hannamarni

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I still wonder at times what would've been if i hadn't been so terribly afraid of you. If your jeans shirt would've been what brought us together instead. Maybe if we would've been alone on your front porch, or on my terrace. What if i would've invited you to sit when you came around the corner on my graduation week. Maybe i could've shut up about burgers the day after. When you looked over and I had my dads jacket on in the entrance, what was on your mind? What were y o u thinking when our friends said we dated? When i dated our friend but longed for you? What if i didn't sing on my friends balcony infront of you in that insanely cringe way, or screamed you'd record my voice across the parking lot? Why the hell did i fuck it up so badly? Did we ever speak in a normal way? What would've happened if i just dared to talk to you?

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i never call your name, but you are in me like the song in the nightingale‘s throat even when it‘s not singing.

— dulce maría loynaz

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 Natalie Diaz, from "Manhattan is a Lenape Word", Postcolonial Love Poem

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Anaïs Nin, Fire: From “A Journal of Love”: The Unexpurgated Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1934–1937

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Sonia Szóstak

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Tomas Tranströmer, from “Winter's Code″, The Deleted World: Poems (versions by Robin Robertson, bilingual ed.) [transcript in ALT]

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Thursday, 29th of June 2023.

How gently the moon sing, how gently the river hum. When all else goes quiet and I sit in my skin I hear its little shiver. And it's only here, by the bank where the overwhelm forget which door to enter, loneliness makes a wrong turn and the fear of missing out becomes a wayfinder that I shake the urgency and fall into the current. I've lost myself more times than I can count. I've lost my voice, my will and my way, especially to those I trust. I give them my decision to make, my thought to process and my way to find, only to in stillness hear that I am sovereign as my own queendom. But I honor the path. The seeking. For it is only through there I can see how comfort is an illusion, true strenght is gentle, time is a tool, correction is self-imposed assumption, trust is a wooden boat tossed in a river, it is what it is, speaking does not mean knowing, silence does not mean conquest, connection is rare, asking is proof of presence, belonging is our true achievement, we are here for our own experience, self-respect trigger conflict sometimes and if you seek you also have to find. As water ran over my face I felt myself wish that I would've had some self-decency and told more people to fuck off. Especially those with something to loose and especially those trying to keep the peace in a room on fire. Always listen to the one with nothing to loose, those who see the process behind the stage and who reign themselves in before they enter a room.

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Strength or weakness. Go for Strength. You don't know where you're going and why. Enter anywhere, answer to everything.

- Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

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Saturday, 28th of august

Only the rain is on, with the brittle sound of luminous sea shell plates touching eachother in the archway of the terass door. I've kept it slightly open to hear the breeze, the rain pattering away at the bushes and the tenderly declining noise of anxiety fading away. My lunghs have been only half filled for days, numbing the tips of my fingers and my tongue. Anxiety does that. It lies to you, saying you are out of breath when it is in reality the opposite. I tingle from so much oxygen here, even my sheets feel damp in the moisture exuded from the lush green garden. I planted one foot down on the earth yesterday after napping on a bush bench in the heat. A young man had to stand while I regained consciousness. Fatigue filters most of reality, sifting a little bit of everything away leaving nothing in full composure. Some are erased fully. But I still see everything. I see I am here with a purpose - a real purpose. The real dream dressed in earthly tones and confined in words. I am at ease for I am true to the story finally.

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Rebekah Campbell

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I have put love in its crib, and now, with the gesture of a tired woman, I straighten up, draw the curtains, and look for a place where I too can sleep.

Dulce María Loynaz, Absolute solitude

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