sore must be the storm

[fliesintheattic-deactivated2020]

Help me down? You don’t dare. I might rub off on you, like soot or gossip. Birds of a feather burn together, though as a rule ravens are singular

Margaret Atwood, from ‘half-hanged Mary’ (via fliesintheattic)

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

I will place my hand in that flame and feel nothing. I will ask nobody’s forgiveness again.

Franz Wright, from God’s Silence: Poems; “Reparations,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

[bh-myth]

La Jetée (1962)

[lifeinpoetry]

If ever you wanted to know how I heal, drink the dusk. Burn a ritual on your tongue. Bleed into a lover.

Leave your shadow everywhere you think the light could find it.

— Elisabet Velasquez, from “I Don’t Want to Be Known for Writing About My Trauma I Write in a New Poem I Am Writing About Writing About My Trauma,” published in Winter Tangerine

[porcelainapparition]

[lifeinpoetry]

It’s not that he consumes me but that I consume myself, much like the ouroboros. I prepare for future suffering. I suffer today. I suffer so that the future suffering will feel like an old shoe. I’m a fish in a net, still living.

Jade Quinn, from “How to Eat Yourself,” published in Spilled Milk Magazine (via lifeinpoetry)

[lifeinpoetry]

It’s important / for me to say I look for her still because someone has to. Someone / has to imagine her there

Paul Tran, from “Document,” published in 92Y (via lifeinpoetry)

[moerae-deactivated20231007]

Day Dreams (detail) Charles-Amable Lenoir

[artbyalexis]

[70sscifiart]

John Schoenherr

[studiofiftyfour]

Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992)

[forlorn-absentia-deactivated202]

[luminousartefact-blog]

Your soul is the priestess of memory, selecting, sifting, and ultimately gathering your vanishing days toward presence. 

- John O’Donohue

Image: luminous artefact

Postcards | Instagram

[minavampyra]

Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992) dir. Francis Ford Coppola

[adrasteiax]

Through the slit of our open window, the wind comes in and flows around us, nothingness in motion, like time. The power of what is not there.

Margaret Atwood, from Shapechangers In Winter in “Morning In The Burned House” (via adrasteiax)

[thunderstruck9]

[amare-habeo]

Franz Sedlacek (Austrian, 1891-1945)

Traum [Dream], 1932

Oil on plywood, 43 × 54.5 cm

via  thunderstruck9

[jodeeeart]

More Personal work today :)