Kisses In The Moonlight For At Dawn We Must Part. The Sun Is An Envious Fellow, But You Still Have My

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I went through people like I went through books. Compulsively. Consistently. One after the other. Falling in love. Shedding tears. Obsessing. Hating. Cursing. I was amused. Curious. Excited. Interested. Happy. Heartbroken. In pain. Some people like books were triology, a series, in terms of the phases of my life and our interactions. Some just stand alone books. Some got stained with my coffee. The others got away like the books you lend to friends and never get back. Most are sitting right here, on my bookshelf, most dusty yet precious. I don't read them again, but often think fondly of them. Like 442 pages, some stay in my life for 442 days. But the point is. I go through people the way I go through books. But people aren't books. I can't devour them. I can't annotate them. I can't derive my own meaning out of them. They are living, breathing souls. Deriving their own meaning out of my existence and our interactions. But that's not even the troubling part. The troubling part comes here: like books, I can't finish reading people. I can't be done with them. But I still need the next one, the new one. The one from another genre. The one I chance upon in a foreign country's independent bookstore cafe. I guess I've realized this. I've admitted it. This is my dark side. I go through people like I go through books. I used to think it's people who always leave. And I guess I was right. People do always leave. But I'm the people. I'm the one who leaves. Not literally. Not explicitly. Not painfully. But gradually, silently, in care and love. And that's more horrible, isn't it? Isn't it.

There is meaning to every journey unknown to the traveller 

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My mermaid painting

“When you dance to your own rhythm, people may not understand you; they may even hate you. But mostly they’ll wish they had the courage to do the same.”

— Sue Fitzmaurice 

👌👌❤💋

INTJ

friend: *jokingly* “you just don’t like me.”

me: *doesnt say anything b/c i’m working*

friend: “oh my god.”

me: crap. i probably should’ve laughed.

me: *half-hearted laugh*

“If the truth shall kill them, let them die.” ― Immanuel Kant

Pick me me me!!!

Giveaway Contest: We recently reached 50,000 followers, and as a way of thanking you, we’re giving away FIFTY (50!) vintage paperback classics by Albert Camus, John Steinbeck, Carson McCullers, Toni Morrison, George Orwell, Ray Bradbury, Jane Austen, and so many others! Won’t these look lovely on your shelf? :D To win these classics, you must: 1) be following macrolit on Tumblr (yes, we will check. :P), and 2) reblog this post. We will choose a random winner on January 20, at which time we’ll start a new giveaway. And yes, we’ll ship to any country. Easy, right? Good luck!

The Snowflake Catcher

I know a man who catches snowflakes Holds them on the palm of his hand or sometimes carefully between his fingertips He does this to impress the ladies I watch as they are memorised lady after lady in awe of the Snowflake Catcher’s special gift They talk with him, contemplating the wonder of nature’s creation each delicate flake infinitely different yet extraordinary beautiful He draws them in so easily

But ladies you must beware you must stay clear of the Snowflake Catcher I know the secret to his trick His secret is not natures love nor an ever so delicate touch No his secret is dark & foreboding It is his ice cold hands fed with blood from his ice cold heart He has taken his icy black inner and practiced over the years his trick of snowflake catching learnt simply you to entrap

So ladies see through this conman right to his dark cold heart Then move clear away your affections to sway to man whom in whose hands snowflakes just melt Such a man is more genuine and real and believe me when I say you’ve got more chance that a genuine man will melt your heart than the Snowflake Catcher ever will