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Ghosts

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Seize the day, boys. Make your lives extraordinary.

DEAD POETS SOCIETY dir. Peter Weir

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Franz Wright, from God’s Silence

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Every heart is fractured differently and she knows the pattern of her cracks, she traces them like lines across her palm.

Brit Bennett, The Mothers

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"I am a writer perhaps because I am not a talker."

- Gwendolyn Brooks

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hold on a second man…

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William Blake on poetry

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— George R.R. Martin

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Nostalghia, (1983)

Dir - Andrei Tarkovsky

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Silence also has a voice, but it needs a soul that understands it.

Anonymous

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"When I'm writing, I am trying to find out who I am, who we are, what we're capable of, how we feel, how we lose and stand up, and go on from darkness into darkness." —Maya Angelou

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That’s the truth

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via weheartit

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Everything has become a dream. There is a veil between me and them, so that they are shadows and I am dead, and the veil is perhaps a shroud that dims the light and blurs the vision. I have been to war, and it has created a chasm between me and those who have not; what do they know about anything: Since I encountered death, met death on every mountain path, conversed with death in my sleep, wrestled with death in the snow, gambled at dice with death, I have come to the conclusion that death is not an enemy but a brother. Death is a beautiful naked man who looks like Apollo, and he is not satisfied with those who wither away in old age. Death is a perfectionist, he likes the young and beautiful, he wants to stroke our hair and caress the sinew that binds our muscle to the bone. He does all he can to meet us, our faces gladden his heart, and he stands in our path to challenge us because he likes a clean fair fight, and after the fight he likes to befriend us, clap us on the shoulder, and make us laugh at all the pettiness and folly of the living. At the conclusion of a battle he wanders among the dead, raising them up, placing laurels upon the brows of those most comely, and he gathers them together as his own children and takes them away to drink wine that tastes of honey and gives them the sense of proportion that they never had in life.

But he didn’t take me and I don’t know why. I was brave enough, certainly. I never avoided danger, and I continued even when my body was already destroyed. I think I lived because our commanders were too clever, I think I lived because death loved the Italians. Death told them to advance in line abreast our strongest points, and we mowed them down like corn. But our generals made us outflank, outmanouevre, ambush, disappear and reappear. Our generals made it difficult for death, and so, instead of striking me with bullets, he made my body rot as much in a few months as with others he causes in sixty years. It was the cold, mud, parasites, starvation, grief, fear, blizzards of crystals sharper than glass, rain so dense that fish could have swum in it, all the things that there is no point in explaining because a civilian cannot even imagine it.

  —  Captain Corelli’s Mandolin (Louis de Bernières)

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Hands are unbearably beautiful. They hold on to things. They let things go.

Mary Ruefle

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― Fyodor Dostoevsky, White Nights