Showing posts tagged love

My girlfriend and I exchange fic recs. 
Like, once I was stuck in an airport for hours upon hours, and she sent me a Sterek fic that took place at an airport. 

Just.  What a keeper, eh?
<3

*flounces off into the land of Ao3*

tylerknott:

Typewriter Series #710 by Tyler Knott Gregson
Text for Tired Eyes:
There’s a gift I can give to you even though you’re not the gift loving type.It’s a small offering a single contribution a wrapper-free and bow-less boxfilled with something you never asked for but maybe you’ve always needed.This is my gift to you:I’ll be the eyes to see what you don’t and I’ll be the voice that fills the earsdeaf to those things for too many nights and too many days that followed.This is my tribute to all you don’t see, to the parentheses around your smileand the way laughter slithers from your lips and curls the corners of your mouthlike they’re tied to hidden kites flying in hidden skies.Open your eyes.This is to how your feet throw heat and warm mine and how the sensation of calmcan literally travel from your fingertip to my fingertips and up my armsinto my chest.  How the sight of you catching sight of me is enough to setmy heart sprinting. To the sheer volume of that heart’s beating and the wayit fills the room with noise like the sound of flags flapping in the wind,or broken songs beating through broken speakers, this is to all you don’t see,Open your eyes.This is to the sound of my name in your mouth the way it dances off your tongueand leapfrogs through the air to find me again.  To the whispers and the screams,and the muted mumblings of your tired morning voice and the wordsyou don’t remember saying and the ones you do. This is to the heartthat’s too big for your body and to your body that’s too small to holdall your dreams. To the ballet of beauty that fills the empty moments of yoursleeping and the sunlight that paints your face to pull you from it.Open your eyes.I’ll be the eyes to see what you can’t the constellations of frecklesand beauty marks and the forgotten scars from forgotten wounds.The hair that hangs like curtains over the windows of your eyes and the lightthat streams in from behind them from some other place better than herethe beckons me to follow.  To the pace of your breath and the warmth of iton my cheeks and to the tracing of fingers on the valleys of my back.This is my gift to you, and you’re not the gift loving type.A tribute to the details you forget to notice and picture they create.This is to you, all of you and what you are to all of me to the we to theme you help create and shape and heal and change for all the right reasonsat all the right times.Open your eyes.Tyler Knott Gregson

Honestly though, when I get married, I&#8217;m just gonna read Tyler&#8217;s poetry for my vows.

tylerknott:

Typewriter Series #710 by Tyler Knott Gregson

Text for Tired Eyes:

There’s a gift I can give to you even though you’re not the gift loving type.
It’s a small offering a single contribution a wrapper-free and bow-less box
filled with something you never asked for but maybe you’ve always needed.
This is my gift to you:
I’ll be the eyes to see what you don’t and I’ll be the voice that fills the ears
deaf to those things for too many nights and too many days that followed.
This is my tribute to all you don’t see, to the parentheses around your smile
and the way laughter slithers from your lips and curls the corners of your mouth
like they’re tied to hidden kites flying in hidden skies.
Open your eyes.
This is to how your feet throw heat and warm mine and how the sensation of calm
can literally travel from your fingertip to my fingertips and up my arms
into my chest.  How the sight of you catching sight of me is enough to set
my heart sprinting. To the sheer volume of that heart’s beating and the way
it fills the room with noise like the sound of flags flapping in the wind,
or broken songs beating through broken speakers, this is to all you don’t see,
Open your eyes.
This is to the sound of my name in your mouth the way it dances off your tongue
and leapfrogs through the air to find me again.  To the whispers and the screams,
and the muted mumblings of your tired morning voice and the words
you don’t remember saying and the ones you do. This is to the heart
that’s too big for your body and to your body that’s too small to hold
all your dreams. To the ballet of beauty that fills the empty moments of your
sleeping and the sunlight that paints your face to pull you from it.
Open your eyes.
I’ll be the eyes to see what you can’t the constellations of freckles
and beauty marks and the forgotten scars from forgotten wounds.
The hair that hangs like curtains over the windows of your eyes and the light
that streams in from behind them from some other place better than here
the beckons me to follow.  To the pace of your breath and the warmth of it
on my cheeks and to the tracing of fingers on the valleys of my back.
This is my gift to you, and you’re not the gift loving type.
A tribute to the details you forget to notice and picture they create.
This is to you, all of you and what you are to all of me to the we to the
me you help create and shape and heal and change for all the right reasons
at all the right times.
Open your eyes.

Tyler Knott Gregson

Honestly though, when I get married, I’m just gonna read Tyler’s poetry for my vows.

Love is: She makes you a mix tape.
True love is: She makes you a mix tape as good as any mix you would have made her.

I dazzle where I stand, The cup of all life shattered in my hand, Longing to die—O friends! He, even he, Whom to know well was all the world to me, The man I loved, hath proved most evil.—Oh, Of all things upon earth that bleed and grow, A herb most bruised is woman.

- Medea

You listen to me. I’ve been alive a bit longer than you, and dead a lot longer than that. I’ve seen things you couldn’t imagine. I’ve done things I prefer you didn’t. I don’t exactly have a reputation for being a thinker. I follow my blood, which doesn’t exactly rush in the direction of my brain. So I make a lot of mistakes, a lot of wrong bloody calls. 100+ years… and there’s only one thing I’ve ever been sure of: You. Look at me, I’m not asking you for anything. When I say I love you it’s because I want you or because I can’t have you. It has nothing to do with me. I love what you are, what you do, how you try. I’ve seen your kindness and your strength. I’ve seen the best and the worst of you. And I understand with perfect clarity exactly what you are. You’re a hell of woman. You’re the one.

Spike; Buffy season 7, episode 20 (Touched)

humansofnewyork:

"When he was dying, I said: ‘Moe, how am I going to live without you?’ He answered: ‘Take the love you have for me, and spread it around."

This is exactly and beautifully true.  At least in my life, and the way I cope.  When my heart is broken, all the love inside me has no where to go, and it turns to poison.  It sits inside me and makes me ache, and tries to consume me from the inside out.  It&#8217;s what keeps the broken hearted in bed, curled in a ball, oblivious to all of their beautiful potential. 
So when my heart seemed broken beyond repair, and the place I had been pouring all my love was gone, I did what I had to. I took all that love, the love that was killing me, and I spread it around.  I spent days at church with beautiful women, cooking and sharing.  We took vats of soup and moutains of sandwiches, pudding cups and fruit and stood in the snow to offer warm meals to the homeless.  We offered them tupperware so they could take soup for a meal later. We gave them reusable homemade grocery bags to put their tupperware in.
I talked to beggars, and learned their names and stories.  I volunteered to teach drama workshops and helped decorate kindergarten classrooms.   
And eventually, the poison dissipated, and I was okay. 

humansofnewyork:

"When he was dying, I said: ‘Moe, how am I going to live without you?’ He answered: ‘Take the love you have for me, and spread it around."

This is exactly and beautifully true.  At least in my life, and the way I cope.  When my heart is broken, all the love inside me has no where to go, and it turns to poison.  It sits inside me and makes me ache, and tries to consume me from the inside out.  It’s what keeps the broken hearted in bed, curled in a ball, oblivious to all of their beautiful potential. 

So when my heart seemed broken beyond repair, and the place I had been pouring all my love was gone, I did what I had to. I took all that love, the love that was killing me, and I spread it around.  I spent days at church with beautiful women, cooking and sharing.  We took vats of soup and moutains of sandwiches, pudding cups and fruit and stood in the snow to offer warm meals to the homeless.  We offered them tupperware so they could take soup for a meal later. We gave them reusable homemade grocery bags to put their tupperware in.

I talked to beggars, and learned their names and stories.  I volunteered to teach drama workshops and helped decorate kindergarten classrooms.   

And eventually, the poison dissipated, and I was okay. 

Why "Love Actually" matters

Love Actually says, yes, you’re crazy, but other people are crazy, too, and you should find out if maybe they’re crazy about you.
Indeed
, Love Actually is the most pro-romantic film ever. It is a clarion call to share your pent up feelings for other people. That is good. That is decent. That is rare. People like to be told that they’re thought of as wonderful, that they matter to someone else. People should do it more often. And sure, they probably don’t feel the same way about you, but you should find out. Just in cases.

The fact of the matter is, it doesn’t matter whether or not you think homosexuality is a sin. Let me say that again. It does not matter if you think homosexuality is a sin, or if you think it is simply another expression of human love. It doesn’t matter. Why doesn’t it matter? Because people are dying. Kids are literally killing themselves because they are so tired of being rejected and dehumanized that they feel their only option left is to end their life. As a Youth Pastor, this makes me physically ill. And as a human, it should make you feel the same way. So, I’m through with the debate.

When faced with the choice between being theologically correct…as if this is even possible…and being morally responsible, I’ll go with morally responsible every time.

What You Believe About Homosexuality Doesn’t Matter | Tyler Smither

(via gaywrites)

We are past the time for debate. We no longer have the luxury to consider the original meaning of Paul’s letter to the Corinthian church. We are now faced with the reality that there are lives at stake. So whatever you believe about homosexuality, keep it to yourself. Instead, try telling a gay kid that you love him and you don’t want him to die. Try inviting her into your church and into your home and into your life. Anything other than that simply doesn’t matter.

‘Level Up’ by Vienna TengThis is so lovely.
if you are afraid, come forth. if you are alone, come forth now. everybody here has loved and lost, so level up and love again. call it any name you need. call it your 2.0, your rebirth, whatever – so long as you can feel it all, so long as all your doors are flung wide. call it your day #1 in the rest of forever.

‘Level Up’ by Vienna Teng
This is so lovely.

if you are afraid, come forth. if you are alone, come forth now. everybody here has loved and lost, so level up and love again. call it any name you need. call it your 2.0, your rebirth, whatever – so long as you can feel it all, so long as all your doors are flung wide. call it your day #1 in the rest of forever.

When I was in grad school, I read a great deal of literary criticism. And I read something in a book by Gaston Bachelard that I have never forgotten. It was a book on poetic reverie, and in the first chapter he gave his definition of love. “Love is the intersection,” he said, “of two poetries.” Two people are stumbling around in the world. And each exists in his or her own personal bubble of poetic pain and lyrical dreams. And then one day the two people collide and share some of their interior madness with one another. And if the poetries overlap, if they build and resonate together, if they cradle and reinforce one another, we call it love… . But our personal poetry is mad. Look at the poetry you and I are filled with. It’s the stuff of nightmares. And it’s all like that. Inside every human, there’s a locked cabinet of vicious demons. And they decide who we love. The demons.

Sans Merci by Johnna Adams

(via spanglishandshakespeare)

There was once a very great American surgeon named Halsted. He was married to a nurse. He loved her— immeasurably. One day Halsted noticed that his wife’s hands were chapped and red when she came back from surgery. And so he invented rubber gloves. For her. It is one of the great love stories in medicine. The difference between inspired medicine and uninspired medicine is love.

When I met Ana, I knew:
I loved her to the point of invention.

The Clean House