emilypaints-blog

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….There is a fundamental reason why we look at the sky with wonder and longing — for the same reason that we stand, hour after hour, gazing at the distant swell of the open ocean. There is something like an ancient wisdom, encoded and tucked away in our DNA, that knows its point of origin as surely as a salmon knows its creek. Intellectually, we may not want to return there, but the genes know, and long for their origins—their home in the salty depths. But if the seas are our immediate source, the penultimate source is certainly the heavens… The spectacular truth is—and this is something that your DNA has known all along—the very atoms of your body—the iron, calcium, phosphorus, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, and on and on—were initially forged in long-dead stars. This is why, when you stand outside under a moonless, country sky, you feel some ineffable tugging at your innards. We are star stuff. Keep looking up.

Jerry Waxman (via thequotejournals)

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We wander aimlessly, pretending we can get along without the lush creative life or else by faking one; but we cannot, we must not. To bring back creative life, the waters have to be made clean and clear again. We have to wade into the sludge, purify the contaminants, reopen the apertures, protect the flow from future harm.

Clarissa Pinkola Estes (via my-journal-planner)

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For everyone a moment comes in which he or she must utter this ‘I can,’ which does not refer to any certainty or specific capacity but is, nevertheless, absolutely demanding. Beyond all faculties, this ‘I can’ does not mean anything–yet it marks what is, for each of us, perhaps the hardest and bitterest experience possible: the experience of potentiality.

Giorgio Agamben, ‘On Potentiality’  (via spiritandteeth)

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there’s a part of me that’s always blue

Jerrod La Rue

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But the thought of moving on from something I never had is depressing.

Susane Colasanti, When It Happens (via thelovejournals)

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You silly little girl, you think you’ve survived so long survival shouldn’t hurt anymore. You keep trying to turn your body bulletproof. You keep trying to turn your heart bomb shelter. Stop, darling. You are soft and alive. You bruise and heal. Cherish it. It is what you were born to do. It will not be beautiful, but the truth never is. Come now, you promised yourself. You promised you’d live through this.

Clementine von Radics, “There is the Worst and Then There is More,” Mouthful of Forevers (via wnq-anonymous)

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“I will love you when you are a still day. I will love you when you are a hurricane.”

Clementine von Radics (via pureblyss)

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You are riding the bus again burrowing into the blackness of Interstate 80, the sole passenger with an overhead light on. And I am with you. I’m the interminable fields you can’t see, the little lights off in the distance (in one of those rooms we are living) and I am the rain and the others all around you, and the loneliness you love, and the universe that loves you specifically, maybe, and the catastrophic dawn, the nicotine crawling on your skin— and when you begin to cough I won’t cover my face, and if you vomit this time I will hold you: everything’s going to be fine I will whisper. It won’t always be like this. I am going to buy you a sandwich.

Franz Wright, “To Myself” (via ofquietness)

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“Almost every woman I have ever met has a secret belief that she is just on the edge of madness, that there is some deep, crazy part within her, that she must be on guard constantly against ‘losing control’ — of her temper, of her appetite, of her sexuality, of her feelings, of her ambition, of her secret fantasies, of her mind.

Elana Dykewomon, “Notes for a Magazine,” Sinister Wisdom #36 (Winter 1988/89).  (via h-o-r-n-g-r-y)

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Feeling unsure and lost is part of your path. Don’t avoid it. See what those feelings are showing you and use it. Take a breath. You’ll be okay. Even if you don’t feel okay all the time.

Louis C.K. (via psych-facts)

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Sometimes life is a balance between holding on and letting go

Unknown (via life-with-bpd-things)

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For women who are tied to the moon, love alone is not enough. We insist each day wrap it’s knuckles through our heart strings and pull. The lows. The joy. The poetry. We dance at the edge of a cliff, you have fallen off. So it goes. You will climb up again. You rare girl, once again, you have a body that belongs to no lover, to no father, belongs to no one but you. Wear your sorrow like the lines on your palm. Like a shawl to keep you warm at night. Don’t mourn the love that is lost to you now. It is a book of poems whose meters worked their way into your pulse. Even if it has slipped from your hands, it will stay in your body. You loved a man who treated you like absinthe, half poison and half god. He tried to sweeten you, to water you down. So you left. And now you have your heart all to yourself again. A heart like a stone cottage. Heart like a lover’s diary. Hope like an ocean.

Letter From Anais Nin to Clementine von Radics (After Marty McConnel)

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Paper oceans 🌊

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☪

©Penabranca