☾

[aureat]

“It never really goes away, the longing for the life not lived, because isn’t that part of how we come to know ourselves too? Through what we lack as much as what we have, all we dream but do not hold. Some desires have no resolution.”

— Madelaine Lucas, Thirst for Salt (Tin House Books, March 7, 2023)  (via dk-thrive)

[weltenwellen]

Jenny Xie, from "Zuihitsu",  Eye Level

[utenah]

“Well, let it pass; April is over, April is over. There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice.”

— F. Scott Fitzgerald, “The Sensible Thing” in The Short Stories

[latibule-e-deactivated20231012]

— Theodore Roethke, from “Straw for the fire.”

[dreamyvixen]

“When you try to blind my eyes, I can see tenfold.”

— Chelsea Wolfe, from Pain Is Beauty; “Sick,” released in 2013 (via violentwavesofemotion)

[25436445767787687676786-deactiv]

“I could not stop wasting time. It was crazy. I wanted to do something with my life, but instead I went to sleep, or sung in the shower, or sat and stared at the wall. I couldn’t even tell you about anything that I saw. I didn’t talk to anybody. The cicadas kept dying outside, and as I dreamed, my mouth grew thick and venomous with silence.”

— Yiwei Chai, The Jacaranda Years (via crowsummer)

[brutalistarchitecture2]

From Jeanette Winterson's recent substack article

[metamorphesque]

— Vladimir Nabokov, Mary

[ text ID: Nostalgia in reverse, the longing for yet another strange land, grew especially strong in spring. ]

[amouthfulloflove]

“When did I become I and the body? When did the two of us separate?”

Madmen, Aditi Nagrath

[luthienne]

Christa Wolf, Cassandra: A Novel and Four Essays (tr. Jan van Heurck)

[Text ID: “Without my noticing, spring had come again.]

[tristealven]

“Life is little by little. Today I take half a step, the day after tomorrow I’ll take another half-step. Such impatience. I want to swallow life down in a single gulp and then maybe something like dying.”

— Clarice Lispector, from A Breath of Life, tr. Johnny Lorenz (via firstfullmoon)

[sickpage]

Kay Fochtmann Pão de Açúcar, Rio de Janeiro, 2011

[anneboyer]

what resembles the grave but isn't

Always falling into a hole, then saying “ok, this is not your grave, get out of this hole,” getting out of the hole which is not the grave, falling into a hole again, saying “ok, this is also not your grave, get out of this hole,” getting out of that hole, falling into another one; sometimes falling into a hole within a hole, or many holes within holes, getting out of them one after the other, then falling again, saying “this is not your grave, get out of the hole”; sometimes being pushed, saying “you can not push me into this hole, it is not my grave,” and getting out defiantly, then falling into a hole again without any pushing; sometimes falling into a set of holes whose structures are predictable, ideological, and long dug, often falling into this set of structural and impersonal holes; sometimes falling into holes with other people, with other people, saying “this is not our mass grave, get out of this hole,” all together getting out of the hole together, hands and legs and arms and human ladders of each other to get out of the hole that is not the mass grave but that will only be gotten out of together; sometimes the willful-falling into a hole which is not the grave because it is easier than not falling into a hole really, but then once in it, realizing it is not the grave, getting out of the hole eventually;  sometimes falling into a hole and languishing there for days, weeks, months, years, because while not the grave very difficult, still, to climb out of and you know after this hole there’s just another and another; sometimes surveying the landscape of holes and wishing for a high quality final hole; sometimes thinking of who has fallen into holes which are not graves but might be better if they were; sometimes too ardently contemplating  the final hole while trying to avoid the provisional ones; sometimes dutifully falling and getting out, with perfect fortitude, saying “look at the skill and spirit with which I rise from that which resembles the grave but isn’t!” 

[quotexcerpts]

He’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

Emily Brontë; Wuthering Heights (via quotexcerpts)

[firstfullmoon]

“Outside it is warm and blue and April.”

— Sylvia Plath, from a journal entry featured in The Journals of Sylvia Plath: 1950-1962 (via watchoutforintellect)

[istmos]

(…) All my life, I’ve been going around waiting for something. All my life, in fact, I’ve felt as if… as if I were waiting in a railway station. And I’ve always felt as if… as if the living I’ve done so far hasn’t actually been real life but a long wait for it…a long wait for something real (…)

Andrei Tarkovsky, fragment from the script of “The Sacrifice”, 1986

[adrasteiax]

“So little at peace in the spring evening, I pray for strength, for direction,”

— Louise Glück, from Evening Prayers in “Poems 1962-2012”