sarah

sideblog || thus, i’m unbound.

[ivynightshade]

fatima aamer bilal, excerpt from moony moonless sky’s ‘i am an observer, but not by choice.’

[text id: my fist has always been clenched around the handle of an invisible suitcase. / i am always ready to leave. / there is not a single room in this world where i belong.]

[weltenwellen]

Joy Sullivan, “When My Friend Is Low, We Walk by the River”, Instructions for Traveling West

[weltenwellen]

Alejandra Pizarnik, tr. by Yvette Siegert, "Extracting the Stone of Madness", Extracting the Stone of Madness: Poems 1962 - 1972

[weltenwellen]

Martha Gellhorn, Selected Letters

[weltenwellen]

Danez Smith, Don't Call Us Dead

[weltenwellen]

Franny Choi, from “In the Morning I Scroll My Way Back Into America”, Soft Science

[lilyflxwers]

i. The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, Sylvia Plath / ii. As Consciousness Is Harnessed to Flesh: Journals and Notebooks 1964-1980, Susan Sontag / iii. Suddenly, It's December, Margaux Paul / iv. Waiting for This Story to End Before I Begin Another, Jan Heller Levi / v. The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde / vi. The Letters of Gustave Flaubert: 1830-1857, Gustave Flaubert / vii. unknown / viii. @inanotherunivrse / ix. @violentcherries / x. Heaven, Mieko Kawakami (thank u @aworsening for attaching the sources)

[moonstoast]

We are a way for the cosmos to know itself

[ur-daily-inspiration]

Two of the oldest lovers

[feral-ballad]

Caitlyn Siehl, from What We Buried; “The Mural”

[sadclowncentral]

sometimes it's not even enemies to lovers. sometimes you get handed the leash of a snarling, barking dog against your will and realize with dawning horror that you are now responsible for teaching it not to bite

[deviika]

Sylvia Plath // Fyodor Dostoyevsky

[scarringstars]

eggsy unwin + tropes

[tvandfilm]

Santa Clarita Diet | 1x06 “ Attention to Detail ”

[weltenwellen]

bell hooks, All About Love

[inkskinned]

maybe if you had been made right, you would be better at being alone. if you'd assembled yourself out of the particulate, coagulating into amber and diamond - you'd be lovely and desirable. instead of pewter and hungry and anxious.

when she doesn't text you back, you should be normal about that. you should shrug and move on and get back to your beautiful life and your wonderful dog. when you wake up shaking, don't call her, don't beg for her attendance. if someone says i love you, aren't you supposed to feel warm and held and gentle. what is wrong with you that your first instinct is to reject: no, you don't, not really.

what is wrong with you. asking for help from your friends and loved ones is supposed to be a moment of connection and vulnerability. instead you spend hours preparing and weeks recovering. you've done all the reading and you know you are supposed to accept-love-as-it-is presented.

but still the internal questions, litany of the prey animal. do you still love me. am i still attractive. do you care about my interests. am i boring you. are you becoming distant. are you going to leave me. do you like me or are you just managing. am i telling you too much. am i bothering you. do you want me there. am i embarrassing you.

the problem is that your prayers have been right before. you loved someone and they hurt you and now the words sluice against the floorboards no matter how tightly you lock the door. you go to therapy and try to trust and try to be kind and try to assume the best. that everyone is honest and loyal. that you can be happy and alone and miss her but still feel easy, at-home.

it feels like waving a flag in front of a sinking ship. you hold up the scripture and research, preaching: i can do this. i am not going to let my insecurities and fears ruin another relationship.

all of the drowning passengers have your face. they try to say i told you so. i told you this is what ends up happening. their voices are swallowed by the water and the deep below.

[soracities]

“Hindi, like Gaelic, is a colonised space. It is a language complete in itself, with its own history, literature, poetry and tradition. But more than sixty-five years after Indian independence, it has been surrounded and absorbed by English, so among the Indian middle classes it is no longer a prestige language. It is the vernacular, the language one speaks at home; one does not use it to write to the tax office, nor take one’s degree. So if it doesn’t matter if it’s not perfect – if it doesn’t matter if a noun is masculine or feminine; if a verb falls to be transitive in the past perfect; if you just use the English word, because who can remember the Hindi for mathematics or apartment or transubstantiation – then for all I wage my small battle, we’re losing the war. To speak our language perfectly – to choose to do so, despite decades of colonial influence – is another political act.”

— “A’ghailleann”, Iona Sharma. (via a-witches-brew)