to you,

sex and the city but make it witchy

[digitalgrimoire]

March 12th

Everything you need is within you and it is reflected through others around you.

[digitalgrimoire]

[...] producing art is a most simple and most stern calling, but at the same time a destiny, and, as such, greater than any of us, more powerful and to the very end immeasurable.

Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters of Rainer Maria Rilke, Vol II

[digitalgrimoire]

But now already I direct you further, out beyond me, to the figure I am building for myself, outside, more validly and more lastingly. Hold on to that, if it seems big and significant to you. Who knows who I am? I change and change. But it is the boundary of my transformation, its pure rim: if it radiates love to you, deeply, good: then let us both believe in it.

Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters of Rainer Maria Rilke, Vol II

[digitalgrimoire]

But a refuge of this sort, with this preliminary condition of most rigorous solitude, is hard to find , and I am indeed aware, one may not seek it: it must remain to the dispensation of chance to bring along such a privilege.

Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters of Rainer Maria Rilke, Vol II

[digitalgrimoire]

You have to believe there are parts of me that I only show to the birds outside my window.

[digitalgrimoire]

February 8th

If she's earth, her suffering is rain falling through tree crowns in forests, paths turning to mud.

If she's earth, her anger is lightning striking trees, her screams the sound of thunder.

If she's earth, her rage is earthquakes, ripping holes in her being, shaking grounds to their core.

[digitalgrimoire]

February 7th

Every night I dream of you and I. I've seen you grow and your love has been a raft in the raging abyss that is my life. You are my definition of love. You are the reason I made promises to God to be the best version of myself. But now that our time has passed, I fear specters will haunt my dreams of what could have been. So I wish you love, life, and the happiness that you truly deserve. One that leaves you breathless, exhausted, satisfied and satiated. A love like you have given me. You heard the oath that I sang to the stars and that will always remain true. You will always find me where I always am. Forever in your heart and in the stars, watching over you as you sleep - in this life and the next.

[digitalgrimoire]

February 5th

I love you. I want to mirror your kindness.

[digitalgrimoire]

Sometimes, when you find yourself plagued with waves of emotion from sadness to melancholy, you may be grieving yourself. The version of yourself you might have been if things have been different, or if only you would have said something, or if someone had stood up for you.

[digitalgrimoire]

February 4th

The reason why I have an issue with being kind to others is that I don't love myself enough. How can I have enough love to share when I don't even have enough for myself?

And I do have love to give, I know. But I give it to a lover because it's so much easier to love somebody else than love myself first. It's so much easier to accept his flaws and encourage him to be better than do exactly the same thing for myself.

Is it because I don't think I could be better? Or is it because I haven't made enough space for my flaws? Is it because I refuse to embrace the shadow version of myself and repress it, instead of showing her it's possible to blossom, even in the dark?

My fear of being rejected comes from my rejecting her, over and over again. Rejecting her feelings, rejecting her existence, refusing to see the mess she's done. I don't want to gently hold her hand and show her the way.

I don't want to acknowledge her existence, so she screams at the top of her lungs and knocks her bloody fists against my chest. Her touch pierces holes through my aura. Then she hides and waits for her moment. Because as fiery as she is, she's methodical, she's vengeful and she knows her time will come.

She knows that only when she will ruin beautiful moments for me she will be noticed, she will be seen. So she picks her time accordingly and wreaks havoc in my life. And not even then do I choose to see her - I blame it on everyone else but her, the part of me that I repress.

And that only makes her angrier, more vicious. If this wasn't enough to make her feel seen, then she would have to cause even more damage. And more. When will I finally notice her? When will I finally look her in the eyes and acknowledge her presence?

Is today the day we finally look upon each other? I still don't want to hold her hand, but I can finally see her clearly.

[digitalgrimoire]

February 1st

I saw you today, I’m still confused.

I miss you. So much. I never cook anymore, you know? I miss it. Afternoon would come around and I would get dinner ready for you. I thought I enjoyed the process of cooking and baking - but it wasn’t that at all. You would walk in the house, hug me and we’d sit down for dinner together. We’d talk about our days.

I miss that. I miss talking to you for hours on end. Endless discussions, never a dull moment. 

[digitalgrimoire]

Good night, my joy, my unending love. I’m thinking now how you suddenly shudder when you fall asleep–and about much more, about the one thing that cannot be expressed by words.

Vladimir Nabokov, Letters to Vera

[digitalgrimoire]

Pussycat, Puss, yes, I love you, I’m waiting for you unbearably. And there is still another thing that I want to tell you–and this thing, please, you should also listen to carefully and remember well. I want to tell you… No, please, consider it well–I want to tell you that I: love you without end.

Vladimir Nabokov, Letters to Vera

[digitalgrimoire]

The easy possibility of writing letters must have brought wrack and ruin to the souls of the world. Writing letters is actually an intercourse with one's own ghost, which secretly evolves inside the letter one is writing or even in a whole series of letters, where one letter corroborates another and can refer to it as witness.

Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena

[digitalgrimoire]

My life, it is late now, I am a bit tired; the sky is irritated by stars. And I love you, I love you, I love you–and perhaps this is how a whole enormous world, shining all over, can be created–out of five vowels and three consonants.

Vladimir Nabokov, Letters to Vera

[digitalgrimoire]

Your two letters arrived together, at noon; they aren't there to be read, but to be unfolded, to rest one's face on while losing one's mind.

Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena

[digitalgrimoire]

Hello, my darling. I love you. Neither when I was in Prague without you, nor when you were in St Blasien, had it been so unbearable without you as this time. This is probably explained by my loving you more and more.

Vladimir Nabokov, Letters to Vera