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Soap&Skin - Wonder

hooraypeachplumpear

Don't forget to pray to keep it away away from every day where you wonder why we can't be or see who cuts us asunder

#soap&skin #wonder

Quando ritrovi le belle amicizie, e poi le belle cose. Un po’ ammaccate, ma loro sono li.

e u c a l i p t o

#eucalipto #sketch #lifestationery #note

hooliganmagazine

Explaining My Depression to My Mother - Sabrina Benaim

Dova va a finire tutto l’amore di una storia d’amore?

#levante #peonie

lostinparadise

So long, Marianne.

fuckyeahmrleonardcohen

Leonard Cohen and Marianne Jensen

deadlyrealist

Mom, my depression is a shape shifter. One day it is as small as a firefly in the palm of a bear, The next, it’s the bear. On those days I play dead until the bear leaves me alone. I call the bad days: “the Dark Days.” Mom says, “Try lighting candles.” When I see a candle, I see the flesh of a church, the flicker of a flame, Sparks of a memory younger than noon. I am standing beside her open casket. It is the moment I learn every person I ever come to know will someday die. Besides Mom, I’m not afraid of the dark. Perhaps, that’s part of the problem. Mom says, “I thought the problem was that you can’t get out of bed.” I can’t. Anxiety holds me a hostage inside of my house, inside of my head. Mom says, “Where did anxiety come from?” Anxiety is the cousin visiting from out-of-town depression felt obligated to bring to the party. Mom, I am the party. Only I am a party I don’t want to be at. Mom says, “Why don’t you try going to actual parties, see your friends?” Sure, I make plans. I make plans but I don’t want to go. I make plans because I know I should want to go. I know sometimes I would have wanted to go. It’s just not that fun having fun when you don’t want to have fun, Mom. You see, Mom, each night insomnia sweeps me up in his arms dips me in the kitchen in the small glow of the stove-light. Insomnia has this romantic way of making the moon feel like perfect company. Mom says, “Try counting sheep.” But my mind can only count reasons to stay awake; So I go for walks; but my stuttering kneecaps clank like silver spoons held in strong arms with loose wrists. They ring in my ears like clumsy church bells reminding me I am sleepwalking on an ocean of happiness I cannot baptize myself in. Mom says, “Happy is a decision.” But my happy is as hollow as a pin pricked egg. My happy is a high fever that will break. Mom says I am so good at making something out of nothing and then flat-out asks me if I am afraid of dying. No. I am afraid of living. Mom, I am lonely. I think I learned that when Dad left how to turn the anger into lonely — The lonely into busy; So when I tell you, “I’ve been super busy lately,” I mean I’ve been falling asleep watching Sports Center on the couch To avoid confronting the empty side of my bed. But my depression always drags me back to my bed Until my bones are the forgotten fossils of a skeleton sunken city, My mouth a bone yard of teeth broken from biting down on themselves. The hollow auditorium of my chest swoons with echoes of a heartbeat, But I am a careless tourist here. I will never truly know everywhere I have been. Mom still doesn’t understand. Mom! Can’t you see that neither can I?

“Explaining My Depression to My Mother: A Conversation” by Sabrina Benaim (via deadlyrealist)

Obliato

È successo forse sabato, forse venerdì. Ti ho sognato e mi sono svegliata. Ad occhi sbarrati ho ripercorso nella mia mente ogni dettaglio, come la rifinitura della tua giacca di pelle, allegandogli dei significati imprecisi e vaghi, che avrei voluto approfondire poi. Ancora distesa ho deciso che avrei scritto tutto da qualche parte, qui o su un’applicazione del telefono, tanto per essere sicura di riviverlo, stavolta almeno. Mi sono portata seduta, ancora sul letto ho stropicciato gli occhi e raccolto i capelli, e ho continuato la mia routine, lavato la faccia, bevuto il caffè. Mi sono scordata. Sì, perdìo, mi sono scordata. Non ho più quel sogno. Non ti ho dedicato neppure qualche minuto. Obliato. Ad agosto di pochi anni fa ti ho pianto, insicura tuttora della verità di quelle lacrime e della stima che avevo di ciò che facevi. Mi domando, sono una persona cattiva? Probabile. Ogni tanto penso a te, che mi hai raccolto e accolto, silenzioso gentile, lunatico buono. E io vivo ogni giornata come se non fosse mai successo. Obliato.