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there's so much longing in here, I say to my therapist, pointing to where it lives at the end of my throat. it's spilling out. it's spilling over. it's spilling inward.

at work, in line to pay for groceries, brushing my teeth in a quiet apartment, the feeling will squeeze its grip: I have so much more to give than this. it stings like frostbite — to feel so cold, you burn. to feel so lonely, you're suffocated.

I've gone running and writing and left cookies on neighbors' doorsteps. sung loud enough to hear my echo at the other end of town. still go days without a word. at the end of the night, my hands cramp with the need to hold. a ferocity to be good to someone—someones. a want to be of use. all this energy with little place to go. all that goes unsaid, collecting, consuming like a rust.

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Marina Tsvetaeva, from Earthly Signs: Moscow Diaries, 1917-1922; “A Hero of Labor”

﹙ Text ID: I’ll cry about this earth in heaven too.﹚

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"Beautiful Losers", Leonard Cohen

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By Paolo Raeli

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“Suddenly, I stopped dead. I had opened my calendar to the month of August as usual, to write in the neat white box labeled with day and date, a scant summary of the activities completed in the last 12 hours. Sickened, I saw that I had unwittingly completed the last day of August. Tomorrow would be September. God! All the quick futility of my days cascaded upon me, and I wanted to scream out in helpless fury at the hopeless inevitable going on of seconds, days and years. By the time I fill in this page, said I, I will have finished my job, gone home, spent four days at the Cape and either added to or detracted from my relationship with the one man-in-my-life at present, passed or failed my driving test, given my speech at the Smith Club tea, packed my things, and embarked on a merry-go-round among much jingling of bells and harnesses and neighing of horses, to whiz through another year of my life - becoming nineteen (where do they hide the young, tender years?) and beating out some sort of life at Smith ….. crisping into woollen autumn and into the darkening iron of November … and Christmas … vacation - grinding through an icy, mud-grimy January-February-March, and tentatively, unbelievingly, unfolding into another spring, when the damn world makes us think we are as young as we ever were and deceives us by pale lucid skies and the sudden opening of little leaves.”

— The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, diary entry no. 118, August 1951

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“People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to one’s self.”

— Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

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“But here’s a little secret for you: no one is ever the same thing again after anything. You are never the same twice, and much of your unhappiness comes from trying to pretend that you are. Accept that you are different each day, and do so joyfully, recognizing it for the gift it is. Work within the desires and goals of the person you are currently, until you aren’t that person anymore, and everything changes once again.”

— Welcome to Night Vale: Episode 75: Through the Narrow Place (via andrewmicah)

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