Rebecca Solnit, Recollections of My Nonexistence
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Rebecca Solnit, Recollections of My Nonexistence
@lit-society book fair: beach reads → i’ll give you the sun
“I gave up practically the whole world for you,” I tell him, walking through the front door of my own love story. “The sun, stars, ocean, trees, everything, I gave it all up for you.”
“you‘re so quiet” baby i’m not even here. i’m fantasizing about a book i read weeks ago. move on.
don’t forget that love letters are still the cutest gifts
“I choked / on such longing I couldn’t spit out. Yes, desire is so different / when God bore you hungry.”
— Yves Olade, from Belovéd; Slaughterhouse, 2020
“You eat your heart? My heart Eats me. I did not want you, Candida. You came anyway.”
— Anonymous, “I did not want you”, trans. from the Latin by Kenneth Rexroth in Sacramental Acts [translations]
*gets addicted to literally anything that distracts me from the fact i exist*
I see no reason why I can’t be both the love interest and the antagonist
being a woman is like. i want to be monstrous. i want to be desired.
mcr songs: FUCK!!! i hate the government the status of every relationship i’m in is “it’s complicated” i do drugs to forget i exist i’m probably never gonna make it in life *frenzied guitar/bass instrumental* i don’t really care if i live through this because i’m damned if i do and damned if i don’t but if anyone wants me dead they’re gonna have to fucking kill me! GODDAMNIT!!! SHIT!!!!!
me lying in bed staring at the ceiling while i listen to all of this through my shitty broken earphones like it’s still 2009: you’re the only motherfuckers on this planet who can handle me
ohhh my god i need enrichment soooo baddddd....... someone PLEASE throw something strange and new into my enclosure!!!!!
my life b like: *thinks about love* *thinks about love* *thinks about love* *thinks about love* *thinks about love* *thinks about love* *thinks about love* *thinks about love* *thinks about love* *thinks about love* *thinks about love* *thi
sick and tired of artificial light. we are over it
my executives are dysfunctioning girl
girl help
me: *puts effort into my appearance before i go out anywhere* *checks myself out in any reflective surface i encounter* *observes myself in the mirror from the perspective of a stranger*
the unavoidable presence of margaret atwood that resides permanently in my consciousness:
forgiveness is a knife — War’s capacity for it is nonexistent being spun from the abyss into an abomination that is set to bring the apocalypse; because if the horsemen had been birthed instead of made the change in their fundamental understanding of humanity would make them unable to accomplish their task.
And she, having spilled onto the asphalt like napalm and risen from the burning fields with a sword, has a job to do.
—neon church—
A prophet prays inside a neon church with the Antichrist at her side, her eyes are fixed on the roof of this cheap Vegas chapel that promises elicit lovers a legitimacy to their feelings; a contract that is impulsively signed, and too soon taken back.
A long time ago her hand was forced onto sand, she signed away: her tongue, her heart, her mind, her soul; became the mouthpiece of an absent God that returns to chew on her tongue until it bleeds.
She kisses him the first time beneath these neon lights, her mouth tastes like copper. His
childhood grasped between her spindle and stars, she threads his past, present, future with hers — precise even promises with each incision. These hastily made oaths have no unstitching. Haven’t you heard? It’s the end of days.
The horsemen are coming. Unveiled eldritch monstrosities that have been starved for eons in their sleeping coffins beneath the throne of God, where their mouths had opened and closed with infinite rows of teeth; choirs of angels watching these tools slumber.
Now that they are awake they need: broken promises, closeted sins, sorrow
as sustenance.
The honey-veined pattern of the church’s floor glows neon yellow, the prophet on the tips of her toes whispering words that fall like jigsaw puzzles. He gathers each piece for later, suppressing a shudder when she lets him know War is waiting for them outside.
The Antichrist is awake, and God’s tools have come to pay their respects.
— Horsemen & Archangels || Eliot C. ©
carrie/ live through this, hole / courtney love / black swan / brand new city, mitski / i, tonya