Alidoesntpay - L'enfer, C'est Les Autres.

Melting Moon

Shakespeare in Westminster Abbey 

Wandering down a side aisle, I was pursued by a distraught Ophelia, who clutched my sleeve with a cry of “My lord” and, addressing me as if I were Polonius, described Hamlet’s unnerving entry into her chamber. I had to resist the temptation to respond: “Go with me, I will go seek the king.” Later, I was confronted by an Othello who knelt before me as if I were the Duke of Venice and cried: “Most potent, grave and reverend signior”: not the kind of thing I’m used to hearing.

I don't wanna another night. Trying find another you, another rock bottom. I don't wanna wear another mini dress. To impress, a potential problem. I don't wanna spend the night at someone's place. And fill the space that you used to walk in. I don't wanna know the number in my phone. To wanna hold at three in the morning.

若是沒有這意外 也許經已快樂地

You know what the saddest thing is? You showed him the deepest corners of your soul. But he closed up like you never fucking happened. His fingertips lingered on your skin. You got so lost in his ocean eyes and his magical touch. The little mischievous smile he put on as he stroked your hair like you were his one and only. The way he pulled you into his arms. You were all his. Divine kisses through your body set you on fire. Every grip was holy — every whisper was celestial — every word felt like love — every dot was connected — every emotion was raw. The world stopped just for us, two lovebirds sharing the same heart beat and rhythm. “ilysm. Souls collided and divided. And now you’re stranded. Silence of his is too damn deafening. Theft of heart. Theft of joy. “ifmy.”

23.12.19 Manchester

“The only difference between the saint and the sinner is that every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.” - Oscar Wilde

Me_irl

We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.

Dead Poets Society (1989) dir. Peter Weir, DoP John Seale

‘clair de lune’ by debussy but you’re wandering down the halls of your wealthy reclusive uncle’s grand and empty mansion trying to find who’s playing the piano because you haven’t seen another soul for weeks except your reflection in the mirror