Writing on my Walls

words. they're very good. and vibes/inspiration/pretty things.

[letters-toyourheart]

Your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing.

- Fyodor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment

[metamorphesque]

musings on regret

Ocean Vuong, Betsy Dadd, Emily Palermo, Seung Ah Paik, Agust D (Min Yoongi), Timur Akhriev, John Greenleaf Whittier, Arthur Miller

[metamorphesque]

   — Ocean Vuong, Reasons for Staying

[text ID: Because this mess I made I made with love.]

[goldenprairies]

lets never go back

[yilinglaozu]

I will come back from the dead for you.  Keep talking. I’ll keep walking toward the sound of your voice.

[archiveofyearning]

Jamaica Kincaid, A Small Place // Chen Chen, When I Grow Up I Want to be a List of Further Possibilities // Warsan Shire, Conversations About Home // Fatimah Asghar, Partition // Aysha, Diaspora Defiance // Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous // Kaveh Akbar, Do You Speak Persian? // Safia Elhillo, Date Night With Abdelhalim Hafez // Gustavo Perez Firmat, Bilingual Blues // Scherezade Siobhan, How to Welcome the Dead

[mdzsquoteoftheday]

He wasn’t scared of falling. All these years, he’d fallen many times. But falling on the ground still hurt, after all. If someone was there to catch him, it’d be more than wonderful.

[metamorphesque]

Buffet Etiquette, Hieu Minh Nguyen

[sunsounds]

[text ID: My house is a silent film. / My house is infested with subtitles. / That’s all. That’s all. / I have nothing else to say end ID]

[theshatterednotes]

“Home isn’t Mom and Dad and Sis and Bud. Home isn’t where they have to let you in. It’s not a place at all. Home is imaginary. Home, imagined, comes to be. It is real, realer than any other place, but you can’t get to it unless your people show you how to imagine it—whoever your people are. They may not be your relatives. They may never have spoken your language. They may have been dead for a thousand years. They may be nothing but words printed on paper, ghosts of voices, shadows of minds. But they can guide you home. They are your human community.”

— Ursula K. Le Guin, Words Are My Matter (2016)

[metamorphesque]

 — Vladimir Nabokov, from Letters to Véra

[ text ID: I’m walking out now into the soft light, the cooling hum of evening, and I will love you tonight, and tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, and still many more, so very many more tomorrows. ]

[weltenwellen]

Adonis, tr. by Khaled Mattawa, Selected Poems

[inkskinned]

will you curl your hair for this and leave the sink so full of little bits of you; toothpaste and lingering strands and the full shake of your fingertips. the little wet linage of your shaking saturday night: this is the time you're supposed to be young and stupid, right. these are the best years. this is the way the birds in the morning are all asking you: why did you fall asleep? you are awake, and everyone expects you to begin and beget your life, full and vibrant and shining.

don't cry. the price is right. you can apply the eyeliner with a smooth stroke. you can whiten your teeth. you can commit insanity quietly, privately, like pressing prayer out through your teeth.

are you alone? in this world of so many people, are you alone again?

[inkskinned]

i. august the earth. let the blue chemical of the morning shush the way the too-sweet waking burns in your stomach.

ii. i forgot to go to therapy yesterday, because the reason i go to therapy is also the same reason i forget things.

iii. they won't let you talk about it, but the truth is that the illness wants to outlive you. and there is something beautiful about anxiety; about the press of my tongue to the roof of my mouth. that immediate, single-toned insanity. where would i be without panic? she is protecting me, goddamn it.

iv. i'm going to die alone. i'm going to die with my hand over my eyes.

v. they made this world for lovers, didn't they. the exit has a single red eye over it. they won't let you talk about it, but being sick is addictive. it needs to be, or none of us would be sick, would we? it makes the effort of surviving horrifying. why would i do that? why would i get better and force myself through the endless hurt and rehurting - when i could just waste? when i could turn rotten? it's easier, this way. succumb to the hike of her skirt, trembling up a pale leg. the soft, mesh sack over an open mouth.

vi. lay down, lay down. let the train pass over you, so close your skull shakes.

[sorryforthebonyelbows]

Emma Rebholz, from “No Good Bloodsuckers,” published in The Misanthropy

Blythe Baird

Dorothea Lasky, Rome

Richard Siken, Crush

Eric LaRocca, Things Have Gotten Worse Since We Last Spoke

Yves olade, Dark When It Gets Dark

Tumblr user @ryebreadgf

[flowerytale]

Clarice Lispector ― The Hour of the Star

[deviika]

Micah Nemerever, "These Violent Delights"

[soracities]

when e.e. cummings said “i’ll live my life if it kills me”

[softspringsolace]

when andrea gibson said “i suppose i love this life, in spite of my clenched fist.” & when ellen bass said “to love life, to love it even when you have no stomach for it”