Recordrecordrecord. 

Dancers ought to sit, and those who sit ought to dance. 

ilovechocolate: 

food porn..

(via ffoodd)

I wonder how many times I’ve lived through 9:14PMs. I’m too lazy to do the math but every single time I look at the clock throughout the day I wonder how many times I’ve lived through that specific hour and minute. I wonder if I’ve lived through it well enough… every single time. Why does it make me feel like that? Like I’m not alive… 

Time is tricky.

I just want to know that I’m living well… no matter the hour… no matter the minute. 

There are plenty of 9:14PMs I can regret for not living well… but I’m not going to think about it. I can’t think about it. 

1. take garbage out

2. do homework

3. do laundry

4. go to the store

5. try and be thankful for everything

6. drink lots of water

7. eat healthy

8. think about working out

9. call mom

10. try harder and be thankful for everything… again. 

hey,

the killers are a great band, love’em a lot. here’s a lil’ cover. have a great day!

If you want it, here you go! 

http://www.mediafire.com/?fl8uesiuhsguz9d

I think when we come face to face with faces of older generations we realize that people are faceless… and there brightness comes from somewhere else… 

He said, “Take care of each other”.

And I knew those words came from somewhere else. 

I wrote this short story last year for the holidays, and that’s all I want to say about that. 

http://www.mediafire.com/download.php?76kju2i1brpd2bw

He stood at the edge of the bank.

The wind swept past him, weaving in and out of his hair, brushing his skin, traveling through his clothes. He opened his eyes and met the gaze of the current raging through the stream. Reverence took him and he lowered his head. The majesty of things greater emphasized his smallness.

The trees beside him hung over his head. They leered, jeered, and peered. Small, small, small.

He stood in the middle of the bank.

The water swept past him, ignoring his presence, kept moving faster and faster, past his body, forgetting him. The current went through him, unconcerned with…

What he was.

 What he thought of.

  What he said.

   Why he was standing there.

“Stop,” he said. The water didn’t listen.

“Stop,” he said. The trees stood tall.

“Stop,” he said. The wind tickled him.

“Stop,” he said. The water pushed him away.

“Stop,” he said. The trees laughed.

“Stop,” he said. The wind tousled his hair.

The Water. The Trees. The Wind.

They yelled, grabbed, tousled, laughed, pushed, tickled, moved, pushed…

over and over and over and over and over.

Enough.

His soul decided to speak.

From the bottom of his toes, it made its way up.

It passed his heart and grew confident,

It passed his lungs and grew stronger,

It left his mouth.

“STOP.”

They listened. He wept. 

Western civilization can be viewed as a project. It is an interesting project too, particularly because societal conventions are results of discussion. As history unfolds we see a move in philosophy that desires structure, structures and order that try to embody and explain everything to everyone. As people under the order of an imperial world, with the help of Rousseau and other people-minded, politically-charged philsophers, began to realize the injustices of colonization the western world began to shift. What is this particular shift? 

You cannot give your full trust and conviction to the so-called rigidity of conventions.

The glue is not that sticky. The pillars are plastic. The structure can shake. 

Remember that society is a result of conversation.

Remember that you are a result of a creator’s breath.