“I am the most tired woman in the world. I am tired when I get up. Life requires an effort I cannot make. Please give me that heavy book. I need to put something heavy like that on top of my head. I have to place my feet under the pillows always, so as to be able to stay on earth. Otherwise I feel myself going away, going away at a tremendous speed, on account of my lightness. I know that I am dead. As soon as I utter a phrase my sincerity dies, becomes a lie whose coldness chills me. Don’t say anything, because I see that you understand me, and I am afraid of your understanding. I have such a fear of finding another like myself, and such a desire to find one! I am so utterly lonely, but I also have such a fear that my isolation be broken through, and I no longer be the head and ruler of my universe. I am in great terror of your understanding by which you penetrate into my world; and then I stand revealed and I have to share my kingdom with you.”—
“Natalie Portman popped headphones onto Zach Braff’s head and said flatly, “This song will change your life.” The resulting sound was not only that of carefully composed dullness (thank you, Shins), but of a million wealthy white kids investing in dull acoustic music to soundtrack their own romantic melodrama. Youth culture is now practically sponsored by iTunes and Starbucks, and if that’s not a class statement, I don’t know what is.”—How the Zach Braff Prototype Is Slowly Killing American Music PopMatters (via somethingchanged)
“You would love the way he sees you. He uses you as a weapon against himself and not merely because you did. He sits in his car at traffic lights on his way out sometimes and tries to estimate how many times he has sat here, waiting at these traffic lights on his way somewhere without you, hoping to meet someone with the capacity to consign you to an anecdote, to be eventually confused with others.”—Seven Types of Ambiguity - Elliot Perlman (via carousel)
It’s a golden prison. The light on my hair cries for memory, for anything to weigh it down. All this time I’ve been hanging, the secret tides of my body staying high. I remember I am childless. I would have given it a hunter’s name, Orion, because that’s where we end, up here, in these wisps. We didn’t do right by the Earth. It kept giving us pictures, big frantic snow, midnight fires in the willows. We should have walked somewhere like Jesus, sowing equilibrium, slow to consume. We should have fought to know him, to trap and spawn his grace. But maybe we’d already met, and he saw, and this is the scar of that encounter.
“What do you call ‘violent,’ you blabbermouth? Yeah, I’ve got violence in me, but no negative violence. My violence is the violence of the free man who refuses to knuckle under. Creation is violent. Life is violent. Birth is a violent process. Tempests and earthquakes are violent movements of nature. My violence is the violence of life.”—
When I could not get with child I swallowed the egg of the meadowlark who eats the daylight, the mother of untangled grasses. A long drop, the egg bore its root in my foot, it stitched me together with grain.
I am patient now; I am not damaged by waiting. Languid as a coming rain, stalks inch alongside my veins to the tips of my fingers.
A grassland has thirst, so does a fire, a cup, noon, the color of dough, so while I sleep the moon creeps between my poised teeth to flood me with moonwater. When I speak, the scent of lengthening wheat overwhelms me. Shoots rise straight up and don’t droop as tears, don’t fail like questions; they get on with growing.
I hold a handkerchief over my mouth to veil the clover and bees that tickle my throat, but the angel who’s due at my tent won’t catch me laughing.
A kiss would do it. One sprinkle of milkwhite salt and I’ll break like bread at your table.