Burial, dBridge & Instra:mental - Untiteled
I think my brain is leaking through my ear.
(Source: postdubstep)
Reblogged from postdubstep with 88 notes
Just in case anyone has wondered why my blog has been so quiet, I’ve started to have issues with the idea of online identity. I’ve become very aware of how outsiders view your online presence to get a sense of your character and personality. And this is something I personally feel uncomfortable with.
If you have a very expressive persona and feel as if you can give a well-rounded and accurate depiction of yourself on tumblr instead of posting random images as they appear on your tumblr feed then this type of platform suites you. It doesn’t suite me anymore. I started this blog as a way to express myself mainly in writing, I created this blog in a difficult time but when I still had hope in a deity and would use this to convey my feelings in and around how I was relating to God and the world around me. I cannot do this anymore and the feelings I have are becoming more and more personal, ones which I do not feel comfortable with sharing with a bunch of strangers, therefore the majority of what is posted is a limited range of writing and semiology that doesn’t describe who I am.
If you have read this far, you are probably more likely to be someone who is interested, but I’ve set up another blog over at wordpress where, what I think I’m doing is documenting my feelings, at least I’m somehow getting things out of my mind down onto something more tangible. It’s not something I want everyone to see, but at the same time I’m not conceited enough to go around sending personal invitations. If you want to check it out, by all means send me a private message and I’ll give you the link.
I stopped believing, you start to move
(She was like wine turned to water then turned back to wine)
I stopped my leaving and the better man bloomed
(And you can pour us out and we won’t mind)
I was dead then alive,
She was like wine turned to water then turned back to wine;
You can pour us out, we won’t mind,
As scratch around the mouth of the glass, “Our lives our not our own.”
Even the wind lay still,
Our essence was fire and cold and movement, movement…
Oh, if they ask you for the sign of the father in you,
Tell them it’s movement, movement, movement and
repose.
Burial (2005)
(Source: futurebeet)
Reblogged from futurebeet with 3 notes
I placed a jar in Tennessee,
And round it was, upon a hill.
It made the slovenly wilderness
Surround that hill.
The wilderness rose up to it,
And sprawled around, no longer wild.
The jar was round upon the ground
And tall and of a port in air.
It took dominion every where.
The jar was gray and bare.
It did not give of bird or bush,
Like nothing else in Tennessee.
Anecdote of the Jar - Wallace Stevens
