September 2011
“I asked him did he really love New York or was he just wearing the shirt. He smiled, like he was nervous. I could tell he didn’t understand, which made me feel guilty for speaking English, for some reason. I pointed at his shirt. ‘Do? You? Really? Love? New? York?’ He said, ‘New York?’ I said, ‘Your. Shirt.’ He looked at his shirt. I pointed at the N and said ‘New,’ and the Y and said ‘York.’ He looked confused, or embarrassed, or surprised, or maybe even mad. I couldn’t tell what he was feeling, because I couldn’t speak the language of his feelings. ‘I not know was New York. In Chinese, ny mean ‘you.’ Thought was ‘I love you.’ It was then that I noticed the ‘I♥NY’ poster on the wall, and the ’I♥NY’ flag over the door, and the ’I♥NY’ dishtowels, and the ’I♥NY’ lunchbox on the kitchen table. I asked him, ‘Well, then why do you love everybody so much?’”
—
extremely loud and incredible close - jonathan safran foer (via xtremelyloud)
brilliant…
“When I am sad
I sing, remembering
the redwing blackbird’s clack.
Then I want no thing
except to turn time back
to what I had
before love made me sad.
When I forget to weep,
I hear the peeping tree toads
creeping up the bark.
Love lies asleep
and dreams that everything
is in its golden net;
and I am caught there, too,
when I forget.” —Mantra by Ruth Stone, from In the Next Galaxy (thank you, apoetreflects)
I sing, remembering
the redwing blackbird’s clack.
Then I want no thing
except to turn time back
to what I had
before love made me sad.
When I forget to weep,
I hear the peeping tree toads
creeping up the bark.
Love lies asleep
and dreams that everything
is in its golden net;
and I am caught there, too,
when I forget.” —Mantra by Ruth Stone, from In the Next Galaxy (thank you, apoetreflects)
i miss you. and i don’t even know you.
“Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light.
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows,
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the body shine
and tomorrow’s dust flares into breath.” —
the coming of love, the coming of light.
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows,
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the body shine
and tomorrow’s dust flares into breath.” —
The Coming of Light by Mark Strand (via growing-orbits)
one of my favorites……. mmmm. This is perfect for my life lately <3
so you lost your trust and you never should have
no you never should have.
I feel panicked being in such a small cage, when all I want to do is accept was is surely coming to me. I would want this so much. I would fight for this so much. I would want you to know that. To know that I tried my best. That I always try my best. And that I feel nauseous just thinking about the perfect possibilities, nauseous in a good, scary, flighty sort of way. Like when you’re home alone watching a scary movie and your stomach flies up to your chest when you think you feel breathing next to you.
But then you turn the lights on. And, you’re still alone.
It’s like that.
“At some point in life the world’s beauty becomes enough. You don’t need to photograph, paint or even remember it. It is enough. No record of it needs to be kept and you don’t need someone to share it with or tell it to. When that happens — that letting go — you let go because you can.”
—Toni Morrison (thank you, zenlikeme, via ohlydiane)
“
Said the Controller: “We prefer to do things comfortably.”
“But I don’t want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin.”
“In fact,” said Mustapha Mond, “you’re claiming the right to be unhappy.”
“All right then,” said the Savage defiantly, “I’m claiming the right to be unhappy.”
” —Aldous Huxley, Brave New World (1932)
“
Those who will not slip beneath
the still surface on the well of grief
turning down to its black water
to the place that we can not breathe
will never know
the source from which we drink
the secret water cold and clear
nor find in the darkness
the small gold coins
thrown by those who wished for something else
The Well of Grief by David Whyte (via growing-orbits)
beautiful…
