@meghan7 - Tumblr Blog

aseaofquotes

André Aciman, Enigma Variations

gayviddilmour

Jesus in The Chosen

“I’m here. I’m always here.”

wordsthat-speak

It could also be true, that you learned to cope by not letting the pain subside, so as to not be unprepared for when it arrives again, with it’s bags, with it’s hat, with it’s half smile, and every intention of overstaying it’s welcome. It makes sense that you might be too afraid of getting used to peace, too uncomfortable with it, too anxious that you might forget how to ready your home for it when it shows up unannounced, in the way that it does. So instead, maybe you consistently self generate a little page, so that you never forget how it moves, so that you can keep your eye on it, so that when the knock at your door inevitable comes, you can bring your tired body to it and say, “I am as you left me, come in.”

Key Ballah

At the root of every ghost, a yearning. A tug, in which a living person reaches so fervently toward something absent, that the absence becomes bodied. As anyone who has known loss understands full well, lack is not in fact, an absence at all. It is a presence. A person we love dies, or leaves, or changes, and a gap forms. It takes on their shape. Mimics their movement. Echoes their voice like a mockingbird. We feel this gap take up space, filling every place our lost one once was, and now isn’t. It reflects in mirrors. Flickers in candle flames. A phantom.

GennaRose Nethercott, “A Ghost Is a Memory.” On Bodies, Belief, and the Places Ghost Stories Live

academia-aesthetics

And when I turned to face grief, I saw that it was just love in a heavy coat.

-Shannon Barry

metamorphesque

"I sit with my grief. I mother it. I hold its small, hot hand. I don’t say, shhh. I don’t say, it is okay. I wait until it is done having feelings. Then we stand and we go wash the dishes. We crack open bedroom doors, step over the creaks, and kiss the children. We are sore from this grief, like we’ve returned from a run, like we are training for a marathon. I’m with you all the way, says my grief, whispering, and then we splash our face with water and stretch, one big shadow and one small."

— Callista Buchen, Taking Care

wholeheartedly-me

77boness

on fathers ; things i’ve collected here, and other places on the internet

topaz winters, war story with my father // sylvia plath, the unabridged journals of sylvia plath // fatherland, eloise robinson // mary ruefle, trances of the blast // interstellar (2014) // unknown(?)/still searching // bruce springsteen - my fathers house (springsteen on broadway) // my father’s fields, dan gerber // parasite (2019) // my fathers funeral, frank ormsby

avasetocallmyown

Are you alive? You are alive. 𝟹𝚡𝟶𝟷 | | 𝟻𝚡𝟷𝟸 ➺ 𝗰𝗼𝗹𝗹𝗮𝗯𝗼𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 @𝗴𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗺-𝗿𝘂𝗮𝗶𝗱𝗵

freelance-philosopher

I never tried to be anything other than a dreamer. I never paid any attention to people who told me to go out and live. I belonged always to whatever was far from me and to whatever I could never be. Anything that was not mine, however base, always seemed to be full of poetry. I only ever desired what was beyond my imaginings.

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet (via freelance-philosopher)