And so it was I entered the broken world
To trace the visionary company of love, its voice
An instant in the wind (I know not whither hurled)
But not for long to hold each desperate choice.
— Hart Crane —
out of the crowd…
1.
Out of the rolling ocean, the crowd, came a drop gently to me,
Whispering, I love you; before long I die:
I have travelled a long way, merely to look on you, to touch you:
For I could not die till I once looked on you,
For I feared I might afterward lose you.2.
Now we have met, we have looked, we are safe;
Return in peace to the ocean, my love;
I too am part of that ocean, my love—we are not so much separated;
Behold the great rondure—the cohesion of all, how perfect!
But as for me, for you, the irresistible sea is to separate us,
As for an hour carrying us diverse—yet cannot carry us diverse for ever;
Be not impatient—a little space—know you, I salute the air, the ocean,
and the land,
Every day, at sundown, for your dear sake, my love.— Walt Whitman —
last night i sang…
I’m fighting myself. I know I am.
One minute I want to remember.
The next minute I want to live in the land of forgetting.
One minute I want to feel.
The next minute I never want to feel again.
— Benjamin-Alire-Sáenz —
you can’t. not yet. so don’t…
“What does it take to inspire you?”
He asked.
“I need to fall in love,” she replied.
“Surely there must be an easier way,”
he retorted.
“Why, I have already fallen in love twice today,” she answered,
“First, when I set my eyes upon the
ever precipitous mountains that surround us,
guarding us like the skin that stretches along our bones,
and second,
with the uncertainty in your voice when you asked
if there is anything easier than falling in love.”
— n. o. —
only perfect practice…
With you, intimacy colours my voice.
Even “hello” sounds like “come here.”
— Warsan Shire —
too often in life…
The real damage is done by those millions who want to ‘survive.’ The honest men who just want to be left in peace. Those who don’t want their little lives disturbed by anything bigger than themselves. Those with no sides and no causes.
Those who won’t take measure of their own strength, for fear of antagonizing their own weakness. Those who don’t like to make waves-or enemies. Those for whom freedom, honour, truth, and principles are only literature.
Those who live small, mate small, die small. It’s the reductionist approach to life: if you keep it small, you’ll keep it under control. If you don’t make any noise, the bogeyman won’t find you. But it’s all an illusion, because they die too, those people who roll up their spirits into tiny little balls so as to be safe. Safe?! From what?
Life is always on the edge of death; narrow streets lead to the same place as wide avenues, and a little candle burns itself out just like a flaming torch does. I choose my own way to burn.
— Sophie Scholl —
mírame…
I recently read that there is no greater intimacy then to hold your lover’s eyes as you cum. I believe this to be true. The trick is to find another who is brave enough to bear such beauty in their soul… this light called Hope.
hours continuing long…
Hours continuing long, sore and heavy-hearted,
Hours of the dusk, when I withdraw to a lonesome and un-frequented
spot, seating myself, leaning my face in my
hands;
Hours sleepless, deep in the night, when I go forth, speeding
swiftly the country roads, or through the city streets, or
pacing miles and miles, stifling plaintive cries;
Hours discouraged, distracted—for the one I cannot content
myself without, soon I saw him content himself without
me;
Hours when I am forgotten, (O weeks and months are pass-
ing, but I believe I am never to forget!)
Sullen and suffering hours! (I am ashamed—but it is useless
—I am what I am;)
Hours of my torment—I wonder if other men ever have the
like, out of the like feelings?
Is there even one other like me—distracted—his friend, his
lover, lost to him?
Is he too as I am now? Does he still rise in the morning, de-
jected, thinking who is lost to him? and at night, awak-
ing, think who is lost?
Does he too harbor his friendship silent and endless? harbor
his anguish and passion?
Does some stray reminder, or the casual mention of a name,
bring the fit back upon him, taciturn and deprest?
Does he see himself reflected in me? In these hours, does he
see the face of his hours reflected?
— Walt Whitman —
the sorrowful sweetness of rhyme…
how simple we seem…
In a field. With the moon.
And the dark. And the dirt.
With your mouth. And just one word:
god god god.— Daphne Gottlieb —
