What the hell am I reading? :/
naveed. 21.
toronto. bengali.
My favourite poem
She once asked me
the name of my
favourite poet
and I repliedGod
She laughed
and played along
and asked me
which one of his
works was my
absolute favouriteI said it was
the one
where he
wrote her
into existencexq
(Source: some-thing-to-say, via red-velvet-wing)
Some people write their own narrative, while some others instinctively run from it. The hand may falter, it may even just as easily drop the pen altogether. But just because the story is not written does not mean it does not exist. The truth of the matter is, it is people who fade, their names eventually forgotten from the lips of their kin. But their stories always remain, immortalized in some stubborn yet equally fragile heart. Their stories are etched in the dust of years old vinyl records, book shelves, and ancient wicker chairs, sitting neglected in the tropic heat of decades old memories.
Taken from the example of Homer’s own, undoubtedly it is in the nature of all stories to wait until they are retold.
There are only two things you’ll ever really need to know; that is what you live for and what you would die for. God forbid that both those things aren’t the very same. If so, then, quite honestly, you don’t know the first thing about living or dying. God forbid, because then you’re just taking up space.
drxq (via some-thing-to-say)
the weakness was not government
but man, one at a time, that men were never as strong as
their ideas
and that ideas were governments turned into men…
but man, one at a time, that men were never as strong as
their ideas
and that ideas were governments turned into men…
Charles Bukowski
