louvrou

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just a girl who loves flowers

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Oh no oh no I'M Falling LOVÉ !

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André Gide, from a journal entry featured in The Journals of Andre Gide, Vol. 2: 1914-1927

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“I have so much to say to you that l am afraid I shall tell you nothing.”

Fyodor Dostoevsky

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André Gide, from a journal entry featured in The Journals of Andre Gide, Vol. 2: 1914-1927

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The opposite of anxiety is not calmness, it is desire. Anxiety and desire are two, often conflicting, orientations to the unknown. Both are tilted toward the future. Desire implies a willingness, or a need, to engage this unknown, while anxiety suggests a fear of it. Desire takes one out of oneself, into the possibility of relationship, but it also takes one deeper into oneself. Anxiety turns one back on oneself, but only onto the self that is already known. There is nothing mysterious about the anxious state; it leaves one teetering in an untenable and all too familiar isolation. There is rarely desire without some associated anxiety: We seem to be wired to have apprehension about that which we cannot control, so in this way, the two are not really complete opposites. But desire gives one a reason to tolerate anxiety and a willingness to push through it.

Open to Desire

Mark Epstein

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— fatima aamer bilal; coffin heart? bury me.

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musings on touch the hand has twenty-seven bones, natalie diaz haiku #11, tathev simonyan the touch, anne sexton isn’t the air also a body, moving?, natalie diaz ulysses, james joyce you are jeff, richard siken lady, i will touch you with my mind, e. e. cummings to your hands…, vahan teryan (translated by tathev simonyan) state of emergency, joy sullivan i was reading a scientific article, margaret atwood one of those kisses, viggo mortensen

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Tipsoo Lake, Mt. Rainier National Park, Washington, USA by Protik Hossain

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Albert Camus, from "Personal Writings," originally published in 2020

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Marcel Proust, from a letter featured in The Selected Letters of Marcel Proust

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The only darkness I shall allow into my life, is the night

For even then, I have the Moon.

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Unsent letter to my unrequieted love.

I have someone now- someone who loves me more than I could ever deserve. If I asked for the moon, they would bring me galaxies, stringing constellations together like pearls. They would map the stars and lay the whole expanse of the universe at my feet just to see me smile.

Yet, the cruel truth is I feel nothing for them. Not a spark, not even a shadow of love. Do you know why ? Because my heart is no longer mine. Once a garden where love flourished, now a wasteland. And you-you- where the storm that swept through. You tore everything in your way, taking everything with you. Every feeling, every flicker of warmth, every tender piece of me that knew how to love. You stole the part of me that could ever belong to someone else.

Perhaps you'll never know, or even begin to fathom, how much you meant to me, how you unraveled me. But that's okay. Life is cruel that way, retentless in its truths. And you, my love, were my lesson. A lesson carved into my soul. One I'll carry forever.

You hurt me more than I ever thought was possible. You shattered me, leaving wounds that'll never heal, scars that burn at the very thought of you. And what cuts deeper is knowing that one day, you'll forget about me. Maybe you already have. But the fragments of you, every piece of you will stay there-within me-lodged in the corners of my soul. A ghost that'll, forever, roam the debries of my shattered heart.

If only you had been cruel and heartless, then maybe I could've move on. If only I could hate you. But it was the pureness of you heart and the spark in your eyes that made me fall, hopelessly, in love with you.

You never meant to hurt me, I know that. But you did. And the pain still lingers, deep and eternal. I, also, know that I'll never mean anything to you. Not in the way you mean averything to me. So, if by some cruel twist of fate, I ever cross your mind, don't reach out to me. Don't call. Don't write. Even if you see me somewhere, don't approach me. Turn away. Let us remain the strangers we've already become. Let's keep pretending, like we do so well. Pretend the nights we spent talking until dawn didn't matter. As though the movies we shared, the songs we claimed, the quiet glances, the laughs, the love- never happened. It was all nothing, fleeting and meaningless.

And when we inevitably part ways. When we walk different paths, building futures without each other, don't look back. I won't either. But know this: I will carry you with me. Always. I will let you haunt the ruins of what's left of my heart, the empty chambers of the castle we built together, where love once lived.

And no matter how far I wander, I will never truly be free of you. Forever searching for your eyes in the face of another's child. The gaze that will bear the weight of my longing. Yet a pale, dim imitation of the spark I once knew . Then I'll realize that no other eyes could ever hold me like yours did, no borrowed light could ever reignite the stars that died with us.

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In the memory of my dead father.

When you lose someone dear to your heart-a friend,a lover, a parent-it feels as though the earth shifts beneath your feet, leaving you to stumble in a world that has lost its light, its color ,its beauty. A void opens within, quiet and aching, an emptiness woven in the shape of the person who left. No matter how bright the day, the ache remains, reminding you of what's gone. The happiness that used to fill your heart to the brim, now replaced by a hallow that never fades. A shadow in your life lingers, a weight presses. The light in your life dims, the color fades and everything feels dull.

Something within you changes, a presence that has woven itself into the fabric of your being.It is always there, shaping you,reminding you. It doesn't go away. It becomes a part of who you are. Eventually, you learn to live with it, navigating into the jagged edges of your soul.

Yet, in the silence of the night, when the moon shines so brightly, and the stars so radiant. You come to realize that it was always grief. It is also more. It is love-raw and boundless. All the love you had for them. Too much to hold, too much to let go. This love like flowers heavy with thorns, a bouquet of roses that you clutched so tightly, leaving you with wounds you cannot see, marks you cannot heal. Now you're left unsure, lost. Holding into a bouquet you cannot place. A love too big for one heart and questions too heavy on one soul: Where does it go ? Who can bear it ? Would it feel right to let it go ? Should I keep it even if it cuts ?

Time doesn't heal all wounds but whispers answers, in its slow and impredictable way. You learn that love isn't meant to stay locked away. Clutching into those flowers desperatly won't bring your loved one back. Piece by piece you let it go- not to forget, but to honor. You share it with the world, letting the flowers bring colors to its grays. And slowly, gently life begins to bloom again.

But the mind is a cruel campanion. It twists and tearns. It whispers doubts and shame. It tells you you're bretaying them. Shouldn't I have kept it even if it hurts ? That' when guilt comes sharp, unrelenting. You question the fairness of it all, the ceuelty of death, the injustice of the world.

In the midst of this turmoil, you search within yourself to find something so beautiful: the flowers you held so tightly were never just yours. It's their love for you too. A gift that even death coudn't steal. Within you blooms a garden, tended by their memory, nourished by their presence, eternal and unyielding.

From now on it is your task to nurture that garden, to care for the love they left behind. Let it flourish to create beauty. So when the time comes and your paths meet again, you will show them what you've made- a field blooming with their love. And they will see, as you will, that they were never truly gone. They were with you all along, in every petal, in every bloom, in every act of love, always there, always growing, always home.

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“Please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.”

— Sylvia Plath