But good God
what's wrong with me,
after all? What am I missing?
Why this emptiness,
this nostalgia?
What is this anxiety as if I only loved something I didn't know?
— Clarice Lispector | a letter to Fernando Sabino
what's wrong with me,
after all? What am I missing?
Why this emptiness,
this nostalgia?
What is this anxiety as if I only loved something I didn't know?
— Clarice Lispector | a letter to Fernando Sabino
❤1
"It's dark because you are trying too hard. Lightly child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly. Yes, feel lightly even though you're feeling deeply. Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them. I was so preposterously serious in those days...Lightly, lightly, it's the best advice ever given me...to throw away your baggage and go forward. There are quicksands all about you, sucking at your feet, trying to suck you down into fear and self-pity and despair. That's why you must walk so lightly. Lightly my darling..."
— Aldous Huxley | Island
— Aldous Huxley | Island
👍2
Forwarded from Sincerely yours
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I had a dream where you missed me terribly. I was on a boat in another country, maybe I was in a train or car... I don't remember, but I remember how it moved with the agonizing slowness of a dying clock. The rain, a ceaseless, cold drizzle, clung to the windowpane, blurring the world into a watery smear. My fingers, stiff and unresponsive, ached with a numbness that echoed the hollowness within. Your name was spoken with an infuriating nonchalance, a careless flick of the tongue that should have shattered my bones. Yet, a smile, brittle, weak, and thin as ice, stretched across my lips. A performance designed to conceal the raw, pulsating wound that burrowed beneath my skin.
It was a lie, this smile. A grotesque mask concealing the truth: that my heart was being ripped apart by your unwelcomed yearning. I pulled this smile as if each muscle and sinew were torn asunder. Like my spine, a scaffold of despair, wasn't bound with the heavy chains of an unspeakable sorrow. Like a sharp and unforgiving blade wasn't grated against my ribs.
And then, I was back. Back in the confines of your vehicle, a cage of memory I wish would be devoured by time. Windows down, hands on my thigh, and oh, the promises, so many promises that were launched. The music, the very music I had so desperately wanted you to understand, became tangled with your laughter that I had once found so endearing. Now it mocked my own pathetic hope, it rings with a cruel irony, but I swear you would have loved them if you ever gave them a chance. If you gave us a chance. A word as flimsy and ephemeral as smoke. A chance, a possibility, a flicker of light extinguished by the sheer weight of your indifference.
Helpless, no. That word was too weak, too tame to describe the vast chasm into which I had been cast. It was a falling, an endless plummet into the abyss of your rejection. I was left, adrift, adrift in a sea of unanswered calls, of unacknowledged existence. I, a discarded thing, was tossed into the unforgiving cold of a vast, indifferent ocean. I tried to breathe, to fill my lungs with the familiar air, but the water, a monstrous, suffocating weight, poured into me. Your scent clung to my very being, was washed away, but it did not vanish, did it? It festered, a constant, malignant presence in my soul. So, in a desperate act of self-immolation, I turned to the flames. I set my skin alight with a desperate, futile hope that I would not see your reflection wherever I turn toward the mirror, a constant, painful echo of what had been lost.
I had a dream, but I was out of the endless ocean. I was in a bookstore wearing the black scarf you gifted me on the thirteenth of October. And in that dream, I meet a man. He was everything I was meant to want, his eyes as gentle as a summer rain, his hands capable of lifting me from the floor of my despair, his very essence an echo of home. Yet, even in this fabricated paradise, a void remained. This ideal being, this creation of my deepest desires, could not fill the gaping wound. I wanted you. The unshakeable, illogical, and ultimately self-destructive want for the architect of my own desolation. A labyrinth of desire, a prison of the self where the only escape is found in the continuation of the pain. I wanted the garden that is filled with dying flowers, I wanted the empty jar of love you left on the highest shelf, I wanted the late replies and all the dumb excuses, I wanted the scent of ashes on me again.
I had a dream, but you were not there. Why?
-polkadot
It was a lie, this smile. A grotesque mask concealing the truth: that my heart was being ripped apart by your unwelcomed yearning. I pulled this smile as if each muscle and sinew were torn asunder. Like my spine, a scaffold of despair, wasn't bound with the heavy chains of an unspeakable sorrow. Like a sharp and unforgiving blade wasn't grated against my ribs.
And then, I was back. Back in the confines of your vehicle, a cage of memory I wish would be devoured by time. Windows down, hands on my thigh, and oh, the promises, so many promises that were launched. The music, the very music I had so desperately wanted you to understand, became tangled with your laughter that I had once found so endearing. Now it mocked my own pathetic hope, it rings with a cruel irony, but I swear you would have loved them if you ever gave them a chance. If you gave us a chance. A word as flimsy and ephemeral as smoke. A chance, a possibility, a flicker of light extinguished by the sheer weight of your indifference.
Helpless, no. That word was too weak, too tame to describe the vast chasm into which I had been cast. It was a falling, an endless plummet into the abyss of your rejection. I was left, adrift, adrift in a sea of unanswered calls, of unacknowledged existence. I, a discarded thing, was tossed into the unforgiving cold of a vast, indifferent ocean. I tried to breathe, to fill my lungs with the familiar air, but the water, a monstrous, suffocating weight, poured into me. Your scent clung to my very being, was washed away, but it did not vanish, did it? It festered, a constant, malignant presence in my soul. So, in a desperate act of self-immolation, I turned to the flames. I set my skin alight with a desperate, futile hope that I would not see your reflection wherever I turn toward the mirror, a constant, painful echo of what had been lost.
I had a dream, but I was out of the endless ocean. I was in a bookstore wearing the black scarf you gifted me on the thirteenth of October. And in that dream, I meet a man. He was everything I was meant to want, his eyes as gentle as a summer rain, his hands capable of lifting me from the floor of my despair, his very essence an echo of home. Yet, even in this fabricated paradise, a void remained. This ideal being, this creation of my deepest desires, could not fill the gaping wound. I wanted you. The unshakeable, illogical, and ultimately self-destructive want for the architect of my own desolation. A labyrinth of desire, a prison of the self where the only escape is found in the continuation of the pain. I wanted the garden that is filled with dying flowers, I wanted the empty jar of love you left on the highest shelf, I wanted the late replies and all the dumb excuses, I wanted the scent of ashes on me again.
I had a dream, but you were not there. Why?
-polkadot
❤3