If you travel far enough, you can never go home.

Man on the Med

[poberolo]

A Hundred Ways To Say Your Name

by Tania De Rozario

I avoid speaking your name in conversation, throwing it to the air as if it were nothing more than an assumption of you; it is my last mode of defence. The last item of clothing to discard before I realise I’m naked in public. Because they can hear it in my voice. I know. Even in that one short syllable that means everything and nothing; your name is as common as you are rare. As easy as you are not.

As simple as love should be, but never is. But when I’m alone, I tie my tongue softly round the familiar sound, as if pronouncing with conviction the phonetics of desire will cause time to pause just long enough for the earth to hear me naming my loss.

[poberolo]

[poberolo]

What a strange thing

What a strange thing,

having a bundle of feelings and nowhere to place them,

so you just have to carry them.

If I gave them to you, where I want them to belong,

you would throw them out,

or forget to buy a vase to put them in.

And if for some miraculous reason you did have a vase,

and you did put them in it,

I know I would sit there and dry up slowly,

until my favorite parts of myself crinkled up and fell apart.

And you wouldn't even notice they were missing

because you never saw them to begin with.

There is a (probably) insane piece of me that would let it happen:

I'd light up your room until I couldn't anymore,

just to be in your presence,

to have a spot on your table.

But I know better.

And I know I should keep carrying these feelings,

until I find someone who will take them

and grow gardens with them.

[poberolo]

[poberolo]

Love: It’s when you don’t walk the earth but float above it… Two days before his death, Federico Fellini said: “How I wish I could fall in love one more time!” I was stunned. Standing on the very edge of life, he longed to experience love once more: to soar above the earth, to surrender to the one you wish to yield to, to hear the orchestra’s music within your soul… He wasn’t speaking about a woman. He wanted to convey that love is one of life’s magical moments. When you love, you stop being merely human and become a fragrance. You don’t walk the earth but float above it. This state of being in love is the essence of life. And it doesn’t matter what you’re in love with—whether it’s a woman, your work, the world, or life itself… Love is neither joy nor sorrow, neither a reward nor a trial—it’s all of these together. It’s a journey to a magical, enchanted land, a path toward a mystery waiting to be uncovered. Love always departs; everything has its end. But one state always transitions into another, and this new state may be an even greater feeling than being in love. Today, marriages are fleeting, and former lovers are deprived of the great revelation—how beautiful it is to walk hand in hand, together, toward death. Many believe that new relationships will bring stronger sensations. But that’s not true. In Italian, there’s a word that cannot be fully translated into Russian—“volere bene.” Literally, it means “to wish well.” There is “amare”—love, and there is *“volere bene”—*when someone becomes closer to you than anyone else. Amare relies on physical pleasure… But the strongest feeling on earth is when amare transforms into volere bene. There is nothing more important on earth than the feeling of volere bene. It comes only after years spent together, and those years must not strip away trust… The loss of such a long connection is more tragic than the loss of love, and certainly more so than the loss of physical pleasure. The loss of volere bene is the true, profound loneliness, the absolute emptiness. There was a great volere bene between my dearest friend Federico Fellini and Giulietta Masina. The women of the world adored Fellini, but his final gesture was a true hymn to love for Giulietta. Practically paralyzed, he escaped the clinic when he learned she was dying in a hospital in Rome. He traveled 500 kilometers and lay down beside her. And when Fellini passed away, Giulietta followed him soon after. —Tonino Guerra

[poberolo]

[poberolo]

Hades and Persephone

[poberolo]

[poberolo]

How much happens in a day   In the course of a day we shall meet one another. But, in one day, things spring to life— they sell grapes in the street, tomatoes change their skin, the young girl you wanted never came back to the office. They changed the postman suddenly. The letters now are not the same. A few golden leaves and it’s different; this tree is now well off. Who would have said that the earth with its ancient skin would change so much? It has more volcanoes than yesterday, the sky has brand-new clouds, the rivers are flowing differently. Besides, so much has come into being! I have inaugurated hundreds of highways and buildings, delicate, clean bridges like ships or violins. And so, when I greet you and kiss your flowering mouth, our kisses are other kisses, our mouths are other mouths. Joy, my love, joy in all things, in what falls and what flourishes. Joy in today and yesterday, the day before and tomorrow. Joy in bread and stone, joy in fire and rain. In what changes, is born, grows, consumes itself, and becomes a kiss again. Joy in the air we have, and in what we have of earth. When our life dries up, only the roots remain to us, and the wind is cold like hate. Then let us change our skin, our nails, our blood, our gazing; and you kiss me and I go out to sell light on the roads. Joy in the night and the day, and the four stations of the soul.

[remanence-of-love]

[dumblr]

On another planet I guess...🙃🥲

[cecinestpasunepensee]

Ceci n’est pas une pensée subtile

[artdemaury]

"To love or have loved, that is enough. Ask nothing further. There is no other pearl to be found in the dark folds of life."

— Victor Hugo, Les Misérables (1862)

[poberolo]

Not every door is closed. Push.

[koraline-k]

All the months are crude experiments, out of which the perfect September is made.

(Virginia Woolf) /©︎Christian Coigny

[justmeagain4]

🌷💫

[ancientsstudies]

No matter how busy you may think you are, you must find time for reading.

ig credit: emubreathesinpages.

[thethirddeadlysin]

The only people I would care to be with now are artists and people who have suffered: those who know what beauty is, and those who know what sorrow is: nobody else interests me. 

― Oscar Wilde, De Profundis

[activated-indulgence-deactivate]