The beach is boring and everybody knows it, Masahisa Fukase
AnasAbdin

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@isighrene
The beach is boring and everybody knows it, Masahisa Fukase
it is a slow and dampening torture when no one will listen to you. hydraulic press on your tongue. a whistle that screams through your blood. when-and-if you explode, you are treated as if radioactive; others flinch in shame.
are you sick? are you sad? are you actually in pain? it is selfish to be attention-seeking, right. they will tell you that it is "brave" to ask for help, but when you ask for help, they'll suggest a hotline. the hotline will suggest you see a doctor before disconnecting. the doctor will suggest you drink more water and lose weight.
are you asking him to put in more effort? to plan dates? to actually-clean around the house? to be genuinely interested in your life? someone tells you that you should never beg to be loved, but if you leave him, they'll ask why you didn't try talking it over first. if you leave because he doesn't wash the dishes, you're being unfair. if he cheats, you should have treated him better. you're a nag and a witch and now you're ruined goods.
are you struggling? how's that rent check. well, keep hustling! it'll be okay slapped in a bumper sticker over your face. good luck, babe.
at a certain point you stop trying to shout. there's no point anyway.
"hydraulic press on your tongue," wow.
August 5, 1926 Journals of Anais Nin 1923-1927 [volume 3]
i lived some time in the spaces where
denial drove my day
wanting things i wouldn't name
and things i wouldn't claim
yet today i feel a lightness
like a cloud released the rays
is this what is feels to hope?
i hope... this feeling stays
— Susan Jeffers
tell me about the dream you had
a spin on a silvery cloud
weaving my name in silken
threads across a blue velvet sky
your star map found my heart
captured & nestled in your pocket
wrapped in song lyrics written
in a dream becoming real
verses braided into our poetry
periwinkle eyes open to a first
kiss awakening another
©️-Aubrie-2024
Lake Piburger See, Austria.
god, i want to go back to austria.
{Words by Anaïs Nin, from The Diary Of Anais Nin, Vol. 4 (1944-1947) / Cynthia Cruz from diagnosis,The glimmering room}
can i go where you go
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Every once in a while, I go back to songs that have impacted my youth. Songs I listen to when I need to feel something; songs that hand me an isolated world and say, “here, take this, make this yours for a little while.”
I miss being.
I miss becoming.
You know it’s bad.
When you start listening to an aptly titled playlist (tracks for the empty) you reserved for days in isolation. The days of empty.
Or when you want beer for lunch.