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hitashah · 3 years
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There’s another name for resurrection and it’s love. Humans forget that and call it sin.
— Hita, “Resurrection” Someone once asked me what the difference between love and sin was
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hitashah · 3 years
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“It’s taboo to admit that you’re lonely. You can make jokes about it, of course. You can tell people that you spend most of your time with Netflix or that you haven’t left the house today and you might not even go outside tomorrow. Ha ha, funny. But rarely do you ever tell people about the true depths of your loneliness, about how you feel more and more alienated from your friends each passing day and you’re not sure how to fix it. It seems like everyone is just better at living than you are. A part of you knew this was going to happen. Growing up, you just had this feeling that you wouldn’t transition well to adult life, that you’d fall right through the cracks. And look at you now. La di da, it’s happening. Your mother, your father, your grandparents: they all look at you like you’re some prized jewel and they tell you over and over again just how lucky you are to be young and have your whole life ahead of you. “Getting old ain’t for sissies,” your father tells you wearily. You wish they’d stop saying these things to you because all it does is fill you with guilt and panic. All it does is remind you of how much you’re not taking advantage of your youth. You want to kiss all kinds of different people, you want to wake up in a stranger’s bed maybe once or twice just to see if it feels good to feel nothing, you want to have a group of friends that feels like a tribe, a bonafide family. You want to go from one place to the next constantly and have your weekends feel like one long epic day. You want to dance to stupid music in your stupid room and have a nice job that doesn’t get in the way of living your life too much. You want to be less scared, less anxious, and more willing. Because if you’re closed off now, you can only imagine what you’ll be like later. Every day you vow to change some aspect of your life and every day you fail. At this point, you’re starting to question your own power as a human being. As of right now, your fears have you beat. They’re the ones that are holding your twenties hostage. Stop thinking that everyone is having more sex than you, that everyone has more friends than you, that everyone out is having more fun than you. Not because it’s not true (it might be!) but because that kind of thinking leaves you frozen. You’ve already spent enough time feeling like you’re stuck, like you’re watching your life fall through you like a fast dissolve and you’re unable to hold on to anything. I don’t know if you ever get better. I don’t know if a person can just wake up one day and decide to be an active participant in their life. I’d like to think so. I’d like to think that people get better each and every day but that’s not really true. People get worse and it’s their stories that end up getting forgotten because we can’t stand an unhappy ending. The sick have to get better. Our normalcy depends upon it. You have to value yourself. You have to want great things for your life. This sort of shit doesn’t happen overnight but it can and will happen if you want it. Do you want it bad enough? Does the fear of being filled with regret in your thirties trump your fear of living today? We shall see.”
— You’re Not Making The Most Of Your 20s by Ryan O’Connell 
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hitashah · 3 years
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ON EVERYDAY - 1. “Supper” by Garrison Keillor // (2)// (3) // 4. Bonfire Opera: Poems by Danusha Laméris (2020) // (5) // 6. “The Orange” by Wendy Cope // 8. “A Good Day” by Kait Rokowski // 9. Midnight Chicken & Other Recipes Worth Living For by Ella Risbridger (2019) //
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hitashah · 3 years
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“We don’t even ask for happiness, just a little less pain.”
Some days I want to spit me out,
The whole mess of me,
But mostly I am good
and quiet.
I’ve been mistaking feeling less for feeling better.
We forget and call it healing.
“Letter to William Packard,” July 1985, Charles Bukowski// “Emergency Management,” Camille Rankine// Anonymous.
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hitashah · 3 years
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I can’t even hold your hand,
But I love you with a love
That no one can understand.
“Can I tell you a secret?/ sometimes I think I’ll never be able to cry in front of you/ or be able to sing you my favourite song/ or tell you how the stars make me feel/ I’m afraid of you taking parts of me/ and never returning.”
“Spirit Hold”, Holly Warburton// i.e.// “Can I tell you a secret?”, Hita.
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hitashah · 3 years
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“Can I tell you a secret?/ sometimes I think I’ll never be able to cry in front of you/ or be able to sing you my favourite song/ or tell you how the stars make me feel/ I’m afraid of you taking parts of me/ and never returning.”
-Hita, “Can I tell you a secret?”
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hitashah · 3 years
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hitashah · 3 years
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hitashah · 3 years
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“All of a sudden two decades have passed and you still have not kissed anyone with tongue, or kissed anyone at all for that matter, or had a 3 AM conversation with someone who would rather look into your eyes for ten minutes straight than talk. You have never worn a lover’s sweater or “forgotten” it at home in your bedroom just so you would have an excuse to see them again. You have never even stood face-to-face with someone who makes your hands shake so hard it feels like they’re both having a separate anxiety attack. This causes you much guilt and self-blame and sadness but above all, an overwhelming curiosity. Are you really that ugly, that unwanted, that uninteresting, that boring, that no one, absolutely no one, has ever looked at you like the only thing on earth? The answer is no. The better answer is that someone out there, somewhere in the world, is “wondering what it’s like to meet someone like you,” and they have two decades worth of love stored in their veins like a shoot-‘em-up drug, and they’re just about ready to inject it into someone else’s bloodstream. All you have to do is roll up your sleeves and wait for it to happen. At times you felt so lonely you could stand at the edge of a cliff with nothing beneath you but air and grass and a long, long way down, and you’d still feel emptier than that canyon itself. Maybe you even danced with yourself alone in your room a few times, arms outstretched around a ghost, pretending someone else’s hands were on your waist, someone else’s eyes boring into yours. Or maybe you fell temporarily in love with strangers on public transportation, fell in love with anybody who so much as accidentally brushed your hand on the way past. For you, falling in love with dozens of people a day was a coping mechanism for not having anyone to love you in return. But people are not eggs and falling in love with a dozen of them does not mean your shell will remain uncracked. One day you’re going to hit the point where you’re so desperate for human contact that you’re going to snap in half and all your love will bleed out like egg yolk. But someone out there is eating a bowl of Ramen noodles right now, or putting on slippers, or settling into bed. They are doing all the normal things that you’ve done in your own life. They are just like you. They have cellulite and extra fat in all the wrong places and goals and fears and doubts and bad handwriting. The truth is that they are just like you, and being just like you, they’re looking for a lover too. They’re what you might call a soulmate. They think they’re all alone in feeling the way they do, but you’re really both two halves of a whole. And one day you’ll meet them, bump into them on the street, and your two halves will be put together, and you’ll make one.”
— Writings For Winter - For Twenty Year-Olds who have never been loved  (via beepboopboopbeep)
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hitashah · 3 years
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i have read his poetry. he's doing really well on instagram. he writes about her hips and her in the shower and her in a cat-like stretch, he says feline. he writes about her mouth but he's writing about her throat but he's writing about what he could do to both of those. he writes about her knees but he's writing about bending them. he calls it prayerful. honorbound. how nice to feel her worship.
he has a post with something like ten thousand likes that says how hard it was for him to be a man dating a powerful woman - he says, i was threatened by her success and took it out on her in violent ways, but now i recognize men can have feelings too. he doesn't apologize to her at any point. he just says - women, see that your man wants to be cared for. the toprated comment is - exactly! men can feel insecure, too. women, let your men win.
he writes about her like a dead wife. he writes about her like a virgin. he dresses her in white a lot. he says her neck is slim. he keeps marrying her in all his fiction; she's always bearing his children. sometimes she has superpowers, but she always comes home to him. he promises all his readers - there's so much power in being a housewife, and we need to let people celebrate motherhood. he says he isn't a traditionalist, he's a feminist, too. we need to "come back" to celebrating that women are just different. you're different too.
he writes about her with her hair down her back. he writes about her with her hands around his laundry. he writes about her like - ah, when i look at you, all i feel is hungry.
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hitashah · 3 years
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I’ve been telling myself the reason I can’t write anymore is because I’m not sad. Because there’s no pain inside me to flow out of my trembling hands onto paper, there are no sorrows clouding my vision to make my poetry hazy. I can see straight and sometimes I feel poetry needs to be twirly and zigzagg-y.
But, I’ve been trying to be sad lately. Trying to find wretchedness among the mists, among the nights I stay up laughing, trying to feel what I felt before, trying to pour poetry back into my veins. Maybe this is some stupid excuse.
But here’s how it really is. I keep finding myself beaming at unfamiliar faces and sipping hot chocolate over brunch dates with new friends, or falling back into rhythm with old ones.
Or that one time I snuck out to my best friend’s house and we danced to alcohol in our bodies but were sober enough to remember one of the best nights of our lives. So maybe there’s nothing poetic about this. Or maybe there is.
-I know poetry is more beautiful than sad and there’s something really very beautiful about loving life
-Hita Shah
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hitashah · 3 years
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I want to take every bad memory and wrap it in tranquility. I want to go back in time and undo everything terrible that happened. I want to sit down with food and not feel guilty. I want to find myself at 16 between recovery and relapse and take away all the self harm. I want to stand in front of the mirror and not scream. I want to repair every broken piece of furniture I slammed my fists on. I want to be able to sleep without having having to clench fistfuls of my sheets. I want to smile at people without feeling remorseful. I want to look at myself and not cower. I want to take a deep breath and be okay.
-H.S.
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