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[ajwhoelse]

green, green is my sister’s house | Mary Oliver

[ajwhoelse]

Ursula K. Le Guin, from The Left Hand of Darkness

[ajwhoelse]

@saanya27

“the best parts of me are present currently and are also yet to come. i exist as a work in progress and a work of art simultaneously.”

— iambrillyant

[ajwhoelse]

bottom left photo is by yours truly :))

Dard peekē jeetē thē, Zehēr peekē martē thē

Shikwa bhi kya kartē

Hum kāhaan kē sacchē thē

- OST Hum kahaan ke sacche thē

Azaab si zindagi thi ye meri. Na nafrat, na mohabbat. Kisi khuda parast jinn ki tarah duniya ke nashe ghumti rahi aur pata tak nahi chala. Maine tumharein khwaab saare ginn ginn ke apne zehen me rakhe huye hai, ab wahi meri duniya hai. Tumhari soorat dekhne ke liye ab akhbaron ka sahara lena parta hai. Tum kyu aise chale gaye? Tumne, jisne poori zindagi ka vaada kiya tha mujhse uss itvaar ko, mera saath aise chod diya jaise ki main tumhari zindagi ke panno me likhi hi nahi gayi thi. Dilli ki shaam, chowk ki chai aur uss haveli ki humari mohabbat ke saare kisse tum bas mere damand me chor kar chal diye. Kyun? Kyun tumne mur ke nahi dekha? Main to ab bhi yahi hu. Kya tum aaoge? Kya kaha tha uss ghazal me? Haa, ranjish hi sahi, dil dukhane ke liye aao. Aa jao na ek baar. Wo har jhoothi baatein jo ab meri saut ne sunayi hogi, wo sab nakaar ke ek baar, bas ek baar mere paas aa jao. Talabdar ko iss maikhane me akela chor kar na jao. Meri mohabbat ki khaatir bas ek baar.

[ajwhoelse]

Margarita Karapanou, tr. by Karen Emmerich, Rien ne va plus

[ajwhoelse]

“When I first met her, I knew in a moment I would have to spend the next few days re-arranging my mind so there’d be room for her to stay.”

— Unknown

[ajwhoelse]

Where do you read your PDFs/epubs?

On the moon

[ajwhoelse]

“I do not want to be alone like this. Why have you not come back to haunt me? It is the least I would have expected of you. Why this silence day after day, night after interminable night? It is like a fog, this silence of yours. First it was a blur on the horizon, the next minute we were in the midst of it, purblind and stumbling, clinging to each other…Send back your ghost. Torment me, if you like. Rattle your chains, drag your cerements across the floor, keen like a banshee, anything. I would have a ghost.”

— John Banville, The Sea

[ajwhoelse]

“Why do I write. Perhaps in order not to go mad. Or, on the contrary, to touch the bottom of madness.”

— Elie Wiesel

[ajwhoelse]

“It’s both a blessing and a curse to feel everything so very deeply.”

— David Jones (via perfectfeelings)

[ajwhoelse]

“I love that word. Forever. I love that forever doesn’t exist, but we have a word for it anyway, and use it all the time. It’s beautiful and doomed.”

— Viv Albertine

[ajwhoelse]

“… if I didn’t define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people’s fantasies for me and eaten alive.”

— Audre Lorde, from “Learning from the 60s,” address delivered as part of the celebration of the Malcolm X weekend at Harvard University in February 1982

[ajwhoelse]

“There are times when my longing for you overwhelms me […] so often I can think of you only with teeth clenched.”

- Franz Kafka, from Letters to Felice

[ajwhoelse]

“Most of what I read about raw grief and lamentation is fragmentary. It’s chaotic, not artistic. Often the writer doesn’t have the strength to use capital letters after periods. Often the writer doesn’t have the strength to complete the fragment. It can’t be completed. The writing stays open and pours this inability out through everything that can’t be expressed. A hole in which death vibrates. It’s not possible to write artistically about raw grief. No form fits. To write about actual nothingness, the absence of life. How? To write about the silent unknown that we are all going to meet, how? If you want to avoid sentimentality, the pain stops the sentence mid-sentence. Words sit inadequate and silly on the lines, the lines stop abruptly on their own. The language that’s always followed me and been my life, can’t do anything. The language gasps, falls to the ground, flat and useless. Language’s mourning clothes are ugly and stinky. To comprehend the incomprehensible is not linguistic. This recognition is a wounded animal, the living wounded flesh that does not understand why it fell and can’t get up, and it’s a distant hollow whistling in a deep darkness, which you can’t decode.”

— When Death Takes Something from You Give It Back, Naja Marie Aidt tr. Denise Newman

[ajwhoelse]

“The trees are about to show us how lovely it is to let the dead things go.”

— Unknown (via perfeqt)

[ajwhoelse]

“You can never articulate to others what you feel in your bones because you rarely understand it yourself.”

— Connor Franta (via resqectable)

[ajwhoelse]

“Can we love nature for what it really is: predatory?”

— Richard Siken, from Landscape With Fruit Rot and Millipede