“You know that when you close your eyes there are termites chewing out of your skull. The soft flutter of moth wings against your occipital bone, the quiet crumbling of anthills. Your head is a glass jar with a stick in it and a few holes poked into the lid. Your head is a locked room, poison seeping across the floors, fog in a field while the moon is wild and glowing.”—Joyce Chong, “Entomophobia,” published in Gone Lawn (via bostonpoetryslam)
“And I began to let him go. Hour by hour. Days into months. It was a physical sensation, like letting out the string of a kite. Except that the string was coming from my center.”—Augusten Burroughs, You Better Not Cry (via durianquotes)
I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Lily comes back tomorrow! For real, for good, for the foreseeable future. We took a little break but we decided that didn’t work for us, so we’re getting back together.
We will live in the same city again and clink our glasses together and eat pizza on my couch, and it will be like old times, but not exactly like old times.
It will be better because this time we know more about the city and about each other and about ourselves.
“Was it about faith or was it about grief?
Were faith and grief the same thing?
Were we unusually dependent on one another the summer we swam and watched Tenko and went to dinner at Morton’s?
Or were we unusually lucky?”—Joan Didion - The Year of Magical Thinking (via aderive)
“It was that female art of multitasking, he would conclude, that witchy capacity that girls possessed, that allowed them to retain dual and triple threads of attention at once. Girls could distinguish constantly and consciously between themselves and the performance of themselves, between the form and the substance. This double-handed knack, this perpetual duality, meant that any one girl was both an advertisement and a product at any one time. Girls were always acting. Girls would reinvent themselves, he later thought, with a sour twist to his mouth and his free hand flattening the hair on his crown, and boys could not.”—Eleanor Catton, The Rehearsal (via elesheva)
“He was only twelve years old but had to say it was ludicrous: The great magical city, isolated by the blue blue ocean on its chilly yellow hills and impregnable in its glorious golden, silver, railroaded Wild Western American queenliness, had crashed to the ground in less than a minute and broken apart and burned to ash so easily that he could not think of it except as something of no or little consequence. It had disappeared. The entire vast intricacy, the little cosmos. What had it been that it could disappear like that?”—"The Truth A and the Falsehood B" by Gary Amdahl (via spoliamag)
“You are so good. So good, you’re always feeling so much. And sometimes it feels like you’re gonna bust wide open from all the feeling, don’t it? People like you are the best in the world, but you sure do suffer for it.”—Silas House, This is My Heart for You (via fromonesurvivortoanother)
“Identity is gradual, cumulative; because there is no need for it to manifest itself, it shows itself intermittently, the way a star hints at the pulse of its being by means of its flickering light. But at what moment in this oscillation is our true self manifested? In the darkness or the twinkle?”—Sergio Chejfec, The Planets (via fables-of-the-reconstruction)
“When you walk out your door each morning, you can find new ways to see and new ways to live, if you look. You’ll be able to understand so many strange languages, so many secret codes. Things you’ve been struggling with will give way and become easier, more manageable, small enough to hold in your hand. Write your wishes down on paper and watch them become poetry; watch them become magic. Call your friends and tell them your secrets. Listen to the crickets outside your house at night. Watch the fireflies. Watch the golden moon.”—Madame Clairevoyant, via The Rumpus (via hiddenshores)
“But how entirely I live in my imagination; how completely depend upon spurts of thought, coming as I walk, as I sit; things churning up in my mind and so making a perpetual pageant, which is to be my happiness.”—Virginia Woolf, from A Writer’s Diary (via violentwavesofemotion)
“I wonder what it is about the personal and the confessional in writing that brings out the critical pitchforks and knives, aimed at everything but the writer’s actual words — particularly regarding the truth about women’s lives. It’s a double-edged sword, it seems: women, particularly women in their 20s, do have a quick road to publishing success when they are writing about their young and modern lives, particularly when there is the whiff of sex or scandal.”—Elisabeth Donnelly, Why Does Women’s Confessional Writing Get People So Riled Up? (via flavorpill)
“Go to sleep. Let darkness
lap at your sides. Give darkness an inch.
You aren’t alone. All of the continents used to be
one body. You aren’t alone. Go to sleep.”—Albert Goldbarth, from “The Sciences Sing A Lullaby” (via violentwavesofemotion)
“Between my sleeping and dreaming,
Between me and the one in me
Who I suppose I am,
A river flows without end.”—Fernando Pessoa, “30 August 1933,” A Little Larger Than the Entire Universe (via heteroglossia)
“There is something uniquely convincing about the perceptions that occur to you when you are in love. They seem truer than other perceptions, and more truly your own, won from reality at personal cost. Greatest certainty is felt about the beloved as necessary complement to you. Your powers of imagination connive at this vision, calling up possibilities from beyond the actual. All at once a self never known before, which now strikes you as the true one, is coming into focus. A gust of godlikeness may pass through you and for an instant a great many things look knowable, possible and present. Then the edge asserts itself. You are not a god. You are not that enlarged self. Indeed, you are not even a whole self, as you now see. Your new knowledge of possibilities is also a knowledge of what is lacking int he actual.”—Anne Carson,Eros: The Bittersweet (via batarde)
“I will say that learning how to write has to do in part with learning how to accede to yourself and your object, instead of writing what you think you ought to write, or what at that point in time the world thinks poetry is about. Or what you think you ought to be about. The moment comes, if it ever comes, when you have enough strength to give way, to give in to being who you are, to give in to your themes. Giving in to your obsessions, giving in to the things that you will be writing about over and over. And sometimes the things you’ll be writing about over and over are things that some people don’t find very nice.”—Frederick Seidel, The Art of Poetry No. 95 (via bostonpoetryslam)