the inner wordless sargasso

chided by the silence of the hushed sublime / blind to the purpose of the brute divine | james | he/they | xxv

[ashstfu]

read literature. be present. make love. make tea. write a poem. cry. watch a sappy movie that makes you want to throw things at it. paint your nails. cook something. call your best friend. learn an instrument. wonder. take a bath. go for a walk. lie down on the grass. listen to the entirety of ur favorite album from 2016. take pics of sunsets. ponder. shamelessly dance in your room. curl up on your bed. make endless wishes to the stars twinkling in the midnight sky. think about nothing. think about everything. think about things so hard that you barely remember what happened moments ago and why you’re feeling the way you do

[primulaceas]

Alejandro Zambra, Ways of Going Home (translated by Megan McDowell)

[primulaceas]

Natalie Diaz, “Snake-Light.” Postcolonial Love Poem

[marcitlali]

What advice would you give 21 year old you?

Everything changes beyond absolute recognition

[fairycosmos]

you actually don't have to go on dating apps to find girlfriends. many beautiful women are waiting for you on rocks out at sea

[doing-90mph-in-central-london]

ⓘ This user is a malicious entity made of seafoam.

[princessparadoxical]

“You don’t know anyone at the party, so you don’t want to go. You don’t like cottage cheese, so you haven’t eaten it in years. This is your choice, of course, but don’t kid yourself: it’s also the flinch. Your personality is not set in stone. You may think a morning coffee is the most enjoyable thing in the world, but it’s really just a habit. Thirty days without it, and you would be fine. You think you have a soul mate, but in fact you could have had any number of spouses. You would have evolved differently, but been just as happy. You can change what you want about yourself at any time. You see yourself as someone who can’t write or play an instrument, who gives in to temptation or makes bad decisions, but that’s really not you. It’s not ingrained. It’s not your personality. Your personality is something else, something deeper than just preferences, and these details on the surface, you can change anytime you like. If it is useful to do so, you must abandon your identity and start again. Sometimes, it’s the only way.”

— Julien Smith, The Flinch (via wnq-anonymous)

[soracities]

some poems you really do just walk right into and come out changed beyond all recognition on the inside like lazarus crossing back from the dead

[soracities]

[catonhottinroof-deactivated2023]

Théodore Gudin (1802 - 1880) 

Effect of light in the heart of a storm at sea, 1867

[luthienne]

Tony Hoagland, from Application for Release from the Dream; “The Complex Sentence”

[exhaled-spirals]

“A man is walking down the street. At a certain moment, he tries to recall something, but the recollection escapes him. Automatically, he slows down. Meanwhile, a person who wants to forget a disagreeable incident he has just lived through starts unconsciously to speed up his pace, as if he were trying to distance himself from a thing still too close to him in time. In existential mathematics that experience takes the form of two basic equations: The degree of slowness is directly proportional to the intensity of memory; the degree of speed is directly proportional to the intensity of forgetting.”

— Milan Kundera, Slowness (via exhaled-spirals)

[klassizismus]

Detail: Moonlit landscape, Louis Douzette (German, 1834-1924)

[luthienne]

Most experiences are unsayable; they become real to us in a space no word has entered.

Rainer Maria Rilke, from Letters to a Young Poet (tr. Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy)

[intheirmiserydead]

[luthienne]

George Seferis, from Collected Poems; "Memory I" (tr. Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard)

[Text ID: I whispered: memory hurts wherever you touch it,]

[soracities]

e.e. cummings, from “in time of daffodils(who know” (in 95 Poems), Complete Poems: 1904-1962

[Text ID: “In time of daffodils(who know the goal of living is to grow)”]

[weary-hearted-art]

Albert Lebourg, Seine Edge in Chatou, date unknown

[peaceinthestorm]

Bertha Wegmann (1847-1926, Danish) ~ Blå vifte ved en grøn kande med blomstrende æblegren, n/d

[ponyoisms]

i hate when a poem is good. Fuck you for saying that for real