What does “thinking of you” mean? It means: forgetting “you” (without forgetting, life itself is not possible) and frequently waking out of that forgetfulness.
Roland Barthes, A Lover's Discourse: Fragments (translated by Richard Howard)
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I knew no end to desiring you.
Roland Barthes, from ‘A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments’, tr. Richard Howard
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I am enormously tormented within; sometimes I sink to the bottom of the deepest abyss, sometimes I rise to the heights.
~Roland Barthes
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I am looking inward, You are looking at me.
Quote via. @/petfurniture on Twitter | The Dharma Bums, Jack Kerouac | The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays, Albert Camus | Nine, Sleeping At Last | The Essence of Hope: His Guiding Light, Randy Burns | Oak Tree Towering Prescence, Tatyana Fogarty | The Brothers Karamazov, Fyodor Dostoevsky | Don't You Wonder Sometimes?, Tracy K. Smith | Quote via. Roland Barthes | The Bug Collector, Haley Heynderickx | The Cottar's Pride - a Cottage Garden, Henry Sutton Palmer | Bitter Herb, Erica Jong | 1884, George Orwell
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To try to write love is to confront the muck of language; that region of hysteria where language is both too much and too little, excessive (by the limitless expansion of the ego, by emotive submersion) and impoverished (by the codes on which love diminishes and levels it).
Roland Barthes, A Lover's Discourse
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In an alternative universe, i can imagine another version of myself
one in a stable relationship happy in the arms of a lover.
Toned down paranoia, and Indulgent pleasure.
I worry that that version of me is delusional
in love, but alone in it that I’ll somehow miss the signs of an emotionally absent partner the way I missed my father…
And yet, I’ll come up with excuses because I never felt comfortable with pointing my finger
that I’ll overcompensate.. Nest in the apex of their heart and believe that there’s no way higher
that the hierarchy is nothing but guilt inducing anger.
It's easy to love me;
i grew up in a household where it's acceptable to sacrifice your own soul in exchange of feeling like your existence is convenient.
As years went by, I learned to love that feeling eventually more than life itself..
i lost a lot of myself watching my mother hand feed me all that she is, all that she wanted to be, then sneak bites of who she was before she had me..
now, i think i can be whoever a lover needs me to be.
Then when they’re not around I’ll let my pieces fall down and hope that somehow they’ll align…
this terrifies me...
I don't want to settle and passive smoke my own life, set in the corner and inhale the damage even when it isn't mine.
I love love, I just don’t think it’s for me...
In a lecture about addiction, our doctor said
“The neurobiology of love is the same as neurobiology of addiction"
To me, that makes sense for i lose all my edges whenever I'm submerged in a wave of it.
My ends melt trying desperately to reach out even when i don't really know how to direct them to anyone other than myself
Paint them orbits to circle around me and feed them rays of hope
"our paranoia won't last forever"
At least that's what I whisper as i try to keep them close enough, not too much;
I don't want eternity
“I only wanna die someday”
I wrap them around me every night until i suffocate in an embrace trying to comfort all the atoms of love that are lost in me...
I’ll come to an end; and you'll be free.
•••
•Quotes: Roland Barthes/ Angelea Lowes/ Anaïs Nin/Mahmoud Darwish/Mary Oliver/ Ottessa Moshfegh/Elaine Kahn/ Natalie Wee/Carole Maso/Tracy K. Smith/Halsey/chelsea g. summers/ Anne Sexton.
•Original context: sinligh
•Art reference:
1. Art by Lisa Lach-Nielsen. 2.Quoted, 2008, oil on linen by Jen Mazza. 3. Choke, 2008, oil on linen by Jen Mazza. 4. Ceruse 87, 2008, oil on linen by Jen Mazza. 5. A girl with pomegranate (detail) by William-Adolphe Bouguereau. 6. An Interior with a woman seated by Lampligt by Christian Valdemar Clause Danish. 7. Photo by Soul Eom. 8. "two people" by Mila Plaickner. 9.Art by Lisa Lach-Nielsen
P.s: writing this felt like:
“It's me, hi, I'm the problem, it's me”
Song rec:
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To know that one does not write for the other, to know that these things I am going to write will never cause me to be loved by the one I love (the other), to know that writing compensates for nothing, sublimates nothing, that it is precisely there where you are not—this is the beginning of writing.
Roland Barthes, A Lover's Discourse: Fragments (translated by Richard Howard)
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Most often I am in the very darkness of my desire […]
Roland Barthes, from ‘A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments’, tr. Richard Howard
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