CATALOGUER OF ABSENCES

nyc & elsewhere insta: mallikasighs

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Anne Sexton c.1965 reciting her poem titled “With Mercy for the Greedy,” (x)

But I can’t. Need is not quite belief.

[bpd-entity]

it’s not a real party until you sneak away to the bathroom to question your existence as you stare at yourself in the mirror haha

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My life / has appeared unclothed in court, / detail by detail, / death-bone witness by death-bone witness, / and I was shamed at the verdict…

Anne Sexton, from The Complete Poems; “Talking to Sheep,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

[20aliens-deactivated20200625]

Kate Moss by Tim Walker for Love Spring/Summer 2013

[vanillascentedthot]

If you out and you get a bad feeling, go home immediately

[jahreezyp]

Man, y'all better listen.

[defiantely-deactivated20181027]

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Sometimes I wish to flee with everything I possess into a few words, seek refuge in them. But there are still no words to shelter me. That is the real problem. I am in search of a haven, yet I must first build it for myself, stone by stone. Everyone seeks a home, a refuge. And I am always in search of a few words. Sometimes I feel that every word spoken and every gesture made merely serve to exacerbate misunderstandings. Then what I would really like is to escape into a great silence and impose that silence on everyone else.

Etty Hillesum, fom a diary entry featured in An Interrupted Life: the Diaries, 1941-1943 and Letters from Westerbork (via violentwavesofemotion)

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…How indescribably beautiful it all was, our cup of coffee, the cheap cigarette, and that walk through the darkened city, arm in arm, and the fact that we two were together. To be able to come back – to be able to return and realize that you’ve been carrying inside this one person all along…

Etty Hillesum, fom a diary entry featured in An Interrupted Life: the Diaries, 1941-1943 and Letters from Westerbork (via violentwavesofemotion)

[watchoutforintellect]

Anne Sexton Photographed by Arthur Furst (Summer 1974) featured in The Last Summer

[hoemami-deactivated20171229]

i need fiona apple to braid my hair and tell me i can do it

[verbal-betrayal]

Beauty is rarely soft or consolatory. Quite the contrary. Genuine beauty is always quite alarming.

Donna Tartt, from The Secret History (via violentwavesofemotion)

[mournfulroses]

I met her when she’d just turned 25, In a tranquil period. I suppose she feared old age and death. Old age for her was thirty.

— Roberto Bolaño, from Monsieur Pain; “La Francesca”

[foudre]

natalia vodianova by steven klein for vogue russia, 3/08

[alioquii]

a few divine and prophetic feelings:

soaking up sunlight as though it were honey and liquid gold.  it feels as though it softens the edges of your form, the light, the warmth, until the border between you and the air and the dust and the water are indistinguishable

the quiet moments in the dark, alone.  the walls enclosing you dissolve into the emptiness of your room, and sometimes, in that silence, something holy fills that space.  personally, i’m not sure what

in the back of a car, all passengers wordless, the radio having dissipated into something unintelligible to your ears, but if you listen closely enough, you think there might be the whispers of angels

[audacityinblack]

in front of your computer screen in the early morning hours before the sun rises, the only sound is the writing of data to your hard drive and your browser is still loading a page. there’s a moment as you gaze into that cool light where you really think about all the parts and code operating together and suddenly everything makes that kind of sense.

that second or so between the light turning green and the cars ahead starting to move, where time itself seems to stop.

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…All that beauty would have gone like a stab to my heart, and I would not have known what to do with the pain…

Anne Sexton, from No Evil Star: Selected Essays, Interviews, and Prose; “How Does A Poem Come Into Being” (via violentwavesofemotion)

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This is the girl, here, this girl with a ruined look who touches me and whom I love.

Jean-Paul Sartre, tr. by Lloyd Alexander, from Nausea (via violentwavesofemotion)

[writing-prompt-s]

“Out there, in the wilderness, we discovered the bones of a god.”