cigarettes. I would leave them perched on my lips for hours, until my mother, or father eventually took it away. I guess I had always wanted to be a smoker.
 

 -random journal entry

Time takes away all things. The first thing you forget about a person is how they sound. The fluctuations in their vocal patterns which used to make your heart beat like a jazz drummer on a encore performance. The sounds all fade, your memory of a moment now muted, like a half remembered dream. You play back your memories of you and them, a sad silent film among the reels which constitute your remembered life.
This is where i find myself. Awake at what will soon be five in the morning. The light from my phone a focus point of activity in my dark bedroom. A small star around which float my hopes of connection. I try to remember the sound of your laugh. I remember you doing it into my neck, as I carried you on my back through Disney World, trying to find the nearest bathroom. I still remember the way your breath felt against my cheek, and how i could think about was how close our faces were. I don’t hear the sound though. the only sound I have in connection with you now is the buzz of my phone when you message me from thousands of miles away. That is the closest sound i have to falling in love. A buzz in the dark at five in the morning to let me know that you feel the same. 

  -Thoughts

I hope this finds you well. I was scrolling through tumblr and i came across an image of a woman who bore a staggering resemblance to you. The resemblance lay not only in the physical similarities, but also in her presence, and the curve of her smile. It was as all photographs are a static capture of a frozen moment, but that moment was enough to spark a strong feeling of nostalgia, strong enough that it has lead me to writing you this letter. I remember the way your hair curled, wild and beautiful. Golden coils which always fell into your face. The way you habitually pulled your sleeves up into the palm of your hands, whether out of nerves or force of habit, i would never know. You know when you see someone and you fall for them instantly? In that childish, burning and fumbling kind of love. you know the feeling won’t last, but in that moment it fills up so much of you that you might burst. That feeling took came over me that night as we only spoke to each other for the entire party. I hardly remember much else besides the two of us tucked in a corner pressed against each other and our eyes never straying from the other’s. 
You swept me out of my world, with your accent and your personality. A woman born of wild places, strong and passionate. I had never met anyone the likes of you before. You found me that night, the version of myself that i had kept carefully hidden for so long. You took my virginity and then you left, and i loved you for it. You took some part of me away with you, and left me with the gift of my memories of a mysterious girl who tore open my world. 

 - A letter i found in one of my journals from a couple of years ago. I never sent it.

Sometimes i feel that some small part of all of us can feel that the world is falling apart. Some of us listen, but the rest of us just pretend we cant feel anything at all.

majiinboo:

tedikuma:

Another comic I started last night. This one is basically about what it was like being African American in high school, minus the supernatural transformation at the end.

I hated being called Oreo 😞

I identify so strongly with this. It’s weird not being black or white enough for other people. 

majiinboo:

tedikuma:

Another comic I started last night. This one is basically about what it was like being African American in high school, minus the supernatural transformation at the end.

I hated being called Oreo 😞

I identify so strongly with this. It’s weird not being black or white enough for other people. 

(via sabisunni)

Who am I? Am I me, or the culmination of everywhere I have been? Do I stand separate? Or am I the world momentarily coalescing in this form, and in this moment? Can stardust feel? Everything I am, all that I am made of, mirrors what is around me. Yet I am separate. Floating alone inside my own consciousness. What makes me, me?My birthplace? My family?
Parents shape much of what we are. They are the giants of our youth. The gods of our childhood, molding us out of the clay of the world. Are we them, our family? Do the similarities in our chemical makeup change a person’s importance in our lives? Or does the sum of our experiences with them make us, us?
As an old star burns away, every chemical that we know about snakes its way into the endless black. By the smallest of chances they land on this rock suspended in empty space that we call our home. As the center of the earth burns, and the planet hurtles through space, these chemicals begin to join, becoming larger and more complicated. The build themselves into everything that we can see, and touch. So, we sit looking up at the stars as the world burns somewhere underneath our feet, made of the same stuff as the stars we dream of reaching. Why do we not look around us with the same wonder we share for the stars? For that is all that we are. All of us. Dying stars passing through space.
They shape all that we are, those parents of the planets. Did we stare at our parents once, the same way we stare at the heavens? Never believing something could be so big, and so beautiful. They are our creators, and so they bring us into the world. Soon, we grow and flower, falling from the parental tree. A seed ready to drink in ideas, ideals, and doctrines. An individual.
We grow, and we age. Oh, do we age. Adolescence, beautiful and terrible adolescence. When emotions are broiling and churning within you. A storm ridden sea of self realizations, and confused and oft misunderstood sexuality. These are the lost children. Those who have started forgetting the quiet of childhood, for the noise of culture. Not yet adults, still brimming with that feeling of immortality only the youth seem to find. Never sure of who they are, or what they want. Each day brings about new feelings, and your body finally begins to settle into who you are becoming.
What happens then when we reach the age where distance begins to grow? As we begin to listen to different voices. Though the voices we heard in the womb still play a resonant chord along the heartstrings of our memories, we grow up. Some of us hoping we are nothing like our parents. Others knowing we will never be as good. What do our parents become as we grow old? The word “parents” meant everything to us when we were young. It meant love for some, and safety for others. For some it meant fear, or loss, and for a few it was an empty space left unfilled. For all it carries feelings which resonate to our cores. Whatever emotion it breeds. As we age parents transition. From a pillar upon which all of our decisions rests upon, to a term. A word used to describe the scattering of people who exist within the ever growing pool of people we care about. Our lives have become our own to shape. We have moved away from our guides, and our protectors. Left to forge ahead through the miasma of the modern day on our own.
We think therefor we are. An unshakeable truth of our existence. Other questions we may never really understand the answers to. What are we? What makes us individuals? How does thought exist? What shapes our consciousness, and our decisions? One thing we have always understood, no matter where our lives take us, our roots are strong. Our family are the first hands which begin to mold us into the people we become. We carry them with us for the rest of our lives, hoping we are better for it as we explore the vast expanse that is the brief, but beautiful, time of our lives.