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o wayward star

"She did not speak for she had no speech
She was a mermaid who had lost her way
Not knowing tears, she did not weep tears
Her eyes were the color of distant love."

I know this now,
the difference between
where you stood
and where I did:
I was your cigarette
break; you were my
forest fire…

You just the
ash and I—
the ember.

Still,
we burned.

—Why am I the only one still burning? (via coffeestainedheart)

(via youreyesblazeout)

Trapped in one idea, you can’t have your feelings,
feelings are always about more than one thing.
You drag yourself back home and it is autumn
you can’t concentrate, you can’t lie on the couch
so you drive yourself for hours on the quiet roads
crying at the wheel watching the colors
deepening, fading and winter is coming
and you long for one idea
one simple, huge idea to take this weight
and you know you will never find it, never
because you don’t want to find it
You will drive and cry and come home and eat
and listen to the news
and slowly even at winter’s edge
the feelings come back in their shapes
and colors conflicting they come back
they are changed.

—Adrienne Rich, from Later Poems: Selected And New (via violentwavesofemotion)

metaphorformetaphor:

I leave the other side of my life where it wants to stay, and follow the
remainder of my life in search of the other side of it.

Mahmoud Darwish, from “Boulevard St Germain,” A River Dies of Thirst. (Archipelago Books, 2009)

Then the feeling moves on. It does not collapse; it is not whisked away. It simply moves on, like a train that stops at a small country station, stands for a while, and then continues out of sight.

—Michael Cunningham, from The Hours  (via violentwavesofemotion)

(Source: trainwrite, via violentwavesofemotion)

Excerpts from Chapter Two: Cities of the Bees
from Palimpsest by Catherynne M. Valente

There is a place on the interstate where the last black fingernails of Los Angeles fall away and the whole of the San Joaquin valley spreads out below the mountains, impossibly golden, checkered in green and wheat and strawberry fields and orange groves and infinitely long rows of radishes, where the land is shriven of all the sins of palm-bound, artifice-mad Southern California.

The beekeeper November knew that place, knew it so well that her bare foot on the gas pedal throbbed as it approached, as her little green car, heavy with produce, crested the last rise in the tangled highways of the Grapevine, and the light began to change, gratefully, from raw, livid brume to a gold like the blood of saints. Her throat caught as the great, soft fields unfolded below her, yawning, stretching all the way to San Francisco and further still, to the redwoods and Oregon, all the way up.

She had often imagined, as a girl, when her mother drove back and forth between the two great cities of the west, that I-5 went on simply forever, past Canada to the North Pole, where the center divider would be wrapped up in ice and the bridges cut out of arctic stone. Even now, charting the coast in her own right, she sometimes thought of ignoring the off-ramps and speeding up and up, to the cold stars and fox-haunted glaciers. But in the end, it was always the city of St. Francis that stopped her, and the rest of the world was lost behind a curtain of fog and gnarled red trees.

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One ought not to judge her: all children are Heartless. They have not grown a heart yet, which is why they can climb high trees and say shocking things and leap so very high grown-up hearts flutter in terror. Hearts weigh quite a lot. That is why it takes so long to grow one. But, as in their reading and arithmetic and drawing, different children proceed at different speeds. (It is well known that reading quickens the growth of a heart like nothing else.) Some small ones are terrible and fey, Utterly Heartless. Some are dear and sweet and Hardly Heartless At All.

—Catherynne M. Valente, The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making (via quoted-books)

Write something true. Write something frightening. Write something close to the bone. You are on this planet to tell the story of what you saw here. What you heard. What you felt. What you learned. Any effort spent in that pursuit cannot be wasted. Any way that you can tell that story more truly, more vividly, more you-ly, is the right way.

So holler. Tell it loud and tell it bright and tell it slant and tell it bold. Tell it with space whales and silent films or tell it with quiet desperation or tell it with war or tell it with dragons or tell it with tall ships or tell it with divorce in the suburbs or tell it with dancing skeletons and a kraken in the wings.

Tell it fast before you get scared and silence yourself.

— Catherynne Valente (from her Nanowrimo Pep-Talk)

(Source: bahnree)

Nº. 1 of  110