The Mind in the Mask

(Source: aneducatedguess, via aviotren)

Ladies and Gentleman, when I’m tired, I write. And here is one of the products of that writing.

“Spoken Like a True Poet”

Spoken like a true poet

you mince words to draw

into form the abstract picture

in your head you like to call

Truth. And of course, as a librettist,

You romanticize

Every

Little

Sound

coming from your mouth

or your ass. It doesn’t matter which. It’s all just roses

to you.

As a bard licking words, you

use the strangest of vernacular

clarifying, well of course, your meaning

and take your time attempting to re-

create the rhythm of Shakespearian

tongue.

Instead of saying “Well, it’s not you, it’s me.” You linger

your steady little conviction and state:

“The fates,

My Dear,

Are the ones to blame.

I’m afraid my muse lies elsewhere than

In your warm bosom.”

A bunch of shit

You are. That little trollop from the bar

Who swooned over your pretty stanzas

Was me

Two months ago

Before I learned you were a washed up bar tender

Who doesn’t know “true art” if it spat in his face and called him an ass.

New poem I wrote tonight based on an Oscar Wilde quote I found:

As Oscar Wilde once said,

Dreams will come, but

Nightmares,

Oh they will sizzle and screech on

The cleansed pallet of your unconscious thoughts

Just as much as any luscious imagination would affect. 

Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if I had been at another place at another time with different people.

tvhangover:

Lauren Socha will not appear in the fourth series of Misfits.

A Channel 4 spokesperson confirmed to Digital Spy that the 21-year-old actress will not reprise her role as Kelly in the E4 drama… Clerkenwell Films and Lauren Socha agreed some time ago that along with other cast members, including Iwan Rheon and Antonia Thomas, she would not be returning for the fourth series of Misfits, which is currently in production. Channel 4 supports both parties’ decisions.”

Misfits will return to E4 in late 2012.

UGH.

What.

What would you do if you acquired Sherlock’s powers of deduction overnight?

(Source: tavalouris, via di-smay-d)

My life is hell right now. I don’t sleep much, I don’t eat much, and even when I get the opportunities to do these things, I don’t. Not sure why. All I know is that I’m more emotional than I’ve ever been.

I have a friend who is writing this really great book… or he was… not sure if he still is, but I thought I’d steal his style and write a little excerpt of my own. This night of no sleep has made me nostalgic, so forgive me for settling a bit on my past.

We meet in 6th grade choir. You’re quiet and unassuming and I’m loud and overly talkative. I think you’re “cool”, but, at first, you slip past my attention—I’m far too obsessed with what people are going to think of me in middle school—until one day at a lunch table waiting for school to start, eyes meet. You intrigue me.

Flash forward almost ten years. I’ve just had a horrible interaction with a cockroach in my bathroom. The first thing I thought of while I was running back to my room having a panic attack is that you would laugh at this moment and that you might be the only person who really understands my fear of bugs.

The thought surprises me.

I dismiss it, rationalizing that it was because we skyped the other night, so you were on my mind. You were and now are on my mind. The fact that we haven’t seen each other in a year is on my mind. That even seeing you then was just in passing and that before that, I hadn’t seen you in almost seven months. So now, it’s practically been two years since I’ve had a conversation with you face to face. And that last real conversation we had. Not even face to face. The hurt. The betrayal. How I ripped up your heart because I couldn’t or maybe didn’t want to use mine. How much of a bitch I was to you. How now, even though you say you’re doing fine and you’re just bored, you are holding so much back that I want to hear. How I’ll probably never be able to see the inside of you like I used to. No more “real” conversations. I again dismiss the thoughts and check twitter on my phone.

Your name flashes onto the screen.

I had been looking at a tweet you posted earlier on and had forgotten to clear out to the home page before I locked my phone. I notice you have a blog. I follow you. I spend two hours pouring over your posts, crying over the parts about me, laughing at everything else. I decide that I want to write. That I need to write. About this. About us. I debate whether or not to even post this because I know that it might bring up some things we never hashed out and because the man I’m with now won’t like that I’m writing about you. But I write it anyway. Because I can’t tell anyone about it. I can’t tell anyone that it hurts everyday not having your friendship. I read on your blog a post that says, “I don’t know if I still love you or if I just love your memory”, or something to that effect and I wonder whether or not that’s what I’m doing now. Do I truly miss you? Or is it just a part of me remembering watching Citizen Kane with you and playing Frisbee Golf with you and going to concerts with you and laughing with you and getting lost with you and just plain talking to you. I don’t know. I’m sitting here with tears streaming down my face and a cursor flashing it’s ominous repetition asking me if I’m done yet. And I don’t know that answer to that either. 

lunaunit:

explore-blog:

Modern phrases we owe to Shakespeare. Also see how Shakespeare changed everything.

(ᔥCuriosity Counts)

And the word assassin. And something else that is on the tip of my noggin.

“Idle-headed strumpet”

(via di-smay-d)

graftedintothevine asked: hi olivia! weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

Hello Brandon. :)))))))))))))

Helloooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!

yahel:

Director Christopher Nolan’s own personal hand drawn graph detailing the path taken by the team through outInception.