idling

for every flower she’s grown

[spilledraindrops]

felt a pang of nostalgia so i came here. man, the good ol’ tumblr days were really something and though a lot of what i had written still means something, i am so glad to say that i am now in a much better place.

i don’t write the same anymore, I don’t think?

[paper-wounds]

Fortesa Latifi, from The Truth About Grief.

[bitesizedpoetry]

From "The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath"

[spilledraindrops]

I don’t know how to go on from here. I don’t even want to be here. I just want to go somewhere i can have my peace. Where i am not surrounded by pain. Where people don’t put me through pain.

[ishikorokoroishi]

“  Flowers and Plants   ”

Photo by Ishikoro. Japan.

Love & Peace!

[petaltexturedskies]

There is a kind of sadness that comes from knowing too much, from seeing the world as it truly is. It is the sadness of understanding that life is not a grand adventure, but a series of small, insignificant moments, that love is not a fairy tale, but a fragile, fleeting emotion, that happiness is not a permanent state, but a rare, fleeting glimpse of something we can never hold onto. And in that understanding, there is a profound loneliness, a sense of being cut off from the world, from other people, from oneself.

Virginia Woolf

[spilledraindrops]

I was unpacking my suitcase yesterday, the nth time I have unpacked this year. Out of all the months that I could have been more terrified, November didn't strike me as one to be easily knocked out but here we are. I swear it was just Friday when I closed my eyes last night but anxiety with a drizzle of flu just makes the days go by in an instant. There are feelings carved on my skin that I can't seem to make a story of anymore. Ask me five years ago and I would have been able to word the leftovers but these days, I'm just a mere vestige of what once was. Suddenly, I am a stranger in my own ghost town held by the kind of quiet that simply lets the quiet be however that means.

[spilledraindrops]

Some days I don’t care for the run, I care for the sunrise that would remind me I could live another day, another week, or another month longer like this. And perhaps by then, it wouldn’t be as heavy anymore. I could change my mind.

[spilledraindrops]

i have yet to summon the courage to anchor again not when the hole in my chest still shudders at the touch of the breeze. sometimes i feel already healed, most days i just feel brave. and as i grow older, i realize that it's trying less to steer towards the nearest shore but learning how to dance with the ebbs and flows.

[luthienne]

Mahmoud Darwish, from Journal of an Ordinary Grief (tr. from the Arabic by Ibrahim Muhawi)

[Text ID: A place is not only a geographical area; it's also a state of mind. And trees are not just trees; they are the ribs of childhood.]

[princessparadoxical]

“You don’t know anyone at the party, so you don’t want to go. You don’t like cottage cheese, so you haven’t eaten it in years. This is your choice, of course, but don’t kid yourself: it’s also the flinch. Your personality is not set in stone. You may think a morning coffee is the most enjoyable thing in the world, but it’s really just a habit. Thirty days without it, and you would be fine. You think you have a soul mate, but in fact you could have had any number of spouses. You would have evolved differently, but been just as happy. You can change what you want about yourself at any time. You see yourself as someone who can’t write or play an instrument, who gives in to temptation or makes bad decisions, but that’s really not you. It’s not ingrained. It’s not your personality. Your personality is something else, something deeper than just preferences, and these details on the surface, you can change anytime you like. If it is useful to do so, you must abandon your identity and start again. Sometimes, it’s the only way.”

— Julien Smith, The Flinch (via wnq-anonymous)

[kafk-a]

i am such a big fan of not knowing things. that is the allure of this life for me. there are so many things i will never know and so many things i will only somewhat come to know. i love mystery. there is power in secrecy

[kafk-a]

Kelly G. Wilson

[kafk-a]

[kafk-a]

[kafk-a]

[tinyghosts]

“The older I get, the less I see the care of noticing. Maybe this is why I read poems. A poem does not have to happen. It does not have to trend itself toward the extraordinary, to escalate or conflict or inflict or do anything other than pay attention — however the poet chooses, to whatever the poet chooses to pay attention to. To record that attention — to transcribe a litany of detail, and then to walk through the open doors that such detail allows for, by, say, placing the sky inside an open casket — is to make real the dream of poetry, which is the beautiful and generous space of play and care and grief and love and so much else.”

— Devin Kelly, from his essay ‘J. Estanislao Lopez’s “What the Fingers Do” | Thoughts on detail, perfection, and loss.”, published on December 11, 2022 (via kitchen-light)

[spilledraindrops]

air's slipping out of my lungs again a velvety smog painfully grappling its way out after a long day of holding it in - didn't i rehearse this for the nth time? death is calling again the lonely sky looking down on my open wounds bleak and oozing bearing the same old tales of the same old wars haven't i told you? i told you i told you i warned you all these burning cliffs you prayed to water are everything i am and all you are not i am no home to your shade only a fire for those wanting to cease

[heartcountry]

did you take care of yourself today? did you go on the walk you wanted to go on? did you eat the snack you’ve been craving? did you talk to God? did you call a friend? did you stop punishing yourself?

[firstfullmoon]

Hanif Abdurraqib, in “Why this poet sees grief as its own kind of spiritual practice”

[flowerytale]

Patti Smith, from Devotion