Without Further Adieu @ohmonyms - Tumblr Blog

Me thinks

...I’ll be okay, as most ace/asexual concerns go.

I am more capable, or rather more than most.

#Steffiout!

dailyrothko

Mark Rothko, (White, Black, Rust, on Brown) ,1968 , Acrylic on paper

stoicremains-deactivated2017102

words to say, things to be.

Robert Creeley, from The Collected Poems (1975-2005)

stoicremains-deactivated2017102

We despise ourselves only because there are moments when we cannot subdue that absurd impulse that is called idealism.

Friedrich Nietzsche, The Will to Power (via stoicremains)

nevver

It felt as if one’s entire world was one, long Sunday afternoon. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go.

watchoutforintellect

I find now, swallowing one teaspoon of pain, that it drops downward to the past where it mixes with last year’s cupful and downward into a decade’s quart and downward into a lifetime’s ocean. I alternate treading water and deadman’s float

Anne Sexton - from The Big Boots of Pain (via watchoutforintellect)

stoicremains-deactivated2017102

Limiting one’s desires actually helps to cure one of fear. ‘Cease to hope … and you will cease to fear.’ … Widely different [as fear and hope] are, the two of them march in unison like a prisoner and the escort he is handcuffed to. Fear keeps pace with hope … both belong to a mind in suspense, to a mind in a state of anxiety through looking into the future. Both are mainly due to projecting our thoughts far ahead of us instead of adapting ourselves to the present.

Seneca, Letters from a Stoic (via stoicremains)

Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket! Save it for a rainy day!

#Ya dang fuck

If I come back here one more time, I’m gonna lose my fucking nougat.

literarymiscellany

I have a preconception in the book I’m writing that the pronoun ‘I’ is a word which should be given back to people, who need it, but deepened.

Alice Notley, “Thinking and Poetry” (via literarymiscellany)

lifeinpoetry

What matters is this: void. The world alone. The river’s mouth.

Federico García Lorca, from “Christmas on the Hudson” (via lifeinpoetry)

lifeinpoetry

She cannot decide what she desires, but today it is enough that she desires and desires. That she is a body in the world, wanting, the wind itself becoming her own wild whisper.

— Ada Limón, from "The Widening Road,” Sharks in the River

literarymiscellany

I HAVE STUDIED and become intimate with the speed of darkness. It’s so fast it’s always here. When the light withdraws the dark comes from no place. It always lives with us. Your heart and brain are black. They never see the true light except in violence or autopsy. Of course the brain can cast its own blinding light that we wait for in a poem, at least blinding to us. In our trances the loves of long ago enter the room unescorted, silent perhaps from the black bottom of the ocean where we all die in perfect darkness, a sense of whirling that recedes back to the time the ocean swallowed the smallest stars then heated us into our early life. Darkness is always there, it only stands revealed.

Jim Harrison, “The Speed of Dark,” Narrative Magazine (via literarymiscellany)