[suonko]

by Alessandra Sanguinetti

[killacroissant]

[Mon] histoire, c’est étranger comme je suis en train de la revivre rue par rue, heure par heure avec la consigne de la neutraliser, de la changer en un passé inoffensif que je puisse garder sur mon cœur sans le renier et sans en souffrir. Ça n’est pas facile : c’est à la fois douloureux et poétique.

Simone de Beauvoir

[poems-and-word]

“I am too intelligent, too demanding, and too resourceful for anyone to be able to take charge of me entirely. No one knows me or loves me completely. I have only myself.”

— Simone de Beauvoir (via philosophyquotes)

[killacroissant]

These days I’m almost painfully aware of how we lie to ourselves. Attaching pomp meaning to our existence, valorizing a passion or interest, so to construct a distinct identity (often through what we’ve consumed), reveals itself in both small and large notes in ways that are, at best, curious. What else could it be when you find yourself withholding truths or thoughts out of the fear that it’ll result in the collapse of someone’s entire worldview, let alone existence. Most of the time, I’m acutely aware of not only how we lie to ourselves, but how imprisoning it is.

Belief is a strange necessity that’s maybe too often made synonymous with meaning. God tells us that every soul will reach death, and that we will be tested with evil and with good as trial. To believe this is to live life steadfastly, but to attach meaning to this would be to watch oneself lose faith against the supra-rational. When we lie to ourselves because we fear meaninglessness, we instead meet what’s worse: a loss of belief.

[shihlun]

Keith Jarrett and his son, Kyoto, 1976.

Photo: Toshinari Koinuma

[killacroissant]

Anytime I feel I’ve taken a step forward, I’m taken five steps back. Lessons I thought I’d learned, or unlearned, will present themselves in different shapes and sizes once again: I’m tested. This used to be a lot more intimidating to me than motivating, but there’s something self-defeating in that. Learning is not hierarchical, I don’t pass on from one grade to the next and assume myself closer to God. Learning is as chaotic and disparate as is my path, with one grounding feature: remembrance. When I make the lessons I’ve learned about myself and reaching “the next level,” I forget God. When I spend too much time perfecting and molding my character, I forget God. It’s easy for me to forget what really matters. But there’s relief in knowing my most true self is on a straight path ... It’s when I’m preoccupied that I go somewhere else.

[islamic-art-and-quotes]

وَرِزْقُ رَبِّكَ خَيْرٌ وَأَبْقَى

The sustenance which thy Lord provides [for thee] is better and more enduring. (Quran 20:131)

Source: noosa91, via IslamicArtDB

[tanyushenka]

Photography: Morocco, 1980′s Photographer:  jaap hofstee

[pinkrabbitfootdiary]

This is a perfect example of why film is so beautiful - Ned Lyttelton’s stunning photos of York University students in 1978.

[killacroissant]

Your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing.

Dostoyevsky

[user165109604]

Ibn al-Qayyim used to teach his students that God never afflicts anyone with anything except to help them reach a destination that they ultimately wish to reach, deep in their hearts.

[killacroissant]

Only that which cannot be lost in a shipwreck is yours.

al-Ghazali

[killacroissant]

Visit Original Link

[killacroissant]

At the very least, complex personhood is about conferring the respect on others that comes from presuming that life and people’s lives are simultaneously straightforward and full of enormously subtle meaning.

Avery Gordon

[merulae]

Sometimes the ideas that mean the most to you will feel true long before you can quite formulate them or justify them.

Robert Pinksy, The Art of Poetry No. 76 in The Paris Review (via kuanios)

[killacroissant]

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

How astonishing it is that language can almost mean, / and frightening that it does not quite. / What we feel most has no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses and birds.

Jack Gilbert, from The Collected Poems; “The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart,” (via atriptothebayou)