mappedriver

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i hate the part of depression that’s like all the things that bring me joy are empty and i can’t do anything. like come on bitch i know you love book can you just be happy about book :/

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It's All Right

by William Stafford

Someone you trusted has treated you bad. Someone has used you to vent their ill temper. Did you expect anything different? Your work — better than some others' — has languished, neglected. Or a job you tried was too hard, and you failed. Maybe weather or bad luck spoiled what you did. That grudge, held against you for years after you patched up, has flared, and you've lost a friend for a time. Things at home aren't so good; on the job your spirits have sunk. But just when the worst bears down you find a pretty bubble in your soup at noon, and outside at work a bird says, "Hi!" Slowly the sun creeps along the floor; it is coming your way. It touches your shoe.

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Emily Dickinson, from her poem titled "1188," featured in The Emergency Poet

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Maladaptive deeply held belief: nobody could ever love me. Im going to die alone

Positive counterthought: maybe someone has an exceptionally rare form of mental illness that would cause them to make the grave mistake of wanting to fuck me

[mappedriver]

北条鉄道-Hojo Railway

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AE HEE LEE, from "Prelude"

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Slides Labeled - “Heavy Ice Storm (Taken from Bathroom Window)” - February 1956 

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Approaching Nowhere series Photographer Jeff Brouws

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hills of the highlands.

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anyone else destroying and betraying themselves for nothing 🤣

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Llangollen, Wales

daniel_casson

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William Fargason, “I Have Lost Faith”

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being happy is so scary because there’s this underlying feeling of anxiety like when are things gonna go wrong. is this gonna be taken from me. chat is this normal

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But I craved language like sex. I gave myself to each word for close to nothing—pennies or their absence. I let words do things I thought made me more. Teach me taxidermy. Insect collecting techniques. How to boil marrow from bone. How to assemble a body from scraps and hook it up to the national grid.

What else should I have done? My windows stayed open. Like a mouth, the door. Words would come in and spend me like poker chips. They filled me from every angle. They said I was easy.     I let them hollow my bones, fashion my arms into wings. Borrow my air and keep it. Clasp my throat like a flute.     How could I have known that even when murdered in silence, thought is the end of silence?

Romana Iorga, Golem.

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Natalie Díaz, from “exhibits from The American Water Museum”, Postcolonial Love Poem