made for loving @arylleth - Tumblr Blog

I'm not very social, and I forget that tumblr has chats (or the ability to comment on posts). Sorry, I don't want to ignore anybody, I have low social energy and a goldfish memory. I share quotes and thoughts, be free to comment and share your thoughts but not to stir up hotbeds of hate. If of the quotes there are authors and I forget to tag them, write me and I will add the source. Be happy, be the adults you sought as children, cultivate kindness and make yourself a better person every day. May roses bloom on your paths, a hug.

( english in not my first language )

Recent addition: I have a tumor, it is benign at the moment but the various medical visits and the upcoming surgery are causing me to miss it. It's life, we take it as it comes and try to live it to the fullest.

quotefeeling

“But in that moment I understood what they say about nostalgia, that no matter if you’re thinking of something good or bad, it always leaves you a little emptier afterwards.”

— John Corey Whaley; Noggin

arylleth

Nostalgia does not look backward; it operates in the present, excavates a hollow and names it memory. The past arrives later, summoned to justify an absence already underway. Etymology offers orientation without comfort. Nóstos, return; álgos, pain. A pain generated by return, not by distance. A paradox the Greeks understood well: Odysseus suffers not only from separation, but from the very idea of going back, from the tension toward a place that has already shifted. Ithaca no longer coincides with what inhabits him. Nostalgia marks not geography, but a discrepancy between two versions of the same place: one lived, one retained. So what is it that empties out? Not the remembered object, not the event. The subject thins, because it attempts to occupy two incompatible times. One part remains here, embedded in the continuity of hours; another withdraws, constructs a scene, lights it, isolates it. This division is not neutral. It generates friction. Each carefully arranged memory, each detail polished free of contingency, subtracts something from the density of the present. Freud spoke of repetition compulsion. Not nostalgia in the ordinary sense, yet the structure aligns: a return that does not aim at understanding, but at reconstruction. One does not go back to see again, but to complete. Completion never occurs. Each return adds a detail, erases another, rearranges the whole. Memory does not archive; it rewrites. Within this continuous rewriting, the emptiness Whaley describes begins to take shape: not a defined loss, but a slow erosion. Proust pursued lost time through a madeleine. Not a grand symbol, but an ordinary object. The experience does not restore the past in full; it produces a short circuit, an overlap of planes. The present cracks, allows another density to filter through. The result is not fullness. It is expansion followed by contraction. The moment widens, then closes, and what remains does not coincide with what was sought. Nostalgia, then, does not concern only what has been. It interrogates continuity itself. Are we the same as the one who lived what we now recall? Or does memory assemble coherence to resist dispersion? If the subject shifts, the memory becomes a document, almost external. Each nostalgic act contains an element of estrangement: one observes a scene in which one is both present and absent. The void receives a label, becomes manageable. Yet the name never exhausts what it indicates. A margin remains, a zone that escapes definition.

qwestleon

music, poetry, nature, solitude.

feral-ballad

Yi Lei, tr. by Tracy K. Smith, from My Name Will Grow Wild Like a Tree: Selected Poems; “I don’t want to be restored to reason”

boykeats

[ID: poem text reading,

"Buried miles deep, and for what? I shrink even from myself. I wish To get out from under the sky,"

/end ID]

arylleth

these words rise in me like groundwater finding a crack in concrete, slow, inevitable, tasting of iron and old rain. i feel them in the sternum first, a small cave-in where the ribs meet. not despair —something closer to the ache of a seed that has waited too long in the dark, sensing the season has shifted above it but unsure whether the light is promise or punishment.

i have built this burial carefully, layer by layer. each promotion a shovelful, each polite smile at the meeting another clod of earth. the inbox is my sarcophagus lid, notifications the faint scratching of embalmer’s tools. i tell myself it is safety: if no one sees the raw edge of me, no one can cut themselves on it. yet here i am, miles deep, listening to my own pulse echo like a distant subway train that never arrives.

socrates asked what life unexamined was worth; i ask what life over-examined becomes. a specimen pinned under glass, wings still beating but no longer believing in flight. we are all minor icaruses now, wax melted not by the sun but by the blue glow of screens, falling not into sea but into feeds, scrolling past our own drowning.

still, there is something stubborn in the shrinking. a refusal to sprawl carelessly across the world’s surface. perhaps this contraction is a gathering, the way a cat curls tight before the leap, the way a heart draws inward before it breaks open. i think of the lotus in the mud as fact: it grows through filth because it must, because the alternative is to remain seed forever.

i want out from under the sky —but not to escape it. rather to meet it again as the first humans must have, necks craned, mouths open, unafraid of being swallowed by immensity. the sky has not changed; it is i who have learned to look down, to measure my worth in square footage and follower counts, to mistake horizon for ceiling.

what if the shrinking is only rehearsal? a long inhalation before the note that shatters the glass. i feel it gathering now, this pressure behind the eyes, this heat in the palms. not rage, not yet—something quieter, more dangerous: recognition. the recognition that the burial was consensual, that i handed over the shovel gladly because the surface felt too bright, too exposed, too full of other people’s weather.

but the body remembers sky. the skin remembers wind. even miles deep, the lungs practice their rebellion, drawing in the thin recycled air and turning it, stubbornly, into breath. i am not dead here; i am germinating. the dark is doing its slow work, softening the husk, coaxing the pale shoot toward whatever fissure lets in the faintest rumor of light.

and when i finally push through—because i will, because we always do—i will not apologize for the dirt under my nails or the wild angle of my growth. i will stand crooked and green and unmistakably alive, blinking at a sky that has waited patiently for me to remember how large it is, how large i am allowed to be.

#writing #I wish / to get out from under the sky #Yi Lei #poem #poetry #spilled words #spilled poem #spilled thoughts #spilledink #spilled writing #spilled poetry #prose #daily thoughts #thoughts

feral-ballad

I thought so many things & never said a single one aloud. I choked on such longing I couldn’t spit out. Yes, desire is so different when God bore you hungry. I could have devoured anything and still have been starving.

Yves Olade, Belovéd

#yves olade #poetry

we’re here now. we’ve been here for so long that we’ve carved a ghost out of our waiting. we’ve woven ourselves a haunting. something is dead because we killed it. & now there’s blood under our nails & Mercury in retrograde. we can kiss over the corpse until sunrise, but we still have to dispose of the body.

miracle, isn’t it? that’s what you call thaumaturgy. we are not a miracle but a cataclysm. together, all we do is violence. & it feels good but that’s not enough anymore, if it ever was. what are we going to do, baby? are you / going to / save me? or just hold me down? am I / just another thing to kill? am I / anything at all?

pain has conquered every nation of my body.

I am still a thing afraid of itself— a steel trap with no teeth. pottery, cracking in the heat of the kiln.

untethered by absolution we are fugitives from our temples / exiles from our bodies. there is nothing left to surrender, but to surrender what is holy in us.[...] you can look God in the eyes from your hollow in the earth, & hunt something you have a hope of killing.

You can have my heart if you have the stomach to take it. Kiss me hard enough to invert me.

You look like you’ve eaten the sun, like you drank so much sunlight you’re drowning in it.

All that matters is that you want to hurt me. All that matters is that you want me.

I want you to fuck me like a colosseum. Love me like a killing. Want me like a wild thing, like Rome hunting every lion on the coast of a continent. Call me Carthage, baby.

I say, I promise I won't do anything awful, and he says, you are something awful, but I’m keeping you anyway. does that make me your bad thing? your wild thing? something worth hunting across the county?

geryone

Fauna, Richard Siken

arylleth

There is something wrong with the deer. It is not all right. It has caught its leg in a length of something. They cut it free and let it go but you can tell it is not all right. It might never be all right. Call it a myth and the truth grows abstract. Call it a lie and the truth is a doubled fact. My stepmother’s father was an Elk. We would go to the lodge to eat roast beef and watch him butt heads with the other Elks. Sometimes he would raise a glass in praise and we would clap. Sometimes he would remember and we would bow our heads. The Elks fought in the war to end tyranny. They left, they fought, and they came back. They are not all right. Once, I drove to the end of the world. It was in Los Angeles. Someone had posted a sign. It read No U-turn. Parking $5. The beach was nice. I wrote you a letter in case I died but I threw it away. It was good practice. We have to practice losing everything. We are deer, we are headlights. We are the road where they collide.

arylleth

It was good practice, they said, and I believed them, though every breath was a small betrayal. We learn to hold our hands open, to cradle absence, to trace the hollows where everything we love will eventually slip away. The body tightens around loss, the mind rehearses collapse, and we fall into the motion of it, again and again, until sorrow becomes a familiar skin.

We are deer, my dear, trembling beneath streetlights that pierce the night, eyes wide, muscles taut with the memory of predators. We are headlights, incandescent and terrible, cutting through the dark, leaving others to scatter, leaving ourselves exposed in brilliance. We are the road where they collide, where inevitability strikes and the world bends and breaks around us. And still we move forward, still we press against the friction of fate, learning the geometry of fracture, the rhythm of impact, the intimate mathematics of destruction.

Practice losing everything. Practice loving what cannot be kept. Practice trembling under the weight of inevitability, practice the ache of watching beauty break, practice opening the body, the mind, the heart, and letting it all be taken, knowing that the collision is inevitable, that the deer will always run, that the headlights will always burn, that the road itself is a waiting altar, and we, faithful as ever, are the offering.

#spilled words #spilled thoughts

geryone

Fauna, Richard Siken

arylleth

There is something wrong with the deer. It is not all right. It has caught its leg in a length of something. They cut it free and let it go but you can tell it is not all right. It might never be all right. Call it a myth and the truth grows abstract. Call it a lie and the truth is a doubled fact. My stepmother’s father was an Elk. We would go to the lodge to eat roast beef and watch him butt heads with the other Elks. Sometimes he would raise a glass in praise and we would clap. Sometimes he would remember and we would bow our heads. The Elks fought in the war to end tyranny. They left, they fought, and they came back. They are not all right. Once, I drove to the end of the world. It was in Los Angeles. Someone had posted a sign. It read No U-turn. Parking $5. The beach was nice. I wrote you a letter in case I died but I threw it away. It was good practice. We have to practice losing everything. We are deer, we are headlights. We are the road where they collide.

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