I’ve no ambitions or desires. Being a poet isn’t my ambition. It’s my way of...– Fernando Pessoa writing as Alberto Caeiro (via ahuntersheart)
He who loves and he whose desires are satisfied are not the same man.– Marcel Proust (via fuckyeahproust)
Don’t worry you’ll die many times until you learn at the very end to love life– Anna Kamienska (via awritersruminations)
Read a fucking book– Plato
Then consciousness strikes with a violent force, damning me to this nightmarish prison that is space and time.
Perhaps my task as a poet is to describe the landscape of loneliness.– Anna Kamienska (via awritersruminations)
I claw this crevice deep within To find the words to say But they aren’t there and I grow mute And so you fade away I long to bathe you with these words With wonders never said Yet you are deaf to all my tears And all my words, now dead Still sitting here, devoid, agape Still chasing this abyss Still longing for what will not be: A smile, a hug, a kiss
So what if I am? I am what I am
What is a poet? An unhappy person who conceals profound anguish in his heart but...– Søren Kierkegaard (via human-voices)
Those stuck on horizontal time are doomed to the misery and horrors of three dimensions. However, upon ascending to Kairos, every moment becomes eternal, and eternity itself vanishes into an infinitesimal abyss.
Nothing in the real world is as beautiful as the illusions of a person about to...– Haruki Murakami (via ahuntersheart)
And then matter became a catalyst, bypassing the horror and misery of modernization; matter became a catalyst into a phenomenological consciousness, overcoming death and and destruction, free of that mundane decay into non existence. Everything mattered, everything had a story, everything had a soul. Nothing was wasted. Nothing was irrelevant.
An unloved person doesn’t die. He withers like an unused hand.– Anna Kamienska (via proustitute)
The numbers just keep going higher But she just keeps getting farther away
That sub temporal blow Whose pain is only felt in memory Makes me vomit
This isn’t Azeroth! Where the hell am I?!
Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.– Carl Sandburg (via proustitute)
I was born and I died I don’t remember anything else a green river perhaps a...– Anna Kamienska (via proustitute)
You ought to set aside three hours every morning in which you write or do...– Flannery O’Connor (via writingadvice)
What the hell. My phone is still an hour behind actual time.
After all these years Your voice still echoes in the dark Through these valleys of time Your song still cries in the night Across these vast wastelands Your dirge still rings aloud And though you are long gone Your melody, still, takes flight So I will sing a song for you A hymn to keep you company In your cold abyss I have not forgotten, friend And in the end Our hymns will weep ...
To be modern is to tear the soul out of every thing.– Yōhji Yamamoto, My Dear Bomb (via ratak-monodosico)
I am a glass human. I am a glass human disappearing in rain. I am standing among...– David Wojnarowicz (via timeimmemorial, ahuntersheart) (via proustitute)
Why do people always expect authors to answer questions? I am an author because...– Eugène Ionesco (via proustitute)
Yeah, so my laptop won’t turn on. Virus maybe, or might have finally given in to the years of abuse. So here I sit in the Oakes Computer Lab, completely alone on a Friday night with nothing to do. But hey, writing is always fun. So I figure I’ll go grab a bite to eat, come back here for a few hours and let the creative juices flow. Good times.
I take a few steps and stop. I savor the total oblivion into which I have...– Jean-Paul Sartre (via ratak-monodosico) (via mianoti, youarebonbon) (via proustitute)
You darkness, that I come from, I love you more than all the fires that fence in...– Rainer Maria Rilke (via rdenker)
Being with you and not being with you is the only way I have to measure time.– Jorge Luis Borges (via ahuntersheart; hazeltons; ish07)
When I pronounce the word Future, the first syllable already belongs to the...– Wislawa Szymborska, “The Three Oddest Words,” translated by S. Baranczak and C. Cavanagh (via proustitute)
In the middle of the journey of our life, I came to myself in a dark wood, for...– Dante
A crash On the horizon of time I see it Nearing I feel it A numb noise strikes A pain ahead of its time Abject and invisible Solid nether Silent matter Sub real I know it approaches I know it will happen I know it will take me
My quest for the thesis continues
I’m close to the answer…but what is the question?
Every word you add dilutes the sentence.– Miller Williams (via aperfectcommotion)
A Rose Neath the Thorn
Thus I have to go soon Alas, far too soon From dusk to September From dawn until June And then in November I’ll hold her sweet hands And we will just leave here Towards Pagan lands Beneath dancing snowflakes In breezes quite warm My love to disaster The eye has no storm And there I shall find it An ember unborn A peace from the shadows A Rose neath the thorn
I want to whisper my soul in your ears I want you to shed every one of my tears
gotta write 8 pages by tuesday SHIIIIIIITTTTT