(via en-nu-i)

Once upon a time there was a girl who had 7 invisible horses. People thought she was crazy and that she in fact had 7 imaginary horses, but this was not the case. When autumn came the girl spent a whole day washing all her clothes. She hung them on a string in her garden to let the gentle autumn sun dry them. Out of nowhere, a terrible storm came and its fiercefull winds grabbed a hold of all her clothes and all seven horses (authors note: since they are invisible they obviously didn’t weigh much). The girl was devestated and spent all autumn looking for each horse spread around the country, wrapped in her clothes. 

Photo project by Ulrika Kestere, from october 2011 to january 2012

shesanargonaut:

Never fall in love with a prophet.

You know how this will end. It has been spun out on cobwebs for centuries, sung like a gospel from the mad men in the street. You know about the dust caked palm lines, the atomic bomb starlight, the silence that follows the screams. I swear to you that you aren’t ready for the plastic pink rosaries, the sweat covered shrouds, the blood your hands will weep when you finish his crown of thorns.

Trust me, there are good times. There are moments when his voice will echo across the canyon full of bodies ready to live and breathe by his word, moments where he will hold you gently as the world begins to burn. He’d die for you. He’d die so that your skin will never lose its softness, never get burned by glaring headlines or media sized torches.

When the horses thunder around you, he’ll still be preaching his ambitions, his dreams, to the skeletons still withering at his feet. He’s a fighter. He’s a believer. He knows how to say your name properly with sanctity and charm.

When you fall in love with him, his kiss will be a miracle, a cocktail of milk and honey, embers and red rivers. He will offer his heart unto you and only you before he’s crucified by the world’s last scowl. You will refuse it. Let him keep it in his chest. It is not yours, no matter how hard he begs you to keep it safe. His blood will taste like wine on your lips. Promise not to flinch at how sweet oblivion tastes, at how bitter endings must be.

Don’t worry though.

His image will live on in graffiti stencils and mocking banners. He will be slipped clumsily into the lips of the futile.

Even when the dust has finally settled, you will still hear his voice roaring from the flames, dancing along the barren wasteland.

This is the end that you have been taught, the ending that only echoes your love for him when he does not come back a second time.

You know what?

Maybe you should love a prophet.

If there’s one thing I can promise you, it’s that he’ll still be holding your skeleton when the world finally dies.