a writing based blog by: n1ghtswim & Upintheivory

We write so we can feel,
and share in hopes of connecting.

Personal Writing:
His ● Hers


I thought I knew change, 
I thought I knew it well.
I’d welcome it like an old friend, 
like a hermit greets it’s shell.
But now change itself has changed,
and left me in a whirl.
Who are you, where did you come from,
and why aren’t I on top of the world?
I used to own my life,
with my head held high.
Not a care in the world,
and my friends by my side.
But now we’ve fallen off,
pushed down separate sides of the rock.
I try not to worry,
for we’ll meet again on top.

This is yet another vintage find that I will be putting up in my dorm room. My mom, my sister, and I went to a local thrift store (Miss Minnies) and I found several of these old ripped out pages. I chose these two (other animals are on the back) and my mom and I bought two 11x14 dark wood frames a few days later. We mounted the vintage pages on periwinkle mat board and voilà! Of course I was curious about the origin of these babies, so we deciphered the signature of the artist and I used the power of google to find out more. The book is called “Friends of the Forest” written by Frank North Shankland. It was illustrated by Fern Bisel Peat and published in 1936 by The Saalfield Publishing Company. My deceased grandmother was born in 1931.. These photos are almost 3 generation’s old. 

I bought this fox photo from an antique store the other day, thinking it’d look nice on my wall. It was in a rusted frame, so my mom and I were in the process of transferring the photo when we discovered it was, in fact, a postcard from 1984. There’s a sweet note written on the back to a lady named Sharon, but the postcard was trimmed in order to fit in a frame, so  some of the words are cut off. The postcard is from an exhibit at the Smithsonian Institution. It’s called Red Fox—On the Prowl.I found the original online. When I bought the photograph, I was under the impression it was a white fox. Now that I know it’s a worn down, weathered, red fox, it has so much more meaning.

A metal box welded shut,
Emotions compacted, silent rutt.
Try and crack me, I’m no nut. 
A metal box welded shut.

(Source: lexiques)

shhh. his breathing steadies as the blood runs blue through his pulsing veins

Patch by patch, we search for more, 
Through wildflowers and weeds, craving an answer.
Back and forth, over and under; our curious eyes gaze in wonder.
Is this prairie our conclusion, or is spring returning once more?
The foggy discovery is deemed short-lived; flawed and open-ended.
The poppies have wilted, all flora found lifeless. Closure: an illusion.

(Source: lexiques)

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