I'm Laala and I'm 24 years old. This is mostly a book blog, but I also occasionally document my life.
My other tumblrs: Discourse on Life | A Burst of Colour | One Door to Another.
My goodreads profile | Flickr | last.fm | YouTube | Instagram.
You can reach me at distantheartbeats@gmail.com.
[2009: Books | Movies | Concerts | Theatre] [2010: Books | Movies | Concerts | Theatre]
[2011: Books | Movies | Concerts | Theatre] [2012: Books | Movies | Concerts & Theatre]
~ Monday, September 1 ~

Moments in Blue

There’s this moment. When he’s standing right next to you, with you, talking to you — and all you can think of is how much you want to grab his hand. Kiss his lips. Stroke his dimples. Bury yourself in the hollow of his neck. Your fingers twitch trying to reach for his. And sometimes, you do touch him. Softly, on his arm, to point something out. Not long enough to even feel his solid bicep before you let go. Or you put your hand on his waist when you laugh at a joke, but you can’t look into his eyes as you do it because you are too afraid. Too vulnerable.

What do you do with his gaze? What can you do when he pins you down, his eyes setting your nerves on fire, your breaths shorter and your lips part and he’s less than an arm’s reach away but the distance may as well be a mile. How do you know what he’s thinking when he has the best poker face you know? How do you stop yourself from stroking his cheek when his face is a bundle of dimples when he smiles? Can you ache and stop? How far do you push to find out?

How much of the hesitation is for his benefit? Because he’s not the type of person who would be flippant about a kiss. Not the kind of guy who would drag you behind the hedges you are both busy admiring and kiss you hard and fast? How much of the fear is the fear of rejection? Of destroying friendship? Of wondering if it is him, or if anyone’s touch would do.

You tell him how much you hate his beard. You tease him. You touch his knee, always looking away. You wonder again and again what he thinks about in the silences between his replies. You wonder if he’s ever thought of kissing you. You wonder what he would want and you’re surprised how much you want to be it.

You imagine him staring at you just before he kisses you and your knees wobble for a moment. Your throat is dry. You’re standing close together. It’s the right moment. Isn’t it? Isn’t this exactly how it’s meant to happen? Sitting under a tree in the park holding up an umbrella as it rains, talking about future plans. Leaning against a wall. Sitting across from each other having tea. Staring at each other, silently. The moments stretch into infinity. You stare at him until you are so shaken that you look away. That’s the moment, isn’t it? When you should move forward. Close the gap. And yet. You are frozen. You can’t lean into him. You want him to move toward you.

What if he knows? What if he doesn’t?

The shadow of his merry eyes and upturned nose and the creases scoring his young face. You wonder what he’ll look like when he’s older. When his dimples and creases are joined by wrinkles. You struggle not to kiss him. You want to. You want to so badly your whole body shakes for a moment so you step away. Stare into the distance. Stare anywhere but into his blue eyes. His long, pale lashes that darken at the roots. You think of stroking his face. Of being allowed free rein with his body.

There’s something between you. And there’s nothing.

You wonder who the last person to kiss him was. You wonder what he’d be like if the uncertainty isn’t there. You see a vein pulse in his wrist and you want to kiss it. Everything he does makes you want to lean into him.

You hold yourself back. Silently begging for him to lean in.

                                                                           —Laala Kashef Alghata

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~ Saturday, August 30 ~

Belle & Sebastian in Edinburgh after the God Help the Girl movie premiere! I’m finally reviving my photography tumblr, aburstofcolour. Follow me on there for mostly travel photographs, as well as some gigs and other bits and bobs. 

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reblogged via aburstofcolour
Raymond Carver, Balsa Wood

Raymond Carver, Balsa Wood

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~ Friday, August 29 ~


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~ Thursday, August 28 ~
I was staring at you and you were staring at me and right then it was sort of like love, wasn’t it?

Junot Diaz, Flaca in This Is How You Lose Her

I was lucky enough to have had a handful of these moments last week, and when I could finally close my eyes and not continue to see his merry blue ones blinking back at me, I thought of this quote.

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reblogged via distantheartbeats
~ Wednesday, August 27 ~

The hardest thing:

Not being able to tell him I miss him.
Not being able to see his face crinkle up when he laughs.
Not telling him how I feel.
Not touching him.
Not tracing his face with my fingers.
Not feeling his lips on mine.
Not kissing him when his lips were inches away from mine.
Not telling him to kiss me when he would stare into my eyes.
Not really knowing how he feels, no matter how potent the energy between us.
Not being there and having him not be here.
Not letting myself grab his hand when we bumped into each other.
Not telling the truth.

Missing him. Simply missing him.

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~ Monday, August 25 ~
68 plays

Song of the Day:
Dependable People And Things That I’m Sure Of by Slow Club

But I can run further than I could before
and I can laugh louder, I can dance till I’m sore
then in the morning I can do it again
I just have to keep moving, don’t ever stop moving

And all of this envy and all of this fear
will just be a memory of this shitty year
and I’m so much older than I want to be
but there’s so much more if I take it easy

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~ Sunday, August 24 ~

A friend, while hugging me:

  • Him: I missed you.
  • Me: You sound surprised.
  • Him: Yes, by how much. Everything was quiet and tranquil here. Not in a good way. Everyone became monotonous and no one smiled.
  • Me: But people were smiling this morning.
  • Him: Yes. You're back.
  • I pulled back to see if he was serious. He was. I was speechless.
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Two years ago, packing up my apartment.

Two years ago, packing up my apartment.

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~ Thursday, August 21 ~
Currently, in the Tate Modern.

Currently, in the Tate Modern.

(Source: )

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