“The heart dies a slow death, shedding each hope like leaves until one day there are none. No hopes. Nothing remains.”
― Arthur Golden, Memoirs of a Geisha
(photograph by Farrah Aviva)
“And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”
― Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore
(photowork by Zdjecia Nodame)
“Beyond the edge of the world there’s a space where emptiness and substance neatly overlap, where past and future form a continuous, endless loop. And, hovering about, there are signs no one has ever read, chords no one has ever heard.”
— Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore
(artwork by Liliana Porter)
I am not a musician. I know nothing of notes, and sharps, nothing about tones, and dynamics. And sometimes I panic, almost every time to be honest. But although the melodies of our hearts never meet and they rarely strike at the same beat, the sound it makes when we’re together feels like a symphony to me.
— Arence Gabriel Gecale
“I think the weirdest thing is having left-over information about someone. Like I still know someone’s favorite girl name, or their favorite season, or someone’s address. I remember someone’s favorite ice cream flavors, someone’s favorite childhood book, and the mental disorder their uncle has. I remember the ages and birthdays of their siblings. I remember the song they said they’d sing to their spouse. Where do I put this down? Where do I learn to forget?”
(oil painting by Gottfried Helnwein)
“Somewhere there are Minke whales singing hymns in my belly,
Lonely cries beneath my star lined ribs.
Somewhere there is sea foam and driftwood lapping against my skin,
Drowning me in Vetiver notes and Pearlescent chords.
Somewhere the wind cracks and cries through my hollow frame.
The rains come and the tides swell and my throat is all sand and gravel
And your name stuck against my tongue, beating against the backs of my teeth.
Somewhere a whistle cries and the lighthouse fades
And I am floating in the ink bled sky.
Somewhere my last breath is leaving my body and I—
I don’t feel a thing.”
(artwork by witchoria)
On why I watch and read stuff over—
“It’s simple, really. It’s like, when you’re watching a movie, or reading a book, you’re looking forward, seeing where it’s going to go next. I’m looking around, taking everything in. The important part is not eagerly anticipating the final destination, but exploring the journey there. So, while what’s going to happen next is certainly intriguing to a high degree, why and how it’s happening is what is utterly captivating, what defines the reason and purpose of what’s about to happen. And I believe that varies with each read; it finds a way to enlighten you in new ways each time. Besides, I like knowing how things are going to turn out, whether they end in bliss or sorrow. I know you’ll say it’s pointless to look forward to something you already know is going to turn out a certain way. But, the point is, that knowledge doesn’t dull the way those sequence of events are going to make you feel, regardless of how many times you relive them. And if they do, then you know the film/novel, has no depth.”
“When I talk to you, or look at you, its like everyone else disappears. When you’re around I just can’t seem to focus. It’s like you’re all that exists. And then I remember that the way I see you isn’t the way you see me, and it sucks a bit. It’s not that I didn’t know that from before, it just hits a bit harder each time I see your face, or hear your voice, or simply, think of you. Your existence makes me tremble with both pleasure and sorrow.”
— intergalartic // Letters Edition
(photograph by Jennifer Stenglein)
“Admit it. You aren’t like them. Not even close.
You may occasionally dress yourself up as one of them, watch the same mindless television shows as they do, maybe even eat the same fast food sometimes. But it seems the more you try to fit in, the more you feel like an outsider. Watching the ‘normal people’ as they go about their automatic existences.
For every time you say club passwords like ‘Have a nice day’ and “Weather’s awful today, eh?’, you yearn inside to say forbidden things like ‘Tell me something that makes you cry’ or ‘What do you think déjà vu is for?‘”
“The thought of you is ever present. Somedays it is faint and small, like a whisper in the dark, and others, unbearable, like nails screeching down a chalkboard. But whatever the case, you are always on my mind, every day, every hour, every minute.”
— Beau Taplin
(photograph: Steven Meisel)
Alice: How long is forever?
White Rabbit: Sometimes, just one second.
“And everyday, the world will drag you by the hand, yelling ‘This is important! And this is important! And this is important! You need to worry about this! And this! And this!’
And each day, it’s up to you, to yank your hand back, put it on your heart and say ‘No. This is what’s important.'”
— Iain Thomas, Iwrotethisforyou
You know this feeling. Clock hands spinning, digital reds blinking. The representation of time does not matter, only that it’s dwindling, seconds slipping faster than you can count sheep clearing fences & fading into oblivion – the place you’d rather be. You keep wondering what you could have said, should have done, differently. Mind racing, thoughts a maddening rush of missed punctuation & comma splices, but there’s no grammatically correct way to go crazy, is there? You, your limbs, tangled up in sheets, in an oversized bed that suddenly seems much too big for your solitary body, feeling more alone than you’ve ever been, knowing that morning light is going to hit you hard as whiskey, wondering if tomorrow will bring closure. It won’t. Closure is something you give yourself. It doesn’t come in the form of excuses or apologies that are just as empty as the person who failed you. Stop wondering, stop your wild thoughts. Stop feeling alone when you’re not. Because these cruel hours are no stranger to me. You see, I’m up too.
(photograph: Mona Kuhn)
“No matter what, once in your life, someone will hurt you. That someone will take all that you are and rip it to pieces and they won’t even watch where the pieces land. But through the breakdown, you’ll learn something about yourself. You’ll learn that you’re strong and no matter how hard they destroy you, that you can conquer anyone.”
(photograph: Louie Aguila)
“Somewhere an echo sounds,
Reminiscent of the magic
Beneath a veiled sun;
The untamed splendour of emeralds
Susurrating and singing;
Even the raven accompanies a nightingale
At the crack of dawn,
As she walks his path blindly.
Somewhere an echo sounds,
Laden with certitude;
And the heart of scripts
Reverberating through streams of blue.
Never quiet— not once;
The black swims along with white
At the lull of twilight,
Her senses null against his acuity.
Somewhere an echo sounds,
Now dark and deep;
The tide come swallowing
All that is sacred.
What remains now
Are sacrilege drops,
Fallen from the raven,
In the wake of the nightingale.
Somewhere an echo sounds,
With the ferocity of a whisper,
Why does it accompany
She speaks empty verses,
Etched on the once great pine;
The raven lain upon the velvet ground,
The nightingale a mist in the pearl grey mine.
There sounds now,
A perpetual serein.
She breathes in the pearls
Of intentions sweet—
But chokes and crumbles,
A pumping heart without beat.
Cruelly silent, the rain keeps falling;
And she drowns— effortlessly.”
— Bhumika Gupta
What every kid needs to hear from their parent every now and then.
Sometimes I wake up in the morning and I see that you’ve grown over night. Your face is more defined, your eyes look older. A part of me is excited and in awe; I know you have so much ahead of you. Another part is scared because time is racing and I can’t slow it down. I’m afraid that I haven’t always been awake and noticing, and that somehow I have slept through the magic of your growing. I wonder, have I enjoyed you enough? Have I given you what you needed? Is your heart still whole? Is your spirit unbroken?
I’m not always good at this. I’m not always as good as I want to be at being your mom. I want to be great; and sometimes I am, but sometimes I’m not.
Sometimes I get it, and sometimes I don’t.
Sometimes I do it right, and sometimes I completely miss it.
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One thing left on your body I can undress…