December 2010
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We spend January 1 walking through our lives, room by room, drawing up a list of...
– Ellen Goodman
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For last year’s words belong to last year’s language
And next...
– Little Gidding by T.S. Eliot
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Au milieu de l’hiver, j’apprenais enfin qu’il y avait en moi...
– Return to Tipasa by Albert Camus
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Between going and staying
by Octavio Paz
Between going and staying the day wavers, in love with its own transparency.
The circular afternoon is now a bay where the world in stillness rocks.
All is visible and all elusive, all is near and can’t be touched.
Paper, book, pencil, glass, rest in the shade of their names.
Time throbbing in my temples repeats the same unchanging syllable of blood.
The light turns the...
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Bus conversations
Younger Man: Hey, are you going into town?
Older Man: Just anywhere really, away from here.
Younger Man: ...
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Who has the right words at the right moment?
– Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë (via vintage23elfride)
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Bus conversations
Younger Man: Hey, are you going into town?
Older Man: Just anywhere really, away from here.
Younger Man: ...
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And I can no longer fly,
I who was winged from childhood.
A mist clouds my...
– Anna Akhmatova, from “Confusion” (via aubade)
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Although I have felt compelled to write things down since I was five years old,...
– Joan Didion
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His own life suddenly seemed repellently formal. Whom did he know or what did he...
– The Man Who Gave Up His Name (novella), from Legends of the Fall by Jim Harrison
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Reminds me a lot of this…
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thoughts (dis-connected)
melancholy notes written on my heart
at times it seems that it’s the only thing that keeps me alive
in this world where everything always fades into nothingness — memories that once seemed vivid
have lost all colour
the faces, the sounds and smells disappeared (what day was it and what year? was it winter or was it summer?) — and I wonder
whether I’m really learning* to live...
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thoughts (dis-connected)
melancholy notes written on my heart
at times it seems that it’s the only thing that keeps me alive
in this world where everything always fades into nothingness — memories that once seemed vivid
have lost all colour the faces, the sounds and smells disappeared (what day was it and what year? was it winter or was it summer?) — And I wonder
whether I’m really learning* to live...
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It’s not about facts, it’s about feelings. It’s about remembering feelings and...
– Agnes Martin
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Everything
juilett14:
Like angels alight on fanged bulls
waves of smiles painted on old brownstone
in yellow and pink and turquoise
and orchestral joys
threading their way
along braided, golden memories
in the halls of a heart
pitched with too many nights
separating you.
**
A letter from a ghost, each alphabet
a memory
an entry to yesterdays
ray florets of Gerbera on the kitchen table
steaming vegetables -...
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"We do not remember days, we remember moments. The...
Cesare Pavese
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"Melancholy flows through my veins..."
by abrokensomething
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Every atom of me and every atom of you
“I’ll be looking for you, Will, every moment, every single moment. And when we do find each other again, we’ll cling together so tight that nothing and no one’ll ever tear us apart. Every atom of me and every atom of you… We’ll live in birds and flowers and dragonflies and pine trees and in clouds and in those little specks of light you see floating in sunbeams… And when they use our...
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Little, lovely messages...
ghostlimbs: I recommended you today! :) x
definingforever: I sincerely adore the pieces of writing and photography you have on your blog ♥
Gosh, I never know what to say when people send me messages like these, other than that I really appreciate it!
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Forget everything you’ve ever learned about the stars and they’ll...
– Paulo Coelho
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Send me your flowers, of your December
Send me your dreams…
– Mazzy Star
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Sentencings
by Jane Hirshfeld
A thing too perfect to be remembered: stone beautiful only when wet.
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Blinded by light or black cloth— so many ways not to see others suffer.
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Too much longing: it separates us like scent from bread, rust from iron.
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From very far or very close— the most resolute folds of the mountain are gentle.
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As if putting arms...
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Christmas, 1970
by Sandra M. Castillo
We assemble the silver tree, our translated lives, its luminous branches, numbered to fit into its body. place its metallic roots to decorate our first Christmas. Mother finds herself opening, closing the Red Cross box she will carry into 1976 like an unwanted door prize, a timepiece, a stubborn fact, an emblem of exile measuring our days, marked by the moment of our...