Jasmine

“Far overhead from beyond the veil of blue sky which hid them the stars sang again; a pure, cold, difficult music. Then there came a swift flash like fire (but it burnt nobody) either from the sky or from the Lion itself, and every drop of blood tingled in the children's bodies, and the deepest, wildest voice they had ever heard was saying: "Narnia, Narnia, Narnia, awake. Love. Think. Speak. Be walking trees. Be talking beasts. Be divine waters.”
― C.S. Lewis, The Magician’s Nephew

“I feel like I'm forgetting something. Vyrus. Clans. Zombies. Stay out of the sun. Don't get shot. Abandon your life. Drink blood to survive. No, guess that pretty much covers it.”
― Charlie Huston, Every Last Drop

“A thousand lips, a thousand eyes,
a thousand hearts will read these words,
as you read them, graze them, this moment. Thousands will utter them into the abyss, someday, perhaps for years to come; loudly, softly,
repeatedly, again and again and again.

Some will mock, some will laugh. Some
will shed a tear. But it is written
only for your lips, your eyes, your heart,
beloved.

Do as you please.
It is written by an ideal heart,
intense, yet free, when in thought of you.
Written from a dehydrated pen, that
shed the last drops of her blood,
onto you. And still, you do not know me.

No, you will never know of this desire.
It is a shame, when love cannot love,
who she loves, amidst these mortal games.
And No. It is for me to know,
and for you to close the last pages
of my confessions, making nothing of it.

As always, like always,
I write for you and for the madness
that stirs in every soul that has once burned, and for the tender parts of your soul, too.

Nothing is hidden, nothing is revealed.
The separation between the soul and mate,
between lover and the beloved,
is through spirit, is it not, my love? Or is it flesh? There, there is the clue.

And this, this is the nature of our love. Forbidden,closed, then left ajar in oblivion.
My eyes touch your lips, your eyes touch my lips, yet, no one makes a sound.
No one moves on.
What madness is this?

And here you go, turning the pages now,
there you go.”
― V.S. Atbay

“All alone, outside the pueblo, on the bare plain of the mesa. The rock was like bleached bones in the moonlight. Down in the valley, the coyotes were howling at the moon. The bruises hurt him, the cuts were still bleeding; but it was not for pain that he sobbed; it was because he was all alone, because he had been driven out, alone, into this skeleton world of rocks and moonlight. At the edge of the precipice he sat down. The moon was behind him; he looked down into the black shadow of the mesa, into the black shadow of death. He had only to take one step, one little jump.. He held out his right hand in the moonlight. From the cut on his wrist the blood was still oozing. Every few seconds a drop fell, dark, almost colourless in the dead light. Drop, drop, drop. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.
He had discovered Time and Death and God.”
― Aldous Huxley, Brave New World