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@iwriteinblues
— Ilya Kaminsky, Deaf Republic
— Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things
[text ID: Being with him made her feel as though her soul had escaped from the narrow confines of her island country into the vast, extravagant spaces of his. He made her feel as though the world belonged to them — as though it lay before them like an opened frog on a dissecting table, begging to be examined.]
It was in that very moment when every bit of the cells in my body surrendered and fell deeply in love with him. He touches me like how the sun touches the ocean when it sets He smiles at me and I melt like wax He loves me and I feel real; I feel I exist. And I haven’t felt like I exist in a terribly long time
And surely, as He said, “With hardship, there will be relief. Verily, with hardship, there will be relief.”
Lord oh lord I have waited for your fresh breeze Your cool air to knock on the front door of my house I now sit in it I bathe in it I live in it Lord oh Lord, now I see why I’ve loved and lost and cried and raged and stressed and bawled and spat and cursed
Now I see that it was to reach the best and most raw version of myself surely, you knew something I did not I am indeed only human unknowing of the many reasons and futures. Unknowing, so why must the unknown be overthought?
I’ve lost my mind today for a few hours. It’s played its little sinister game with me again I had a thought that gave birth to other thoughts until my head became heavy and loud
I feel like nobody has the same level of deepness as I do No intensity, no madness or is it that I’m abnormal, crooked and sentimental
-----------------------------------
I overthink until it eats my brain inside out until a thought has laid its eggs and until those eggs hatch and my head becomes a home for nesting of thoughts and cruelty and darkness
my head is apocalyptic sickly deadly infested by my own thoughts
'The Picture of Dorian Gray' by Oscar Wilde (published in 1890)
“God, is this all it is, the ricocheting down the corridor of laughter and tears? Of self-worship and self-loathe? Of glory and disgust?”
”...sick with unfulfilled longing, alone, self-reviling”
“I may never be happy, but tonight I am content.”
“Oh, he’s magnetic, he’s charming, you could fall into his eyes.”
“I like people too much or not at all. I’ve got to go down deep, to fall into people, to really know them.”
“Let’s face it; I’m scared and frozen. First, I guess, I’m afraid for myself...the old primitive urge for survival. It’s getting so I live every moment with terrible intensity.”
“...remember, remember, remember, this is now, and now. Live it, cling to it. I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted. When you feel that they may be the good-bye, the last time, it hits you harder.”
“But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.”
“I guess this all sounds a bit frantic. I guess I am.”
“Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren’t having any of those.”
“If I didnt think I’d be much happier. If I didn't have any sex organs, I wouldn't waver on the brink of nervous emotion and tears all the time.”
“Something in me wants more. I can’t rest.”
“There is so much, and I am torn in different directions, pulled thin, taut against horizons too distant for me to reach.”
“And, I think, I am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence.”
“In the back of my mind there are bomb falling, women and children screaming, but I can’t describe it now.”
“”...so I can bear children, and instill in them the biting eating desire to learn and love life which I will never quite learn.”
“..and so I could go on, into my thoughts, writing much, trying to find the core, the meaning of myself.”
“I am jealous of those who think more deeply, who write better, who draw better, who ski better, who look better, who live better, who love better than I.”
--Little snippets from The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
Found in Anne Carson’s Plainwater: Essays and Poetry
What do I answer when God asks me why I was so hard on myself?
He beautifully molded and gifted me a heart only so I could ruin and cause it distress.
Forgive me for not being loving to myself.
I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited.
Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath 1982
I am not in touch with my senses anymore and by senses I mean poetry, expression, words I have become dull, colorless, busy awfully busy and awfully adult
I am drained, so drained and weary
I stopped writing because, the bad memories have been replaced with newer, prettier ones. I stopped writing because, I realized that I wrote of sadness, of longing, of pity I cleaned up my house, cleaned up the mess inside here, inside me
and mama is proud because I found one who holds my soul as he held his mother’s and I am safe I am safe to be who I am with him I’ve moved past self-loathe and self pity I run towards confidence, happiness, peace--him I wrote of sadness, loss, war now I write a list of wedding plans and decor
I was living between heaven and hell now I am bathed in sunlight and kisses he holds me like I am a piece of him and when he points at something beautiful for me to admire, I can’t help but notice him look at me, with a smile on his face just to make sure I like the view more than he does little does he know that I cherish his company more than these mountains