mysterious moonlight

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[mysterieuxclairdelune]

“There's plenty of artists who don't have exhibitions. There's plenty of art that's never seen. And I think I'm intrigued by that. Making work that does not have a destination has it's loneliness and it's sadness about it. Many artists endure that for their entire lives, and it's heroic. The novel that never gets published, should it never have been written? Of course it should be. It's making a fantastic contribution to the culture of the moment because that individual has that huge urge to do that without any other qualifying pressures. Those are my sort of private thoughts that I think there's a lot about the art world and the way we experience art that's fantastic, but I think there's a lot, that's not entirely spoken about or recognized, which is the unseen and the unknown and the creative act as a deeply private experience.”

-Phyllida Barlow, via art21 on Instagram (x)

[mysterieuxclairdelune]

It's the day of Eid-ul-Adha and its slowly raining outside and your house is super clean from the cleaning done on chaand raat and all your family members are done with the day's mission and all your family ladies are dolled up and all the boys are slaying in their kurtas and all the members are gathered in the hall eating kebabs and drinking sheer khurma and the sound of sizzling samosas coming from the kitchen is mixing in the air with the smell of rain while your grandfather is telling random childhood adventures of your parents and you're just there like... Yes!!! These are the days I live for...

[weltenwellen]

Stephanie Garber, Once Upon a Broken Heart

[mysterieuxclairdelune]

September slipped by into a gold and crimson graciousness of October.

-L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Avonlea

[msanonymous]

“How do you become a poet?”

Always looking/ Hardly speaking/ Defending the moon/ Disappearing from the room/ As if you were never even there/ Drinking more caffeine than breathing air/ Instead of falling in love with smiles, looking at them & just wondering why they don't reach it to that person's eyes?/ Instead of getting lost in the eyes, reading the sadness in them & wondering why they cried themselves to sleep at nights?/ Unsaid words, lots of them, so many that your mind gets fully clogged up with them, & at nights they threaten to spill out from your eyes as teardrops/ Unsent letters, loads of them, too many hidden well in your secret drawers, because of the fear of one accidentally landing in someone's letter box/ “Where is your home?”/ I don't know/ Strangers to friends. Within years. Friends to strangers again. Within a heartbeat/ I think I've seen this film before & I didn't like the ending/ Too many films of memories, playing in your head all together at the same time/ Too many stories of your life, having the similar last page, with the same last line/ “You are not enough!”/ Am I really not made for love?/ Lying to the whole world. “I'm fine”/ Lying to your therapist. “I'm fine, other people have it so much worse than me”/ Lying to your parents. “I'm fine.” “Then why are you crying?” “I'm not, I'm fine”/ Lying to yourself. ‘I'm fine.’ ‘No, you're not. You know you're not.’ ‘I know! But does it matter? No. It doesn't. There are hearts more hurt than ours.’ ‘But then why are you crying?’/ Daydreams & what-ifs/ Always finding yourself at the edge of the cliffs/ Envying & smiling sadly at the people who are poetry/ “I read your poem. It's beautiful!” What about me?/ Not touching your diary for months/ Then writing 6 poems in a day, after receiving 6 brand new cuts/ When no matter what pen you choose to write with, fountain, ball point, glitter gel, the ink you'll see after completing the last line will all be blood/ & then there's suddenly blood everywhere. Blood, so much blood. You lift your shaky hands & find both of your palms covered in it. You cover your eyes with them & sob, drowning in your own flood/ & you just keep praying to God for it to be your own. That the cracks of heart from all this blood seeped through, please God, let it be mine. Let it be mine/ The world hurts you enough everyday. But the last thing you want to do is to hurt the world back in your lifetime/ Mastering the art of stitching the wounds. But never for yours/ Other people have it so much worse. You don't deserve any of the cures/ Letting the wounds you think you deserve bleed/ Continuously, trying to not pay the pain any heed/ But still failing/ & weeping & weeping/ Then picking up the quill & dipping it in the aorta of your heart/ & attempting to create art/ But I think I'm not the right person to answer this question/ Because I am too inexperienced & unfamiliar with that profession/ Because as for me, I'm just a girl looking out of her window, waiting for someone to come & look at her/ & just not look away after/ I'm not a poet, how can I never be?/ But I do think/ That poets are not something that people become/ It's a mask. That people buy one day, at the price of heartbreaks & shattered hopes, to put on & hide the ugly & weak personas of them/ It's something people have to do, you know?/ Because the world can barely tolerate the poets. How many more wounds do you think you can sustain? & how many rocks do you think the world will throw?/ When you'll step out of your room/ As you?

~ms.anonymous

[mysterieuxclairdelune]

{In a sky full of stars I think I saw you.}

-Unknown

[mysterieuxclairdelune]

I am jealous of those who think more deeply, who write better, who draw better, who look better, who live better, who love better than I.

-Sylvia Plath

[cornflowerdaisyfield]

Cause' I feel like a kid when anyone else is around. I'm not good at anything important in life - I'm not even good at talking. My writing is mediocre, I'm unable to start reading again, and I have no real life skills. I can't do anything serious, because it stresses me out. And they are all so brave. They are all so smart. They know so much, have so many friends, are nice to everyone and just so, so beautiful while doing all that.

[mysterieuxclairdelune]

could u do a web weave on avoidant attachment please and thank u!!

{Marie Howe, from Magdalene: Poems; “The Landing”/ ‘I'm Not a Good Person’, Pat The Bunny/ Martha Gellhorn, from a letter to Stanley Pennell/ Kiki’s Delivery Service, Studio Ghibli/ Katherine Fabrizio/ Topaz Winters, from “Battlefield”, Poems for the Sound of the Sky Before Thunder/ Albert Camus, from Notebooks 1935-1942; tr. by Philip Thody/ Fyodor Dostoevsky, from The Complete Works; "The Insulted and Humiliated,"/ Unknown/ Clarice Lispector, from "The Departure of the Train", Complete Stories/ Sherman Alexie, The Absolutely True Story of a Part-Time Indian}

[fairydrowning]

"Grief has no distance. Grief comes in waves, paroxysms, sudden apprehensions that weaken the knees and blind the eyes and obliterate the dailiness of life."

– Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking

[mysterieuxclairdelune]

-Dominic Riccitello

[nizariat]

“If your letter died in their mail, and you didn’t get an answer, You should know that you died in their hearts, before the letter did.”

— Shahrazad al-Khalij

[mysterieuxclairdelune]

“I am afraid of getting older. I am afraid of getting married. Spare me from cooking three meals a day— spare me from the relentless cage of routine and rote. I want to be free... I want, I want to think, to be omniscient.”

-Sylvia Plath written in 1949 at age 17

[lifeofbrybooks]

How sad it was to realize the realest thing I’d ever experienced was reading fiction

[mysterieuxclairdelune]

“I am bleeding under the sunset.

Everything feels beautiful.”

-Colette, translated by Matthew Ward, from The Collected Stories “On Tour”

[macrolit]

“She read books quickly and compulsively, paperback after paperback, as if she might drift away without the anchor of the printed page.”

— Jane Hamilton (b. 13 July 1957)

[mysterieuxclairdelune]

“.Now the terror is beginning. . . What is the answer? . . . I see only figures. The others are handing in their answers, one by one. Now it is my turn. But I have no answer. . . I am left alone to find an answer. The figures mean nothing to me. Meaning has gone. . . . Look, the loop of the figure is beginning to fill with time; it holds the world in it. I begin to draw a figure and the world is looped in it, and I myself am outside the loop; which I now join – so – and seal up, and make entire. The world is entire, and I am outside of it, crying, ‘Oh, save me, from being blown for ever outside the loop of time!’”

“But here I am nobody. I have no face. This great company, all dressed in brown serge, has robbed me of my identity. We are callous, unfriended. I will seek out a face, a monumental face, and will endow it, with omniscience, and wear it under my dress like a talisman and then (I promise this) I will find some dingle in a wood where I can display my assortment of curious treasures. I promise myself this. So I will not cry.”

“That is my face," said Rhoda, "in the looking-glass behind Susan’s shoulder—that face is my face. But I will duck behind her to hide it, for I am not here. I have no face. Other people have faces”

“I am thrust back to stand burning in this clumsy, this ill-fitting body, to receive the shafts of his indifference, and his scorn, I who long for marble columns and pools on the other side of the world where the swallow dips her wings.”

“An immense pressure is on me. I cannot move without dislodging the weight of the centuries. A million arrows pierce me. Scorn and ridicule pierce me.”

“Alone I rock my basins; I am mistress of my fleet of ships. But here, . . . I am broken into separate pieces; I am no longer one.”

“The wave breaks. I am the foam that sweeps and fills the uttermost rims of the rocks with whiteness; I am also a girl, here in this room.”

-Virginia Woolf, The waves

[hcseokie]

tbh having followers here is so weird bc they don’t interact with you or talk to you at all they just……stare at your breakdowns and say mood