dyingelectron

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“I found myself jealous of the people who wrote the books. They were dead and they were still taking up my time. Who did they think they were?”

— Ned Vizzini, It’s Kind of a Funny Story

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i love when tragedies are like “the love was there. it didnt change anything. it didnt save anyone. there were just too many forces against it. but it still matters that the love was there”

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we literally live in a dystopian world where sleepy girls are forced to work

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some art posters I'd put up in my dream home

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inevitabilities

it will get messy (your life) it will break (your heart)

but

oh, the joy of all you learn and the power you gain when you figure out how to clean it up and make your & again & again

heart whole

again

& again

& again & again.

Cleo Wade, Where To Begin

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okay you know that scan/photo of a teen girl’s diary entry that goes like “wore yellow dress today. chris keeps trying to talk to me even though he KNOWS i’m not interested! ugh! man landed on moon.” anyway that’s the mood

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When Edgar Allan Poe said : “tell me every terrible thing you ever did, and let me love you anyway” and when Hozier said “I wouldn’t fall for someone I thought couldn’t misbehave.”

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“No greater desire exists than a wounded person’s need for another wound.”

— Georges Bataille, ‘Ecstasy’, from Guilty, tr. Bruce Boone

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“When Van Gogh was a young man in his early twenties, he was in London studying to be a clergyman. He had no thought of being an artist at all. he sat in his cheap little room writing a letter to his younger brother in Holland, whom he loved very much. He looked out his window at a watery twilight, a thin lamppost, a star, and he said in his letter something like this: “it is so beautiful I must show you how it looks.” And then on his cheap ruled note paper, he made the most beautiful, tender, little drawing of it. When I read this letter of Van Gogh’s it comforted me very much and seemed to throw a clear light on the whole road of Art. Before, I thought that to produce a work of painting or literature, you scowled and thought long and ponderously and weighed everything solemnly and learned everything that all artists had ever done aforetime, and what their influences and schools were, and you were extremely careful about *design* and *balance* and getting *interesting planes* into your painting, and avoided, with the most astringent severity, showing the faintest *academical* tendency, and were strictly modern. And so on and so on. But the moment I read Van Gogh’s letter I knew what art was, and the creative impulse. It is a feeling of love and enthusiasm for something, and in a direct, simple, passionate and true way, you try to show this beauty in things to others, by drawing it. And Van Gogh’s little drawing on the cheap note paper was a work of art because he loved the sky and the frail lamppost against it so seriously that he made the drawing with the most exquisite conscientiousness and care.”

— Brenda Ueland, from “If You Want to Write: A Book about Art, Independence and Spirit”

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Ocean Vuong, In an Interview by Krista Tippett

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"𝐼 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑡 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 were 𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑦 𝑓𝑜𝑟"

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"𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑎𝑖𝑑 𝐼 𝑘𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 -- ℎ𝑎𝑢𝑛𝑡 𝑚𝑒, 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑛! 𝐵𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 --𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑚-- 𝐷𝑟𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑚𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑑! 𝑂𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑑𝑜 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑚𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑏𝑦𝑠𝑠, 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢".

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"𝑇𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑛 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑐ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑜𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛"

-𝐷𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑠 𝐿𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝐺𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑒𝑛 𝑁𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑏𝑜𝑜𝑘.

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In the darkness, two shadows reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Their hands meet and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urn pouring out of the sun.

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Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.

-Sylvia Plath (the unbridged journals)

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ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ sᴘᴇᴀᴋs ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇs ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴏsᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀsᴛᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴇʟᴀɴᴄʜᴏʟʏ ғʟᴜᴇɴᴛʟʏ.

-s.ᴀ. ǫᴜɪɴᴏx

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"Just because we didn’t end up on the same wave, doesn’t mean we aren’t still a part of the same ocean."

- Colleen Hoover, It Ends with Us