fort wayne is destroying me.

lorettasscars:

satanlovesyou:

charmyourwayout:

“You can go as if you were taking part in a picnic, enjoying all the delights of the road. You can sit down in the shadow of the trees and open your little tub of sake, and you can watch the pilgrims going by ringing their bells. Truly traveling means cleaning the life of care. With your straw sandals and your leggings you can wander wherever you like and enjoy the indescribable pleasures of sea and sky.”

Once again I had one of those dreams; that freeze. I was being held down onto my bed by four hands strong. I couldn’t move, could hardly breathe. Every time I’d try to wake up my eyes would squeeze shut tighter in spite of myself. The hands would grasp firmer. Sweating profusely, unable to even move any muscle, tendon or toe. After five times attempted waking I finally was able to open my eyes, long enough to reach out and turn a light on. Now that I’m awake, I don’t look forward to sleep tonight.

hazal:

Michelangelo: To Giovanni da Pistoia
“When the Author Was Painting the Vault of the Sistine Chapel”
—1509

I’ve already grown a goiter from this torture,
hunched up here like a cat in Lombardy
(or anywhere else where the stagnant water’s poison).
My stomach’s squashed under my chin, my beard’s
pointing at heaven, my brain’s crushed in a casket,
my breast twists like a harpy’s. My brush,
above me all the time, dribbles paint
so my face makes a fine floor for droppings!

My haunches are grinding into my guts,
my poor ass strains to work as a counterweight,
every gesture I make is blind and aimless.
My skin hangs loose below me, my spine’s
all knotted from folding over itself.
I’m bent taut as a Syrian bow.

Because I’m stuck like this, my thoughts
are crazy, perfidious tripe:
anyone shoots badly through a crooked blowpipe.

My painting is dead.
Defend it for me, Giovanni, protect my honor.
I am not in the right place—I am not a painter.
(via Slate)