dyngenights

Latest Posts by dyngenights

Baroque Czech Library is the Most Beautiful Bibliotheca in the World

The Klementinum library in Prague, Czech Republic houses some of the richest European literature and historical book collections. Apart from that, it is also one of the most beautiful libraries in the world, with its classical decor and luxurious furnishings which are rare works of art themselves. It holds over 20,000 books and opened its stately doors as a part of the Jesuit university. The Klementinum has been well preserved, with its detailed wood carved shelves in pristine condition, its tiled floors sparkling and picturesque hallways lined with thousand of years of knowledge.  

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and gone is missing you;

pieces of scarred mind (09:23 03/13/2016)

The Paul Barret Jr. Library, Memphis

Source.

Interior of the Pantheon, Rome. 

Reggia di Caserta, Caserta (Italy) - Agost 2015

Fun fact: According to Greek legend there was a famous prostitute who managed to avoid a death sentence by showing the judges her boobs and arguing that it would be a crime against the Gods to destroy something so beautiful. 

Before you ask, yes there are paintings of this. And yes, they’re amazing.

Read more.

eventually you’ll end up where you need to be, with who you’re meant to be with, and doing what you should be doing.

His eyes loosely focused on the stoplight, but I knew he couldn’t care less when it turned green. “I’m getting tired of this,” he said still looking at the red in front of him. He wasn’t talking about the light anymore; the colors were going to change, but we both knew she never would.

excerpt from my life #52: my dad keeps wondering when things will change // a.c. (via bye-starlight)

Love causes some of the worst heartbreaks, but it’s something almost everyone longs to feel for the sake of ridding their loneliness.

E. Grin (via written-in-pen)

All I know is that I am the most honest when I write because it is real and raw. It is my most vulnerable self.

10:44pm thoughts// please don’t break me (via digressing-paths)

conversations turned dull

Life hack: Aim to get 100% of your work done. If you aim to do half, you’ll end up doing one quarter. If your goal is to do it all, you might get to 3 quarters.

“My body, my choice” only makes sense when someone else’s life isn’t at stake.

I REALLY LOVE KIKKI.K OK (city trip w @shystudy today!) - ig: @studeying​

#WhitePeopleInvitedToTheCookout

im gonna start answering my parents how donald trump answers questions

Toad Words

            Frogs fall out of my mouth when I talk. Toads, too.

            It used to be a problem.

            There was an incident when I was young and cross and fed up parental expectations. My sister, who is the Good One, has gold fall from her lips, and since I could not be her, I had to go a different way.

            So I got frogs. It happens.

            “You’ll grow into it,” the fairy godmother said. “Some curses have cloth-of-gold linings.” She considered this, and her finger drifted to her lower lip, the way it did when she was forgetting things. “Mind you, some curses just grind you down and leave you broken. Some blessings do that too, though. Hmm. What was I saying?”

            I spent a lot of time not talking. I got a slate and wrote things down. It was hard at first, but I hated to drop the frogs in the middle of the road. They got hit by cars, or dried out, miles away from their damp little homes.

            Toads were easier. Toads are tough. After awhile, I learned to feel when a word was a toad and not a frog. I could roll the word around on my tongue and get the flavor before I spoke it. Toad words were drier. Desiccated is a toad word. So is crisp and crisis and obligation. So are elegant and matchstick.

            Frog words were a bit more varied. Murky. Purple. Swinging. Jazz.

I practiced in the field behind the house, speaking words over and over, sending small creatures hopping into the evening.  I learned to speak some words as either toads or frogs. It’s all in the delivery.

            Love is a frog word, if spoken earnestly, and a toad word if spoken sarcastically. Frogs are not good at sarcasm.

            Toads are masters of it.

            I learned one day that the amphibians are going extinct all over the world, that some of them are vanishing. You go to ponds that should be full of frogs and find them silent. There are a hundred things responsible—fungus and pesticides and acid rain.

            When I heard this, I cried “What!?” so loudly that an adult African bullfrog fell from my lips and I had to catch it. It weighed as much as a small cat. I took it to the pet store and spun them a lie in writing about my cousin going off to college and leaving the frog behind.

            I brooded about frogs for weeks after that, and then eventually, I decided to do something about it.

            I cannot fix the things that kill them. It would take an army of fairy godmothers, and mine retired long ago. Now she goes on long cruises and spreads her wings out across the deck chairs.

            But I can make more.

            I had to get a field guide at first. It was a long process. Say a word and catch it, check the field marks. Most words turn to bronze frogs if I am not paying attention.

            Poison arrow frogs make my lips go numb. I can only do a few of those a day. I go through a lot of chapstick.  

            It is a holding action I am fighting, nothing more. I go to vernal pools and whisper sonnets that turn into wood frogs. I say the words squeak and squill and spring peepers skitter away into the trees. They begin singing almost the moment they emerge.

            I read long legal documents to a growing audience of Fowler’s toads, who blink their goggling eyes up at me. (I wish I could do salamanders. I would read Clive Barker novels aloud and seed the streams with efts and hellbenders. I would fly to Mexico and read love poems in another language to restore the axolotl. Alas, it’s frogs and toads and nothing more. We make do.)

            The woods behind my house are full of singing. The neighbors either learn to love it or move away.

            My sister—the one who speaks gold and diamonds—funds my travels. She speaks less than I do, but for me and my amphibian friends, she will vomit rubies and sapphires. I am grateful.

            I am practicing reading modernist revolutionary poetry aloud. My accent is atrocious. Still, a day will come when the Panamanian golden frog will tumble from my lips, and I will catch it and hold it, and whatever word I spoke, I’ll say again and again, until I stand at the center of a sea of yellow skins, and make from my curse at last a cloth of gold.

Terri Windling posted recently about the old fairy tale of frogs falling from a girl’s lips, and I started thinking about what I’d do if that happened to me, and…well…

a word from you would suffice

a daunting and prominent mistake i made, when i decided to forget you, to surface what i feel for you

i count the hours where you haven’t said them and got me thinking are you ambivalent for what is happening now, for the things that’s gonna happen, for the things that’ll never happen for the things we both promised are forever

pieces of sparred minds (02/26/16 12:00)

You plan and I plan but Allah swt is the best planner and whatever has been written will happen and whatever is meant for you won’t miss you.

There she was, at 4am, in your bed. You loved her then, didn’t you? She was wearing your duvet like a cape, with her head poking out. She loved you back; she really did. You said, “I don’t know what to do. I’ve never met anyone like you.” She said simply, “kiss me.” So you did. You lifted her chin and kissed her mouth and swallowed her giggles whole. You felt her sunshine fill your lungs as she wrapped her arms around your neck. You felt the duvet fall as she leant forward. “Tell me a secret,” she said. She was always saying these things. “I’ve told you everything already,“ you said. Your lips were on her neck. “Tell me a secret,” she repeated. “Okay,” you sighed, “I love you.” “Tell me a secret.“ “I’ve always loved you.”

Sue Zhao (via blossomfully)

Call me at 3 AM. Call me when you feel like you’re collapsing in the mess that has become you, call me when your mind doesn’t feel like home, call me in those strange hours between night and morning when you feel most alone. Call me at 1 PM. Call me when the spring breeze surrounds you, comforting as your mother’s touch, and the flowers burst from every crevice in the sidewalk, and the limbs of the trees sway against the clear afternoon sky. Call me when you need someone to share beauty with, someone to tell how excited the world makes you for once in a long time. Call me at 9 PM. Call me when you’re taking a bath that smells of lemon and lavender, call me when your mind is clear with each breath that dissolves into the warm air, call me when poetry dares to expose itself where it has been buried in your mind, poetry in shades of white and black and everything in between. Call me when everything is falling apart, when everything is coming together. But no matter when you call me, what shade of the night or hour of the day, I will listen. And I will love you just a little bit more, if that’s even possible.

an excerpt from a book I’ll never write #189 // call me when you need me (via worldsinmywords)

you are a prominent thoughts to my mind

pieces of sparred minds (22:37 02/25/16)

how much longer is this gonna take for us to break

pieces of sparred minds (22:36 02/25/16)

You are no longer mine to love. My mind has decided that loving you would only do harm to the both of us and if we wanted any chance at happiness I had to let you go. And I know you found it comforting to know that if he didn’t love you, at least I still did and you could just sit in the safety of my chest until you felt okay with leaving again. So I’m sorry but there are no more vacancies left for you to fit in. My heart loves another. Or at least that’s what my mind says. But it’s better this way.

“I still love you, but you can’t stay” remnant-thoughts (via remnant-thoughts)

We dream in colors so vivid, bright hues shade our thoughts. Vibrant tones seep into our voices and my words seem to be tinged blue.

“Sad” remnant-thoughts (via remnant-thoughts)

whatever that fades