I Have Chanted Maa Durga’s Name With The Same Love And Reverence As I Have Made Dua To Allah And Bowed

ketzal_coatl

the mutuals button should be a hug

You are so young, all still lies ahead of you, and I should like to ask you, as best I can, dear Sir, to be patient towards all that is unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms, like books written in a foreign tongue. Do not now strive to uncover answers: they cannot be given you because you have not been able to live them. And what matters is to live everything. Live the questions for now.

—Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

well i want someone to talk to 24/7 to drag around and go places with me and maybe it’s codependency mixed with desire but i just want someone to stick with me for life

My brother never touches his cricket bat with his feet. It will anger the gods within it, he says. The goalkeeper of my football team kisses the goalpost before the beginning of a match, a silent prayer to the deity within. My sister never puts her paintbrushes on the floor and my father holds his stethoscope with unmatched devotion. You see, the gods are what you want them to be, where you want them to be. In your mother’s lap, in your best friend’s hug, in the coffee you are almost addicted to, in the equipments of the gym you love working out in or in the books you bought but will never read. The gods are wherever you want them to be. The gods are wherever you need them to be.

Perhaps the moon was his accomplice, veiling itself behind the mist, mocking her patience, a conspirator in her longing. She waits—o, she does. The night stretches like dark, kohl-lined eyes, with barely any stars, offering no mercy, no light to trace her beloved's face.

The wind weaves through the foliage, whispering and conversing with the gnarled branches of the trees, appearing dark against the velvety night sky, as if sighing with pity at her quiet grief and yearning. Her hands trembled, and her heart paced; the scent of the roses was too harsh and bitter, offering no comfort. The night air stings, and the earth beneath, which clings to her feet, is cold and unyielding, much like the passage of time that refuses to turn in her favor.

He did not show up to loosen the braids of her dark raven hair, the ones in whose knots a silent prayer was whispered. The white jasmines in her tresses fluttered ever so slightly, veiled beneath the golden fabric, which lifted with the wind, but there was no hand to steady it.

She ached for a glimpse of him, a stolen moment to etch in her memory, sweet nothings to remember by heart, and for those silent vigils when he gazed upon the moon, and she would watch him.

She cast off her bangles, the pearls scattering across the floor like forsaken stars, their glimmer and beauty wasted on a night with no beloved.

The hour had betrayed her, the moon had turned its face, and grief, like the night, stretched infinite, offering neither solace nor an end to the waiting.

oh to be a scholar during the islamic golden age using mathmatics to create incredible art

please stop living so far away i want to cook your favourite dinner for you

duuude you have GOT to get online everybody is just fucking hitting each other