Saints Are Sinners That Learned To Live With Themselves.

History doesn’t remember everything, history forgets too. Names lost in the sands, how many things buried in the bottom of the hourglass?

Amen!

11 stages of love in arabic.

1. الْهَوَى (hawa) = Attraction The beginning of love. This love can arise suddenly, but is transient, not yet firm in the heart. 2. الْعَلاقَةُ (‘alaqah) = Attachment Love that becomes attached to the heart, and loses the transitory property ofhawa. 3. الْكَلَفُ (kalaf) = Infatuation Love that begins to intensify and have a physical affect on the lover. 4. الْعِشْقُ (‘ishq) = Desire  Love that engulfs the heart of the lover entirely, and takes it as its residence, such that love and the heart in which it resides become intimately familiar with one-another.  This love blinds the lover to any faults in the beloved. 5. الشّعَفُ / اللَّوْعَةُ / اللعَاج (sha’af, law’ah, li’aj) = Passion  Love that starts to burn, but at this stage, the love is still pleasurable in the heart. 6. الشّغَفُ (shaghaf) = Affliction Destructive, all-consuming love. The heart begins to be devoured by the love. 7. اَلْجَوَى (jawaa)= Grief Love that started with the outer covering of the heart. It takes over the entire heart, and results in an inner grief and sorrow. 8. التّيْمُ (taym) = Enslavement Love to the point where the heart is enslaved to the beloved. 9. التَّبْل (tabl) = Malady Love, which was once living pleasurably in the heart, having made it its home, now turns against the heart, and so overwhelms, confounds and bewilders it, that it is as though it were its enemy. 10. التَّدْلِيْه (tadleeh) = Disorder Love when the heart is thus being destroyed from within, and begins to lose all sense of balance and reason, it goes into a state of chaos and disorder. 11. الْهُيُوْمُ (huyum) = Insanity Love that comes to its conclusion. 

Writing tips I know but never use #2

Art is hard, writing especially. You shouldn’t wait for inspiration to hit you, you should sharpen your blades, ready the guns, and hunt the damn thing down. Pin it to the page, and hold it there until it stops struggling. Go outside looking for it, talk to someone random on the bus about their coat, call a friend and ask them what the weirdest experience of their life involving the colour blue is. Hunt inspiration, do not let it hunt you.

“Such is the nature of Love, it makes Poets and villains of us all.”

-My journal

A candle for lost dreams, and a whispered name that breaks a thousand hearts...

The night sound of sand on sand, the rustling of ancient books, the call to prayer in the crumbling city. All left behind, and all coming back, and all already here.The sunken city will howl through our dreams again: The City of the Old Ones, The Pillars, The Forgotten.

[Record scratch] [Freeze frame] Verily, that is me. Abraham, chosen one of God. Thou art probably wondering how I came to be in that situation.

Nothing like the constant feeling of inadequacy to keep me company as I stare at the empty page, ignoring the heaps of deadlines that advance like the shadow of death.

A politician divides mankind into two classes: tools and enemies.

Friedrich Nietzsche (via friedrichnietzsche)

The desert is coming to England

The desert is coming to England. The daisies are pushing up dust. The henges are looming through ashes. Our sunsets are ochre and rust. And plaster Elizabeth peers from the sand, And plaster Victoria’s one outstretched hand Is silently crumbling back into the land Where the desert is coming to England.

We don’t know how long it was coming, The route that it wove through the wars. Our safety for years has been sealing Our ears and our minds and our doors. We thought we’d stay safe from the sorrows of what The wider world whispered by keeping them shut But the borders are closed and the cables are cut And the desert’s still coming to England

So sing of Britannia’s twilight, A lullaby to it’s last gleaming: Under the shadows, the satellite-fires To usher the end of her dreaming. We thought it would come with the beat of a drum, With the fire of our bows burning bright like the sun, But silently, slowly and softly it’s come: The desert is coming to England.