where guilt is alive.

When you are living in a house where guilt is alive, it leaves a mark.

And when you are living in an atmosphere of daily, ever-present guilt, what does that do to children? It changes their souls.

Molly Shannon

like morning.

i think a lot about your eyes
…and how painful it is to be
in a room full of people with such
empty pockets and words that are
so heavy i cannot lift them from
the fog.

you are the greatest secret
if i could i would hold you between
my hands like morning.

Alison Malee

the unbearable.

“Our day-to-day life is bombarded with fortuities or, to be more precise, with the accidental meetings of people and events we call coincidences. “Co-incidence” means that two events unexpectedly happen at the same time, they meet: Tomas appears in the hotel restaurant at the same time the radio is playing Beethoven. We do not even notice the great majority of such coincidences. If the seat Tomas occupied had been occupied instead by the local butcher, Tereza never would have noticed that the radio was playing Beethoven… But her nascent love inflamed her sense of beauty, and she would never forget that music. Whenever she heard it, she would be touched. Everything going on around her at that moment would be haloed by the music and take on its beauty.

…Anna meets Vronsky in curious circumstances: they are at the railway station when someone is run over by a train. At the end of the novel, Anna throws herself under a train. This symmetrical composition—the same motif appears at the beginning and at the end—may seem quite “novelistic” to you, and I am willing to agree, but only on condition that you refrain from reading such notions as “fictive,” “fabricated,” and “untrue to life” into the word “novelistic.” Because human lives are composed in precisely such a fashion.

They are composed like music. Guided by his sense of beauty, an individual transforms a fortuitous occurrence (Beethoven’s music, death under a train) into a motif, which then assumes a permanent place in the composition of the individual’s life. Anna could have chosen another way to take her life. But the motif of death and the railway station, unforgettably bound to the birth of love, enticed her in her hour of despair with its dark beauty. Without realizing it, the individual composes his life according to the laws of beauty even in times of greatest distress.

It is wrong, then, to chide the novel for being fascinated by mysterious coincidences… but it is right to chide man for being blind to such coincidences in his daily life. For he thereby deprives his life of a dimension of beauty.”

Milan Kundera

before i know how to say it.

Madisen Kuhn

the light.

Jeanette Winterson

neither.

… the overwhelming majority disliked [“childless” and “childfree”], with one being seen as stigmatising and the other gleeful and nasty in its implication that parents somehow need “liberating”.

… that’s one reason why – when absolutely necessarily – “doesn’t have children” is the kindest, most neutral descriptor we can hope for. Though we can also hope to be moving away from one’s parenting status needing to be defined at all, especially for women, who still face this question far more frequently than men. Language matters, and as ever it often says more about us and our assumptions than we realise.

read more here.

so much.

you have no idea how much.

lighthouse.

a flicker in your eyes that tells everyone in the room that i am more than just.

those blues you sang.

from here.

someday. (4)

keep going when you’re on a high…

In My Dreams, I am You

claude lazar

When I look into your eyes, I realise I came from a long journey across time, before yours nor mine. I knew this from recurring dreams. They’re so vivid that when I wake up, my arms my feet my body’s broken, sore and tired. These dreams are more than just a realm in my subconscious, they’re real.

In my dreams, I have your eyes, your smile, and everything’s new under the sun. In my dreams I am lost looking for something, anything feels like a mother. In my dreams, I too am abandoned, unwanted. In my dreams, I am you.

When I Look Into Your Eyes, When I My Own Daughter

Morning Song

Morning Song

skin to skin I could feel us

-the liquid beneath our feet,

trampling into endless vacuum,

bleak and emptied I barely

recognise your bald cry, a far sea

distant and I am no more

your mother–

 

you have arrived into

a morning song

 

“It’s Him”, IV, Letters to Sylvia

Stories of A Little Girl Named Lara

athlete-balance-ballerina-591679.jpg

i’ve been carving memories on dry walls

four seasons of loneliness and you came bearing your own

stories of a little girl named Lara

 

her face her smile her every breath you inhale her

a picture perfect deep into your soul

she exists to you in ways that I could not

she has a smile that’s similar to mine, you said

her hair is golden like the sun,

 

this little ballerina and her pink tutu

and when she cries you cup her tears in your palms letting

them soak into the lines of your hands that once

a fortune teller told you, you wouldn’t make it to forty,

 

that you would be entangled in a story like none other

she said I would write them for you so daddy’s little girl

could forever lives in rhymes…

in bedtime stories and lullabies…

 

“daddy’s little girl, paints the world with her magic wand…”

 

from Letters to Lovers Lost

currently progressing, Lara