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absolutely fantastic

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Charles Bukowski, "hurry slowly," from Come On In!

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I wasn’t raised in this industry thinking this is the most important thing in my life. The most important thing in my life is to feel like if I leave this Earth tomorrow, I want to know I contributed something positive.

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Jennette McCurdy, I'm Glad My Mom Died

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people want doing the right thing to be like pulling the correct lever at the correct time but actually usually doing the right thing is more like holding a moderate weight at arm's length continuously for seventeen years

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doctor who art dump

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You feel unwanted for so long, it just fucks you up entirely.

Sigh

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Just make it a good one, eh?

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““Personally, I’m a mess of conflicting impulses—I’m independent and greedy and I also want to belong and share and be a part of the whole. I doubt that I’m the only one who feels this way. It’s the core of monster making, actually. Wanna make a monster? Take the parts of yourself that make you uncomfortable—your weaknesses, bad thoughts, vanities, and hungers—and pretend they’re across the room. It’s too ugly to be human. It’s too ugly to be you. Children are afraid of the dark because they have nothing real to work with. Adults are afraid of themselves. Oh we’re a mess, poor humans, poor flesh—hybrids of angels and animals, dolls with diamonds stuffed inside them. We’ve been to the moon and we’re still fighting over Jerusalem. Let me tell you what I do know: I am more than one thing, and not all of those things are good. The truth is complicated. It’s two-toned, multi-vocal, bittersweet. I used to think that if I dug deep enough to discover something sad and ugly, I’d know it was something true. Now I’m trying to dig deeper.””

— Richard Siken

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Marie Antoinette, 2006

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can’t believe there are really people out there like “i will block you if you spam likes” can you IMAGINE not knowing love? if you spam like MY blog, we’re instantly best friends. we’re old buddies. we’re childhood companions. we’ve known each other for 20 years. we’re inseparable 

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“I am not composing poetry. I am trying to get out of the flames.”

— Ted Hughes, from an uncompleted poem dated May 1969, featured in Letters of Ted Hughes

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Richard Siken Scheherazade

I’ve been using poems and songs as exercises to experiment with visual poetry techniques. This is one of my favorite poems. Do you have any poems you would recommend I try out?

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“So the rain will come regal and nomadic because our sobs share the same borders because our arms like madmen close on nothing.”

— Nadia Tueni, from ‘The rain arrayed like death’ (trans. Elaine Gardiner), Women of the Fertile Crescent: An Anthology of Modern Poetry by Arab Women (ed. Kamal Boullata)

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This is long overdue but congratulations @missismess for Everything Lost reaching 100 kudos!!!!

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“You may have noticed that the books you really love are bound together by a secret thread. You know very well what is the common quality that makes you love them, though you cannot put it into words: but most of your friends do not see it at all, and often wonder why, liking this, you should also like that. Again, you have stood before some landscape, which seems to embody what you have been looking for all your life; and then turned to the friend at your side who appears to be seeing what you saw - but at the first words a gulf yawns between you, and you realise that this landscape means something totally different to him, that he is pursuing an alien vision and cares nothing for the ineffable suggestion by which you are transported. Even in your hobbies, has there not always been some secret attraction which the others are curiously ignorant of - something, not to be identified with, but always on the verge of breaking through, the smell of cut wood in the workshop or the clapclap of water against the boat’s side? Are not all lifelong friendships born at the moment when at last you meet another human being who has some inkling (but faint and uncertain even in the best) of that something which you were born desiring, and which, beneath the flux of other desires and in all the momentary silences between the louder passions, night and day, year by year, from childhood to old age, you are looking for, watching for, listening for? You have never had it. All the things that have ever deeply possessed your soul have been but hints of it - tantalising glimpses, promises never quite fulfilled, echoes that died away just as they caught your ear. But if it should really become manifest - if there ever came an echo that did not die away but swelled into the sound itself you would know it. Beyond all possibility of doubt you would say “Here at last is the thing I was made for.” We cannot tell each other about it. It is the secret signature of each soul, the incommunicable and unappeasable want, the thing we desired before we met our wives or made our friends or chose our work, and which we shall still desire on our deathbeds, when the mind no longer knows wife or friend or work. While we are, this is. If we lose this, we lose all.”

— C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain (via soracities)