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[ryenocer]

what studying literature feels like

[ryenocer]

I was never good at this body. 

There was always something in me so anxious to crawl out.

— kiki nicole, from NOBODY’S DAUGHTER

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― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Gentle Spirit

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As the thunder roared

the sky lit up on fire

I sat there alone

burning along with it

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I let go of the lip I didn't know I was biting, the metallic drop of blood rolling down my lip, a mark on the paper, now, an irreversible sign of my ignorance

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The warmth of another, the tenderness of their embrace, and the interwoven hands that create an unbreakable connection. Minds that effortlessly comprehend each other's emotions, and hearts that not only understand but also beat in harmonious rhythm, as if sharing a secret language of love.

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Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.

- Oscar Wilde

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Her beauty radiates, the moonlight, illuminating even the darkest of nights, in the vast, open sky, amidst the brilliant, shining stars, there she stands, proud.

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I never quite understood writer's block, well up until now. For me, it feels as though my words are in a chokehold. I know what they mean, not how to show them. It is a cage with a singing bird in it. The bird represents my words and cage me. The cage doesn't stop the bird from singing; rather, it deprives it of emotion to sing about. But the bird cannot be let out; the cage will lose its voice. If the bird is let out of the cage, what assures its return? What if it falls in love with the experiences and finds returning demeaning? Rest assured, it isn't leaving; it must learn how to represent itself within the sorrow of the cage

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Is the rain tears? Tears of pain? Tears of joy? Is the thunder the sound of suffering Or rather the sound of laughter?

But then again, does any of it make a difference? It doesn't matter if he was laughing, not crying. I was. The rain helped to drown them out. He hid my tears under him, and for that, I am forever grateful.

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The music I played was for her, to show her that the notes made more sense than my words. Instead, she was deaf to the cries of my songs, or rather she chose to be. But the notes are still there, lingering in the air, just like my love for her.

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I used to stare out the window for hours, sitting on the bed. I don't remember what I used to think or if i even did, only realizing I watched hundreds of cars pass by, and not one had stopped to save me.

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My pen has fallen in love with you.

Letters, Franz Kafka

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"All we ever want is to be seen, to be understood, to know that somewhere there is someone who actually gets you and still likes you. Because that's why you put on a mask – because we fear the judgment that comes with being understood. And yet, here we are, yearning for it."

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 You know, sometimes I think I was born with a leak, and any goodness I started with just slowly spilled out of me and now its all gone. And I'll never get it back in me. It's too late.

-bojack horseman

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It happens to me frequently. You disappear? Yes and then come back. Moments of death I call them.

Anne Carson, Autobiography of Red

[ryenocer]

a body that's trapped within a soul