Completely random thought from the other day:
There’s never been a generation more aware of their own sin. They might not categorize it as such, and they might try to cover it up – or cure it – with some twisted form of self acceptance. But don’t underestimate how much the world knows its judgement. And how much it acts in compensation for that.
(And of course let’s not skirt around the edges of chains, but let’s focus on how they fall.)
the art of slow living,
(I’ve done more than you)
the art of poverty.
(I’ve gone to a hundred different countries to write poetry)
Since the beginning of time, people have chosen their gardens. But you choose by growing it.
(Not some incessant stumbling, but willful action all the way into what will be your resting place.)
Learn to go through things instead of away from them.
(Excerpt from a notebook) On the topic of writing, Bukowski says: If it doesn’t come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don’t do it. There’s no other way, and there never was. I think what he means is that your writing has to be a surprise, even to yourself. Too many people see writing as a form of thinking, when in reality it’s the complete opposite, a mirrored version or maybe a distant relative to it. When you write, when you really write, you do not need to fear the blank page, because it’s not you who are going to fill it, but your words. Sometimes I’m all up in my head, and I only write such things I’ve already thought about. But what then is the point of writing at all? Is it only documentation? I believe, and believe strongly, that the power lies in not knowing how your sentence will end. I believe, and believe strongly, that we have labyrinths in us just waiting to be discovered, but if you always know and see everything, you just walk along a winding path. You miss all the ways you could have gone. True writing is about something like that.
Stop looking for the perfect story and choose a real one. (Your heroine doesn’t need freckles or a specific hair colour and your love interest doesn’t need his eyes described in detail. It would be more interesting hearing your story from the point of a view of a baby. It would be more interesting if everyone wasn’t so morally good. It would be more interesting if you didn’t care so much that you ruined it.)
To go from listening to To build a home on spotify, to listening to That home.
The difference between feeling like
there’s no way out and talking about
that there’s no way out
is the way out.
somewhere in the dark corners of my phone:
Everything you make me throw up I swallow right back down again, the wisps of sweet poison to the bitter taste of my fingernails, I swallow it down again. Grasping hands clinging to asphalt and tissue and all the atoms they cannot see, second hand looking and eyes eyes eyes on me. I swallow it right back down again (please) I swallow it right back down again.
I walked through the forest today, just after the sun had set, but while the sky was still clear enough that it could have been a cloudy midday. The birds were singing like crazy, as if trying to call the day back. The forest floor was covered in green leaves and white buds that made my heart hurt. Soon those flowers will bloom and it will look like it has been snowing again, until they die and leave space for summer. I looked and walked and thought that this was the saddest sadness I’d ever seen. The birds see death and think of birth, and I see birth and think of death.