It’s early summer,
the hopeless romantic in me found her way to the surface when the heat melted couple of my overprotective layers.
so here i am, allowing her a moment of spotlight and myself some vulnerability.
it’s past midnight, I’m sitting in floor of my kitchen eating fruits with a knife
wondering, if it’s really safe to romanticize life?
I indulge myself anyway, and think about how fruits can be considered a love language if you’re starved enough to taste love that’s throughly stained with muted apologies. 
I trust, that when the sun rises tomorrow all my attempts to romanticize life will sublimate and create a thick fog of melancholy that I’ll have no other option but to get lost into.
even so, tonight I’m tired enough to let it be and so i write this, my own report of pathology
officially it’s untitled, but I’m thinking: the pathology of love.
i start by resecting pieces of all the habits that i define my existence based on along with some of the heartache that i held onto for too long
deep down, i know some of it belongs to my mother
At least its mature flavor says so, that, balanced with the sweet essence of an overly ripe fruit that never belonged
Young and brash and an acquired taste.
it’s poorly fixed microscopic tissue, preserved in a high percentage of feminine rage
Low expectations stained with love and paranoia alike and the question that asks itself:
is it benign or malignant?
is it infiltrating my soul, taking away from my potential to grow ?
It stays unanswered, an unforced error
because i always carry those little versions of me that vary in their percentage of their belief in my own bone marrow
a core biopsy will always show that i still believe.
•••
•Quotes: Anaïs Nin/ Sylvia Plath/ Virgina Woolf/ Franz Kafka/Marcel Proust/ Simone de Beauvoir/Anne Carson/ Andrea Gibson/Anaïs Nin
•Original context:
•Art reference:
1. British School - Head of a girl, c. 1850. 2. Painting ( details) by Richard E. Miller. 3. Paintings by Jen Mazza. 4. Neil Carroll Original Oil Painting Realism Impressionism. 5. The Gross Clinic (details), by Thomas Eakins 6. Wounds of the Earth by xis.lanyx. 7.painting by Herbert James Draper.
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all this love i have refuses to die inside of me
pinterest / vonko magno on flickr / troye sivan, one of your girls / virginia woolf, a letter to vanessa bell, august 1908 / @hannahlockillustration on tumblr / sara luisa kirk, begin here / fyodor dostoevsky, a letter to anna gregorevna dostoevsky, may 1880 / archbudzar on instagram / jeanette winterson, lighthousekeeping (transcript under the cut) / caitlyn siehl / @wormbus-art on tumblr / jonathan safran foer, extremely loud and incredibly close / lidia yuknavitch, the chronology of water: a memoir / sleepy.corvid on instagram / @froody on tumblr / @borderlinejackiee on tumblr / always together 2, frrrankkky_art on instagram / andsome4747 on tiktok / arthur miller, the crucible / cheryl strayed, tiny beautiful things: advice on love and life from dear sugar
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when hozier said "we tried the world, good god, it wasn't for us" and alex turner said "stop the world cause i wanna get off with you" and rumi said "out beyond the ideas of wrong doing and right doing, there is a field, i will meet you there"
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pain is not the only touchstone for growth
melanie martinez, womb / warsan shire, backwards / mary oliver, “blue iris.” devotions / jmfenner / nayyirah waheed / jenny slate, little weirds / @soapstore on tumblr / jenny slate, little weirds / ocean vuong, on earth we’re briefly gorgeous / sue zhao / @emmablowguns on twitter / jenny slate, little weirds / ottessa moshfegh, my year of rest and relaxation / @anariafortheendoftimes on tumblr / mary oliver, upstream / marya hornbacher, waiting / robert de flers
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Helaena Targaryen // L’afflizione (detail), Natale Schiavoni (1841)
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