Dusk falling to dark

"How lovely it is when the mind blurs.." - Odysseus Elytis

[freakoutgirl]

"all you ever do is complain" that's not true. I also resent.

[freakoutgirl]

and love..........

[pierppasolini]

It’s beautiful here, but lonely, no?

God’s Own Country (2017) // dir. Francis Lee

[entropy-entropy]

'The Slow Work Of Sweetness'

Outside,

the rain keeps

to its slow work. ⛈

The courtyard darkens.🕸

Water runs

from leaf to leaf,

then disappears

into the waiting earth. 🌿

On the plate,

the ripe jackfruit🍈

rests in

thick golden bulbs,

its sweetness

already filling

the room. 💛

The skin of each fruit

gives way

without effort.

The flesh is firm,

cool,

heavy with juice,

and the tongue

finds

honey,

wildflowers,

warm resin,

the deep green smell

of the tree

that held it

through another summer.🌿

The seeds

wait quietly inside,

smooth

as river stones,

promising

another season.

Beyond the window,

the afternoon

grows darker.🖤

A crow

calls once,

then nothing

but rain.🐦‍⬛

My hands

grow sticky.

The sweet scent

clings

to my fingers,

to the knife,

to the wooden table,

until the whole house

smells

like a forest

opening

after heat.🏚

There is no hurry.

Only rain.

Only fruit.

Only the old happiness

of eating

what the monsoon

has finally

brought home.🖤

- Kalindi

[sddasw-deactivated20140226]

[entropy-entropy]

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

Zanzibar Cloves

A paper packet

waits in my kitchen—

filled with dark,

plump cloves,

their polished brown heads

still carrying

the memory of an island.

Break one between your fingers—

the fragrance arrives first:

warm as old wood,

sweet without becoming sugar,

camphorous,

peppery,

with a whisper of smoke

and dried flowers,

as though rain had once fallen

through a forest of spice.

On the tongue,

it begins almost gently—

then blooms

into heat,

numbing,

resinous,

deep,

leaving behind

a sweetness that lingers

like a story refusing to end.

Long before

airports and cargo ships,

the monsoon

performed the crossings.

The same seasonal breath

that cools my window today

once filled sails,

carrying Indian spice traders

across the Indian Ocean

to Zanzibar—

and carrying Zanzibar

quietly back again.

Now this small packet,

gifted from that distant shore,

rests beside my stove,

and every time

a clove disappears

into simmering lentils

or fragrant rice,

an island,

an ocean,

the old monsoon winds,

and centuries of shared journeys

season

my ordinary meal. 🖤🌧️🌊

[entropy-entropy]

𓆦 🖤The Small Visitor🌑

Since last night

the moth has remained,

a pale fragment of the outside world

pressed against my window.

My room is dim,

the rain keeps its endless conversation

with the glass.

I wonder where it came from...

some invisible distance

of leaves, mud, and moonlight,

some ancient map

written only in instinct.

It does not know

my silence.

I do not know

its journey.

Still,

in this small room

of rain and shadows,

we share the night. 🖤

-- Kalindi

[predecessors]

A man standing on the Sphinx, demonstrating its size. Circa 1900s.

[dailyclassicart]

Carl Gustav Carus - "Moonlight over pine trees"

[selene]

💀

[luthienne]

Franz Wright, God's Silence; "East Boston, 1996"

[Text ID: Go out and look at the stars / shining / in the past.]

[entropy-entropy]

Wind is never just “here.”

It has arrived.

By the time it touches you, it has already travelled—over trees, water, dust, maybe distant fields, maybe someone’s courtyard, maybe a temple bell ringing far away. It carries tiny traces—scents, temperature, even a kind of invisible memory.

That’s why it feels distant and a little mysterious.

Your mind senses this without thinking. It’s like the breeze is whispering, “I’ve been somewhere… I’ve seen things.” And that creates a feeling of vastness —like you’re connected to places you can’t see.

Sometimes a breeze smells faintly of earth, or leaves, or something you can’t quite name—that’s because it’s literally carrying particles from afar. But emotionally… it feels like it’s carrying stories.

And there’s something else too—wind blurs boundaries.

It doesn’t belong to one place. So when it touches you, for a moment, you also don’t feel confined. You feel a little expanded, a little elsewhere. That’s why certain winds feel almost… nostalgic, even if you don’t know what you’re remembering.

It’s not just air.

It’s movement, memory, and distance… all arriving at once.

- Kalindi

[a-quiet-green-agreement]

She was alone in the autumn groves and her solitude gave her a melancholy, pensive aura.

– Konstantin Paustovsky, from “Isaak Levitan,” Selected Stories (Progress Publishers, 1974)

[derangedrhythms]

Silently a blue deer came down from black forests

Georg Trakl, Surrender to Night: Collected Poems of Georg Trakl: Uncollected Poems and Prose; from 'Night Soul' (version 2), tr. Will Stone

[brucelewisphotography]

Fairy Dust

[derangedrhythms]

For it seemed that under the cold stare of the great moon orb, all things known darkened and faded from sight and all things hidden glittered in its gaze.

Morowa Yejidé, from 'Creatures of Passage'

[mournfulroses]

Katherine Mansfield, from a diary entry featured in The Letters & Journals of Katherine Mansfield

[petaltexturedskies]

Virginia Woolf, describing Katherine Mansfield, in a diary entry wr. c. May 1920, from The Diary of Virginia Woolf, Vol. II: 1920-1924

[bluewillowmoon]

Blue Ridge Mountains, Asheville, North Carolina, 13 March 2023