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Waiting for people is sweet. You can't talk anymore because things are heavy? I'll wait. Your shoelace is undone; I'll wait. If you're too slow in finishing your fries, I'll still wait. I'll wait for you at the metro station, even if that means missing the last train that is to come. I'll save you a seat at our favorite diner because I know you'll never be on time.

I'll wait for you while you're battling your demons. I'll wait for you to feel better. I'll wait for you to call me.

But,

Please call me.

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I can't find my old phone anywhere. It had his memories—I don't.

Is it a sign?

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Stig Dagerman, A Moth to a Flame (Burnt Child) (trans. Benjamin Mier-Cruz)

[Text ID: “It is not true that a burnt child dreads the fire. It is drawn to it like a moth to a flame. It knows that when it goes near it, it will burn itself again. Still, it gets too close.”]

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It didn't work out.

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Winter Light (Ingmar Bergman, 1963)

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I've decided to take therapy again. Don't know how it'll go this time. I hope I don't ghost my therapist like the last time.

I had taken 2 sessions and then, I left. I mean she told me to let her know if I'm willing to continue and I never mailed her about it. :((

So yeah, let's hope it goes well this time. *fingers crossed*

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Isabelle Adjani - Algiers - 1988

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Julie Newmar photographed by Peter Basch (1958)

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Rainer Maria Rilke, Selected Letters, 1902-1922

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When someone tells you the story of their suffering, they are probably still suffering in some way. No one else gets to decide what that suffering means, or if it has any meaning at all. And we sure as hell don't get to tell someone that God never gives anybody more than they can handle or that God has a plan. We do not get to cut off someone's suffering at the pass by telling them it has some greater purpose.

Kerry Egan, On Living

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“Moja bieda” (“My sorrow”)

An envelope where Frédéric Chopin placed the letters received from Maria Wodzińska.

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On Brene Brown’s words, ‘Shame loses power when it is spoken’:

Empty roads. Closed boundaries. The month of June- where does it end?

The hives on my finger broke into a thousand tinier ones. I pressed a napkin against it, and sat in front of the only window in my room. It was raining.

Sensitivity; it devours your sanity; it demands your tolerance. For something so soft to mold you into a slave, is an obscure train of thought in itself but I cannot refrain from turning it into a belief. Sensitivity has crippled me.

All that I hold in my right hand is shame. All that they do is dangle it in the middle of my brows.

Sensitivity. The strong ripples of anger, hurt, a locked room, long stretches of silence, nails away from peach walls. Silence—always the better alternative to spitting thorns. Tried and tested.

Yet again, sensitivity has crippled me, to the point where seemingly harmless compliments sound shallow— as shallow as the mouths speaking them.

My room, usually a karaoke site on its own, was devoid of music today. A gust of wind blows in from the window. I shut it close.

We're breathing the same air—you and I; the most that I can do for myself is to not let any more of your being near me.

......

Excerpt from a recent draft. :)

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Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea

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Clarice Lispector, tr. by Ronald W. Sousa, The Passion According to G.H.

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Anne Carson, Plainwater: Essays and Poetry

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What do you do when you need saving? Who do you reach out to, when the hands that you try to hold crumble into dust? There's you, the ground, the sky, and vast stretches of........