Hello Stranger,

Hello Stranger, I'm talking to you. [obrabet-artwork.tumblr.com]


A noise rumbling through the garbage bin,
I can hear it from the washroom window.
Moving to the kitchen, I see a mother’s eyes
hands clutching a day-old bread.
She waits for her young to leave the bin,
eventually gives up,
and wanders away.
The baby is stuck.
Broom in hand, I stand in the doorway,
Cautiously and with good intent.
The bin lid is opened, and the baby is free.
Hastily I close the door,
and watch as the mother greets her young.

Something About Us
Daft Punk

Reblogged from hurtwhitepeople


it might not be the right time
i might not be the right one
but there’s something about us i want to say
’cause there’s something between us anyway

Daft Punk – Something About Us 

My friends make me happy and I want to wear a super big, comfy sweater and stretch the fabric of the arms around them until they’re caught in the biggest, coziest, warmest embrace ever. 

I’m getting ready to apply to a store down the road from me. I’m a bit nervous, and very, very excited.

I’m getting ready to apply to a store down the road from me. I’m a bit nervous, and very, very excited.

"Did you ever end up getting that really sweet job you were talking about in your nervous interview post :)?"

Asked by Anonymous

Oh, thanks for asking! I didn’t, actually. *sigh* My availability didn’t work for them, so I suppose that’s fair. I can’t help but feeling like I did something wrong, though. I really hope that I can get a new job soon, though. And I mean VERY soon. My cafe is falling apart and things just feel really hectic there, so there’s a chance I will be working elsewhere soon!

Thanks for asking! 

Please, talk to me.

Laying in Wait

We’ve constructed an era within which people are terrified of silence.
The still non-vibration of a quiet room leads us to the inevitable realization
that our minds are not without comment,
that our brains are always talking.
This arriving-from-all-angles conversation,
never one-sided, as every brain contains thousands of voices,
feels like a betrayal of our perceived idea of sanity,
of normalcy, of togetherness and sense.
But we are not beings with quiet minds and sensible rhythms.
We’re heaving, hacking things with eyes that see in multiple directions
peripherals catching shapes and shadows and reminding us
that there’s so much more beyond our conceivable thought.
We’re busy and befuddled, taking in millions of pieces of information,
some of which the mind decides are unworthy and filters out 
(though some might ask to where the unwanted data goes)
and there is never a prescribed method as to how to process them.
That quiet room is exodus; the means to somewhere between
"Why is it?" and "This simply is."
We’ve constructed an era within which people are afraid of truth.
People are afraid of learning the deepest things within themselves
believing it will destroy their idea of person,
having failed to understand that it is the way to discover person —
that person is found through digging and searching,
utilizing the eyes’ and mind’s peripheries, 
understanding the anxieties and the unexplained joys, 
experiencing each breath,
and once in a while sitting in quiet,
heart-beat-beating along to the strange buzz of mind’s music
as it discusses with you your truth.

I’m a few paces away from an old man
standing in the middle of a busy street
beside a large, concrete planter.
He shuffles forward, carrying a bag of seeds.
The man reaches in with a speckled hand,
grabs a fistful of seeds and carefully places them on the planter.
He stands, patiently, waiting for the birds to come.
People maneuver around him, hardly noticing.
A pigeon starts for the pile of seeds;
the old man smiles.
I walk past him and don’t look back.

We can’t make it alone.

At least that’s what everyone says, and a part of me wonders if that’s just some bullshit excuse to keep everyone huddled in big mindless masses without any sense of where to go or what to do without consulting with head office.

The Big Answer

"I should be dead by now,"
I mutter those words near daily, fighting against myself to admit
a simple fact of fate; I’m alive and perhaps I should be.
I wander through cigarette streets, avoiding eye contact
with any soul who tries to pierce mine; everyone searching for answers,
for love or hope or forgiveness.
Uncool, unkempt, uninspired and under appreciated, 
once suicidal but now slightly nihilistic, yearning for a faith
or some sort of answer to the big Why.
Once alone but surrounded by people filled with love.
Once held by a mother,
Once scolded by a father,
Once embraced by a sister,
Once drugged at a party, left without a heartbeat for a matter of seconds,
just enough to let a loved one feel that gut-wrenching hammer of
"She’s gone."
One moment later, my chest rises and life is once again given,
rebirth, reinvention, reanimation, response,
forcing me to wake up in a hospital bed asking what happened, 
crying as if I already knew and once again saying, “I should be dead.”
Broken and hurt, chest bruised from palms of revival,
still searching for the answer. 
Life mutters, whispers words incomprehensible,
and I let those words pass through me like air,
when they are as tangible as my own skin,
and they are my own skin
and those words are simply saying,
"You’re alive."