1.  

  2. "But love is what we want, not freedom. Who then is the unluckier man? The beloved, who is given his heart’s desire and must for ever after fear its loss, or the free man, with his unlooked-for liberty, naked and alone between the captive armies of the earth?"
    — Salman Rushdie, The Ground Beneath Her Feet (via divine-despair)
     

  3. "Summoned by conscious recollection, she
    would be smiling, they might be in a kitchen talking,
    before or after dinner. But they are in this other room,
    the window has many small panes, and they are on a couch
    embracing. He holds her tightly
    as he can, she buries herself in his body.
    Morning, maybe it is evening, light
    is flowing through the room. Outside,
    the day is slowly succeeded by night,
    succeeded by day. The process wobbles wildly
    and accelerates: weeks, months, years. The light in the room
    does not change, so it is plain what is happening.
    They are trying to become one creature,
    and something will not have it. They are tender
    with each other, afraid
    their brief, sharp cries will reconcile them to the moment
    when they fall away again. So they rub against each other,
    their mouths dry, then wet, then dry.
    They feel themselves at the center of a powerful
    and baffled will. They feel
    they are an almost animal,
    washed up on the shore of a world—
    or huddled against the gate of a garden—
    to which they can’t admit they can never be admitted."
    — Misery and Splendor by Robert Hass (via lobbywaitingarea)

    (via commovente)

     
  4.  

  5. "Am I to bless the lost you,
    sitting here with my clumsy soul?"
    — Anne Sexton, from “The Inventory of Goodbye 

    (Source: litverve, via whiskeydynamite)

     

  6. "The heaviest of burdens crushes us, we sink beneath it, it pins us to the ground. But in love poetry of every age, the woman longs to be weighed down by the man’s body.The heaviest of burdens is therefore simultaneously an image of life’s most intense fulfillment. The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become. Conversely, the absolute absence of burden causes man to be lighter than air, to soar into heights, take leave of the earth and his earthly being, and become only half real, his movements as free as they are insignificant. What then shall we choose? Weight or lightness?"
    — Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being
     
  7.  
  8. (Source: nevver)

     


  9. To feel the onset:
    The fear of being shown
    of being seen
    of being read, and burnt,
    and in ashes.

    To relate not to the first, but the second
    The third, fourth and 
    fifth, forevermore; infinite.

    To find the staircase to infinity has no steps;
    only sleet

    Dust settling on air fragments, floating, unreachable
    To feel these 
    To eat them, full of air
    Within -
    without.

    I go To, and For, and With, 
    Never arriving, not reaching,
    no steps.
    I go By, and Of, and To,
    following none, seeing not,
    no loss
    I gain.

    To fear the syntax, the word, the L.

    To fear the fear is not fear,
    only fault.
    To feel the onset:
    of ash.

     

  10. "There are trees and they are on fire. There are hummingbirds and they are on fire. There are graves and they are on fire and the things coming out of the graves are on fire. The house you grew up in is on fire. There is a gigantic trebuchet on fire on the edge of a crater and the crater is on fire. There is a complex system of tunnels deep underneath the surface with only one entrance and one exit and the entire system is filled with fire. There is a wooden cage we’re trapped in, too large to see, and it is on fire. There are jaguars on fire. Wolves. Spiders. Wolf-spiders on fire. If there were people. If our fathers were alive. If we had a daughter. Fire to the edges. Fire in the river beds. Fire between the mattresses of the bed you were born in. Fire in your mother’s belly. There is a little boy wearing a fire shirt holding a baby lamb. There is a little girl in a fire skirt asking if she can ride the baby lamb like a horse. There is you on top of me with thighs of fire while a hot red fog hovers in your hair. There is me on top of you wearing a fire shirt and then pulling the fire shirt over my head and tossing it like a fireball through the fog at a new kind of dinosaur. There are meteorites disintegrating in the atmosphere just a few thousand feet above us and tiny fireballs are falling down around us, pooling around us, forming a kind of fire lake which then forms a kind of fire cloud. There is this feeling I get when I am with you. There is our future house burning like a star on the hill. There is our dark flickering shadow. There is my hand on fire in your hand on fire, my body on fire above your body on fire, our tongues made of ash. We are rocks on a distant and uninhabitable planet. We have our whole life ahead of us."
    — "The Fire Cycle," Zachary Schomburg (via notebookings)

    (Source: dialecstatic, via notebookings)

     

  11. "A boy told me
    if he roller-skated fast enough
    his loneliness couldn’t catch up to him,
    the best reason I ever heard
    for trying to be a champion.
    What I wonder tonight
    pedaling hard down King William Street
    is if it translates to bicycles.
    A victory! To leave your loneliness
    panting behind you on some street corner
    while you float free into a cloud of sudden azaleas,
    pink petals that have never felt loneliness,
    no matter how slowly they fell."
    — "The Ride," Naomi Shihab Nye (via notebookings)

    (via notebookings)

     

  12. "From pent-up aching rivers,
    From that of myself without which I were nothing."
    — Whitman, “Children of Adam”
     
  13. Shoreditch Bridge from the 243 by emma_em
    The Life Aquatic by Jane Hoskyn
    Buses suck, because they are wet on the inside too. by The Sunshine Pirate

    (Source: shootingfilm.net, via nevver)

     

  14. And that’s what it comes down to,
    smudged lipstick.
    A balancing act seen through shapes and blurred figures
    falling and lifting in a mirror,
    Black, white and grey, a dance, a leap,
    a swift curl in and flesh winding out
    Turn your head not; the mirror lies. 
    What do you see? 
    Refusals and denials,
    In a life where movies and computer screens 
    are realer than windowpanes and tablecloths,
    the inner and the outer 
    throbbing of my brain
    can’t be differentiated 
    because what,
    is, 
    differentiation?
    Math, math methods and economics; 
    racism, 
    racism and cultural appropriation,
    consumption of the female and hurling out of the male,
    the salt in the lens solution dries and sticks because these eyes need no lubrication. 
    I point out that your green eyes falter when you’re truthful,
    shocking because on a night like tonight 
    when the sun couldn’t have set 
    because it never rose 
    to begin with, 
    how can you be truthful with your insides 
    swimming in a screen? 
    Pictures of blank eyes and
    crimson lips that swim painfully 
    with disappointment but every inch revealed is
    every inch covered up in the 
    separate sensibility of each self that 
    doesn’t really exist anywhere so
    internally and externally we dissipate
    differentiate but merge, 
    nothing and everything, lies. 
    Smudged roses on the lips point at smudged blood in the arteries, 
    melting into skin and through 
    pores and into empty
    bedsheets, smudged lipstick hints at a mirroring
    self that’s somehow worthier,
    prettier and 
    fuller 
    than the self with no reflection at all because
    how 
    entirely 
    terrifying.

     
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