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Susan Sontag, from “Reborn: Journals and Notebooks, 1947-1963″

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It’s nearing August once more, and there’s that sickly-sweet taste at the back of my mouth. I am fifteen and only growing into this ache; lonely enough to hold any hand that will hold mine, and even the ones that won’t. One almost did, but I’m running, I have to, because It is cold and dark and my fingers are frozen and I remember this feeling from two years ago, from the story my pages are tired of hearing. The dust has not settled, the fog has not cleared, and I have been waiting so long.

—Feelings I Can’t Name

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #literature #poetry #writing #studyblr #still dont know what to tag this

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Somewhere across the sea, far, far away from here, there is a cottage in a valley. Or it could be a gilded mansion. Maybe a house in the middle of the forest— but it’s there, and it’s for us. Safe. We could run away, leave in the middle of the night and I'd hold your hand the whole way there if you’d let me. We’d set our things down on the floor and sigh in relief (we wouldn’t have much anyway) and, for once, not dread the sunrise. 

But honestly? Each time you say “we’re going to be okay” i think you believe it a little less (i pray to a god i don’t trust now this is all his fault) and I’d give anything to make this right but i’m sorry, my hands are always so empty. Every time i say “see you!” it’s a declaration, a  challenge, a prayer— because i hope i hope i hope. How much of love is selfishness? 

—Feelings I Can’t Name

#literature #writers on tumblr #writing #poetry #writeblr #studyblr #poets #i dont know what to tag this

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Hindi as a language >>>

Hindi as a subject <<<

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Listen: my father speaks Urdu language of dancing peacocks rosewater fountains even its curses are beautiful. He speaks Hindi suave and melodic earthy Punjabi salty rich as saag paneer coastal Kiswahili laced with Arabic, he speaks Gujarati solid ancestral pride. Five languages five different worlds yet English shrinks him down before white men who think their flat cold spiky words make the only reality.

- Shailja Patel, 'Dreaming in Gujarati'

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sometimes i think about the golden record and i want to cry

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He asked me when I fell in love with him and I knew it sounded dramatic to say the moment I saw him, so I told him this story of my grandma who had Alzheimer's- she forgot her name and the words for fruit and food, she forgot her address and how to use the washroom, all her life lost to the disease. The only thing she remembered was her son's name and when that began to fade, the one thing she always remembered was that she loved him, even in illness, even in insanity. She saw this 6 foot 2 man with a scrubby beard and she didn't know him but she said she trusted him, she asked him to hold her hand when she died. When does memory end and love begin? All I know is- she loved him before she remembered him.

-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The world is a sphere of ice and our hands are made of fire

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Ceasar be like “i cannot believe my friends in the senat would stab me” my brother in Mars you were actively abolishing their republic

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i love when tragedies are like “the love was there. it didnt change anything. it didnt save anyone. there were just too many forces against it. but it still matters that the love was there”

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my most favorite phrase of the entire the great gatsby will always be “paternal contempt” like i literally closed the book to process 

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SOUTH INDIAN RURAL GOTHIC

There is a light on the top of the hill. You visit the next day. All you find is an abandoned temple in ruins. If you return safely, don't visit again. The temple spirits now have a taste for your blood.

There are trails between the scrubs. No one walks them except those five in the night. Don't ask them what they do there. You are better off not knowing.

Yes, the snakes are growing bolder. But do not kill them. Do not test the celestial serpents, Vasuki, Kalinga, Karkotaka and the others. No one survives their revenge.

If you live in the hills, lock the doors and windows at night. Keep a gun next to you, maybe a hound. The tiger of the western hills has developed a taste for human flesh.

If you must drive the hill roads at night, pick a god and pray hard. The fog has a physical presence here and it shows little mercy. It might just push you off a precipice.

Keep off the rice fields at night. If you must go, avoid the banyan tree at all costs. If you someone beneath it, or sitting on the branches, run as hard as you can.

Don't wear white clothes at night. The witches will claim you or the villagers will shoot you. We are a superstitious bunch but can you blame us?

Pay your respects to the guardians of your farm and hearth. leave some milk for the idols. Their honour is prickly. If they see fit to withdraw their protection, you are doomed.

People will ask you for oil for Kali's sacrifice. Give them what they want. The goddess is fearsome in her wrath and no one witnesses it and lives.

Water nourishes, lives and spirits. The Brahmarakshsa lives in your well, many more live in the lake. Be careful there. Many people have drowned there. The slopes are slippery and the spirits are greedy.

The predominant rural sceneries of south India

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Bhaiya ek packet peace of mind kha milega

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who are you, dorian gray?

I am very handsome. Sometimes I look in the mirror and think to myself “I have committed horrible acts” 

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eventually you realize you don’t want to die. you just don’t want to live the life you’re living. and slowly you try to create a life you want to live. just gotta start there.

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one of my favorite things about fanfiction is how many writers don't necessarily consider themselves fans of the original work. lots of writers just saw the movie or read the book and were like "that was unsatisfying but now I have yet another canon to fuck around with"

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do the people in power in India, Pakistan and Bangladesh know that the kids of their countries altogether call themselves desi on tumblr???