Lamiah

21 | writer, reader, storyteller

[hasifcore]

Never stop creating. Create the things you wished existed. If you cannot find the book you want to read, write it. If you cannot find the art you long to see, make it. If you cannot find the kind of beauty, kindness, or ideas you keep searching for, become the person who brings them into existence. Sometimes creating is simply refusing to accept that the world has to remain as you found it. So, let your curiosity be enough of a reason to begin and your imagination enough of a reason to continue.

[worldsandemanations]

John O'Brien for NEW YORKER magazine, 1991.

[hoursofreading]

““Why? I asked myself for days after our night in the kitchen. Why was my mother born with superior intelligence and extraordinary gifts as an organizer, an administrator, a financier and an artist if she was not meant by her creator to use those gifts fully? And why has she turned into a timid, frustrated woman? Because she was allowed… only her family as an outlet. The family is a very narrow sphere. It is cruel to bottle up immense talents there. It isn’t fair Mama, what happened to you. Listen to those echoes: not fair, not fair–not kind, not decent, not loving, not fair. Dad first saw her galloping bareback over the Idaho plains in men’s overalls. Where is that girl who galloped with her hair flying? That she is lost, that her gifts were ignored and spurned and pounded out of her is a cause for grief to those of us who know and love her. But multiply her life by the billions and try to keep from howling with rage and despair at the impoverishment that women’s bondage has wreaked upon the human family.””

— The actual diabolical lie told to women is that homemaking leads to happiness.

[random-brushstrokes]

Leonid Pasternak  (Ukrainian, 1862–1945) - The Torments of Creative Work

[caressthosecheekbones]

oh leonid, we're really in it now

[wintersmitth]

Leonid, you really understand it.

[alexaloraetheris]

Save me Leonid, from my empty Word document

[elodieunderglass]

Leonid what should I do about the emails

[letitrainathousandflames]

Babe are you okay? you reblogged Leonid Pasternak's Torments of Creative Work again

[magiccarpetman]

Leonid Pasternak is the best! My favorite of his is The Night Before The Exam (1895).

[alexaloraetheris]

My man Leonid continues to be relatable

[ortiies]

Old mosaics that still feel kinda relevant to locals 🐟 Ever since @_leevolt_ came up with this amazing mosaic brush I wanted to use it for a ridiculously big fresco kind of illu

[loveridden1999]

i miss my ex bestfriend & everyone else that i have ever loved but don't want any of them back either

[loveridden1999]

what the fuck man

[inkskinned]

you have so much trouble finishing things. thank-you notes or homework or video games. you get mostly done - 70 to 90 percent - and then you stutter to some kind of halt about it. so yes, you've seen most of that show you've been watching. yes, you've mostly finished the work on your desk. the laundry is clean - but it's not put away yet. you know rationally that you it would maybe take you another hour or two, maximum. it would be so much easier, so much better for you. you'd finally get it off of your chest.

still. you don't want the night to end. you linger in the conversation. sometimes you pipe endless silly questions into a conversation, trying to stretch the warmth of memory, of frienship. you hold your breath. you keep watching the horizon long after the sun has set.

once it's over, it's over. some small bird in your heart begging: not yet! not yet!

[bitesizedpoetry]

Sylvia Plath, aged 25, from "The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath" (dated April 13, 1958)

[lonelyvomit]

ok that's enough summer, we can head into autumn now

[speedlimit15]

im growing! im changing!

[shakespearesdaughters]

[inkskinned]

your work matters, and you're not a very good judge of it.

you can have the fancy degrees and the years of experience. you can have zero idea what you're doing and nothing but a song in your heart. the way you view what you write will never be how i view what you write. which is why you gotta write whatever feels real and good and honest to ya.

i forgot this. it's really lonely to be an author. the world you slice through to carve into a page - it can't ever be fully realized. sometimes the sun is butter yellow, and i can never spread it onto toast to serve to you. i can never describe fully the feeling of a new england october, only that a place that is often too-cold is suddenly full of a strange and visceral warmth. if you're not a writer or an artist, the experience is like this: take a flower and study it. without eating it, cook me a meal that tastes like this flower.

so i didn't know how good the book is, only that i hoped beyond a hope that anyone out there might get a kick out of it. maybe someone nice will review it every few days, i thought. i just want it to help any 1 person.

i did a reading recently where far too many people were kind and thoughtful and so gentle with me that i got into my car and burst into tears. i've had a very rough year, and this experience felt like a hug. so many people telling me they love what i read from the book. and in it, listening to the laughter as i read - at jokes i have long since stopped thinking are funny - it sent a bird straight through my heart. oh shit, i thought. i've been so unnecessarily cruel to myself.

you have no idea how many people read your work and don't respond because they are too shy or busy or unsure. i have webcomics i've never commented on that i've been checking on weekly for actual years. there are artists on spotify i will never be able to see in concert. there are paintings in galleries that i couldn't afford but wanted to kiss. i love what you have made, and i have no idea how to tell you. i love you, and it hurt me and helped me and also sent me back home. i wish there was more time and more ways to shine the light back to you.

be gentle. you have no way of knowing if you're good enough, so you might as well make something that feels good to make. someone will love it. and that love is never wasted.

[meerschweinchen-archive]

your twenties are Also about discovering that you’re not a bad person in all the ways you believed you were but you’re a bad person in completely new and exciting ways

[pagesofmystique17]

One day I woke up and the coffee tasted bitter on my tongue. It was January yesterday and it is May today.How long till December arrives at my doorstep and I begin to dream again?

I wait like a lost child at the playground by the swing, waiting for someone to hold my hand and walk me back home. The sun is setting and tomorrow it will be a new day but I’ll still wait here trying to recover from the wounds of yesterday. There are whispers around me asking me to get up but I keep slipping on the puddle of water by the street.

At twenty, I look from the window but the child is still sitting by the playground with crouched knees. And I realise it's still May and I am miles away from home.

[drblogg-deactivated20250209]

if i was a star and you were a star i would wink at you and blink at you and twinkle at you and the earthlings would call it science

[academic-vampire]

𝔞 𝔠𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔭 𝔫𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔪𝔟𝔢𝔯 𝔟𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔷𝔢

[daily-spooky]