We have to loose ourself in something to survive. In god. In poetry or music or love. These things make it bearable and when your drowning in the reality of the masks it’s unbearable. The essence of this existence has no answer and if we don’t coat it with something, a veil to hide the void you turn into Kimberly whose just loosing her mind because she’s too aware of it all. That it’s all temporary and fleeting. Nothing lasts or means anything. Change is the only constant. Ungraspable change. Even this will pass. I’ll feel differently when I find a new coating. I’ll feel differently if I focus on something else that temporarily removes this sensation of recognition. This won’t matter in the morning. The menial tasks will be my sheet, and I’ll exist as a vessel for a ghost that can function better and meander through existence without the hyper awareness, without the hope. The naive hope and hope and hope.

"What I want
a place
out of mind."

Sylvia Plath, The Eye-Mote (via loveage-moondream)

(Source: whyallcaps.us, via loveage-moondream)


What if love is made and nothing else?
asked Narcissus, leaning over the green iris of water.

Nothing else,
cried Echo from the green cochlea of the woods.

And they were both right.
And they were both lonely.


Kapka Kassabova, “And they were both right” (via rabbitinthemoon)

(via lifeinpoetry)

"The simple, absolute, and immutable mysteries of Divine Truth are hidden in the superluminous darkness."

Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite (via a-mon-seul-desir)

(via journalofanobody)

"Bless you as often

as the hours have
been endless to me
while you were gone"

Sappho, Fragments of Poetry (46)

(Source: camilla-macauley, via journalofanobody)

"Let me tell you about longing.
Let me presume that I have something
new to say about it, that this room,
naked, its walls pining for clocks,
has something new to say
about absence. Somewhere
the crunch of an apple, fading
sunflowers on a quilt, a window
looking out to a landscape
with a single tree. And you
sitting under it. Let go,
said you to me in a dream,
but by the time the wind
carried your voice to me,
I was already walking through
the yawning door, towards
the small, necessary sadnesses
of waking. I wish
I could hold you now,
but that is a line that has
no place in a poem, like the swollen
sheen of the moon tonight,
or the word absence, or you,
or longing. Let me tell you about
longing. In a distant country
two lovers are on a bench, and pigeons,
unafraid, are perching beside them.
She places a hand on his knee
and says, say to me
the truest thing you can.
I am closing my eyes now.
You are far away."

"On the Necessity of Sadness," Mikael de Lara Co  (via commovente)

(via journalofanobody)