delicious ambiguity

leah | 23 | everything that moves me.

[stlowens]

Sylvia Plath, from “Three Women.”

[1-d-a-deactivated20200727]

David Lynch: The Art Life (2016)

[voirlvmer]

“every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning / every poem an epitaph.” — T. S. Eliot, from “Little Gidding”

“was it a way to stay alive, a way to keep hope / leaving things unfinished? / as if in completing a sentence there was death—” — Dana Levin, from “Ars Poetica”

[soracities]

Paul Eluard, “Absence”, Selected Poems (trans. Gilbert Bowen)

[Text ID: “I speak to you across cities I speak to you across plains.”]

[filmaticbby]

Mystery Train (1989) dir. Jim Jarmusch

[flowerytale]

T. S. Eliot — The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

[365filmsbyauroranocte]

Varda par Agnès (Agnès Varda, 2019)

[tristealven]

“Do not worry / if you find nothing. This is what I tell myself. / Do not / worry. The search / alone is beautiful.”

— Omar Sakr, from “How to endure the final hours,” The Lost Arabs (via lifeinpoetry)

[existential-celestial]

“28 July. —I am more and more unable to think, to observe, to determine the truth of things, to remember, to speak, to share an experience; I am turning to stone, this is the truth.”

— Franz Kafka, Diaries 

[soracities]

“…and she superhuman and tranquil in her gleaming isolation.”

— Clarice Lispector, from “The Imitation of the Rose”, Collected Stories (trans. Katarina Dodson)

[holyisthenameofmyruthlessaxe]

“I thought that pain meant I was not loved. It meant I loved.”

Poems 1962-2012: Ararat, ‘First Memory’ by Louise Glück

[innvcence]

“I used to say I’d know you anywhere, but it’s getting harder.”

— Margaret Atwood, “Shapechangers in Winter” from Morning in the Burned House (via lovedbyapollon)

[coltre]

italian lovers enjoying the summer breeze, 2018 south italy

[lovinalice]

― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

[6thlovelanguage-deactivated2020]

Keith Haring Journals, January 3 1988

[innvcence]

“It seems to me as if I had always created like that: my face gazing at far-off things, my hands alone.”

— Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters of Rainer Maria Rilke, 1892-1910 (via fedeseda)

[twofigs]

“what kept me sane was knowing that things would change, and it was a question of keeping myself together until they did.” nina simone