I am aware of myself. And, of course, the only things that are aware of themselves and conscious of their individuality are irritated eyes, cut fingers, sore teeth. A healthy eye, finger, tooth might as well not even be there. Isn’t it clear that the individual consciousness is just sickness?
We by Yevgeny Zamyatin (via killerkaylin)
I’ve been on rooftops exactly twice in my entire life.
At five foot two, I am not one for high places.
But I have so much space inside my rib cage,
I could fill up monasteries with the things I don’t yet know
and the things I want to.
There is an obelisk inside me, searching and hungry,
and the only thing it has ever known
Is how to climb higher.
On the bad days—
the ones where I take the ax to its foundations—
I can never quite find the tipping point to bring her down.
I’ve got hands that always seemed too small for all this knowing,
and holding on is hard with a fist no bigger than your heart.
I am sick of writing about love but
sometimes I keep writing about things I haven’t even felt yet
like the words might be able to open doors
that I’ve been keeping shut
for fear of letting the rain in.
All I know is that the person I’m writing about
is alive somewhere—
with a heart as tall as stars we don’t have names for yet.
So this is me:
spray painting every stop sign between here and Rochester,
drawing you pictures of what my ribs look like
when my lungs feel like they don’t fit.
I have never been one for high places
but I am standing on rooftops in New York City,
handing out fliers where I finger-painted my name:
every one of them saying
High Places, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)