@xshayarsha

weltenwellen :

Jeanette Winterson, Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?

morgondagen :

The Lovers | 1928 | René Magritte

lennuieternel :

That era has passed. Nothing that belonged to it exists anymore.

Identity is what we bequeath, not what we inherit, what we invent, not what we remember. Identity is the distorted image in the mirror that we must break the minute we grow fond of it.
Mahmoud Darwish, from A River Dies of Thirst; From Now On You Are Somebody Else.

apocryphics:

heartlocks:

holy shit

heartlocks:

what’s the psychology behind losing feelings towards someone you liked intensely once you realized they felt the same way back?

from Essays in Love by Alain De Botton

To be afraid is the condition of loving knowledge.
Hélène Cixous, from Hyperdream.

bitchvirgo:

y’all i got obsessive, ingenious, familiar lmao

original post by @hairless

neil-gaiman :

michaelmoonsbookshop :

The Little Mermaid - Hans Andersen

Illustration by Helen Stratton 1899

I know nothing about Helen Stratton and cannot believe that these are the first illustrations of hers I’ve seen. Glorious.

Your presence is translucent, crystalline, I see gardens beyond it and am swept away to high wildernesses,
Mahmoud Darwish, from A River Dies of Thirst; Most and Least. 

exhaled-spirals :

« The word intimacy comes from the Latin root intimum, which means your interiority, your innermost core. Unless you have something there, you can’t be intimate with anybody. You cannot allow intimum, intimacy, because they will see the hole, the wound, and the pus oozing out of it. They will see that you don’t know who you are […], that you have not even heard your own song, that your life is a chaos, not a cosmos. Hence the fear of intimacy. The reason is thinking there is nothing to share. Who wants to show one’s inner poverty? One should be capable of being alone, utterly alone, and yet tremendously blissful. Then you can love. Then your love is no longer a need but a sharing. »

— Osho, Intimacy: Trusting Oneself and the Other

I hear it, I hear a murmur your skin speaks, blood thinks, I hear your thought running under the skin I hear your life thinking under the neat spotless silk. I read with my life. I am torn. At the same time I am healed and glued back together again.
Hélène Cixous, from Hyperdream.

deuxiemefoix :

Dekorative Kunst - 1897 - via Internet Archive

blxckberrying :

My dragonfly,
my black-eyed fire, the knives in the kitchen are singing
for blood,but we are the crossroads, my little outlaw,
and this is the map of my heart, the landscape
after cruelty which is, of course, a garden, which is
a tenderness, which is a room, a lover saying Hold me
tight, it’s getting cold. We have not touched the stars,
nor are we forgiven, which brings us back
to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes,
not from the absence of violence, but despite
the abundance of it. The lawn drowns, the sky on fire,
the gold light falling backwards through the glass
of every room. I’ll give you my heart to make a place
for it to happen, evidence of a love that transcends hunger.

Richard Siken, “Snow and Dirty Rain”

larmoyante :

“Home is in my hair, my lips, my arms, my thighs, my feet and my hands. I am my own home. And when I wake up crying in the morning, thinking of how lonely I am, I pinch my skin, tug at my hair, remind myself that I am alive. Remind myself to step outside and greet the morning. Remind myself that it’s all about forward motion. It’s all about change. It’s all about that elusive state.
Freedom.”

— Diriye Osman, Fairytales for Lost Children

Something like the courage to be happy welled up in me and, though alive, the feeling of being brought back to life.
Hélène Cixous, from Hyperdream.

wildepoettt:

On this blue night, you see the mountains looking at the stars and the stars looking at the mountains. You think they can see you, so you thank them for their affable company. You are reluctant to emerge from the metaphor in case you fall into the well of loneliness.
Mahmoud Darwish, from A River Dies of Thirst; A Metaphor.

She winced as though red could hurt her - which of course it could. Everything could.
Catherynne M. Valente, from The Bread We Eat in Dreams.

I look at her and I am seen. Her eyes follow me. She detects the state of my soul. She translates. I can’t escape her.
Hélène Cixous, from Hyperdream.

soracities :

Chika Unigwe, “Heart of Darkness”  |  Alejandra Pizarnik, “Psychopathology Ward” (trans. Yvette Siegert)

rosademiel:

women in suits. get into it

ruined-cupid :

The Apparition by James Tissot

He saw the lightning in the east and longed for the east, but if it had flashed in the west he would have longed for the west.

My desire is for the lightning and its gleam, not for the places and the earth.

Ibin ‘Arabi, from Poem Fourteen; trans. R. A. Nicholson.

naturaekos :

“There is something about words. In expert hands, manipulated deftly, they take you prisoner. Wind themselves around your limbs like spider silk, and when you are so enthralled you cannot move, they pierce your skin, enter your blood, numb your thoughts. Inside you they work their magic.”

— Diane Setterfield

the south wind blows and drives us mad, the kind of wind that strips bones of their flesh.
George Seferis, from Collected Poems; trans. Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard.

glittertomb :

Christina Bothwell’s magical glass deer.

Think of me in the garden, humming quietly to myself in my blue dress, a blue darker than the sky above us, a blue dark enough for storms,
Mary Szybist, from Incarnadine Poems; The Troubadours Etc.