I saw with my own eyes the Sibyl at Cumae hanging in a jar, and when the boys said, Sibyl, what do you want? she replied I want to die.
“
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-The Satyricon, Petronius, 61 A.D
The quotation from the Satyricon serves as Eliot’s preface to The Waste Land; and Petronius is referencing Ovid’s Metamorphoses. The Sybil asked for as many years as grains of sand in her hand, picking up a handful of dust. But she forgot to ask not to age, and after hundreds of years she is nothing but a voice (a breath: the ancients viewed life as air) in a jar, wanting to die.
(via ceedling)
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Here’s what our parents never taught us:
You will stay up on your rooftop until sunlight peels away the husk of the moon,
chainsmoking cigarettes and reading Baudelaire, and
you will learn that you only ever want to fall in love with someone
who will stay up to watch the sun rise with you.
You will fall in love with train rides, and sooner or later you will
realize that nowhere seems like home anymore.
A woman will kiss you and you’ll think her lips are two petals
rubbing against your mouth.
You will not tell anyone that you liked it.
It’s okay.
It is beautiful to love humans in a world where love is a metaphor for lust.
You can leave if you want, with only your skin as a carry-on.
All you need is a twenty in your pocket and a bus ticket.
All you need is someone on the other end of the map, thinking about the supple
curves of your body, to guide you to a home that stretches out for miles
and miles on end.
You will lie to everyone you love.
They will love you anyways.
One day you’ll wake up and realize that you are too big for your own skin.
Molt.
Don’t be afraid.
Your body is a house where the shutters blow in and out against the windowpane.
You are a hurricane-prone area.
The glass breaks often.
It’s okay. I promise that the breeze here is wonderful.
“
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“Here’s What Our Parents Never Taught Us,” Shinji Moon (via vlorin)
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The clouds were disappearing rapidly, leaving the stars to die. The night dried up.
I am a lover without a lover. I am lovely and lonely and I belong deeply to myself.
Can I be blamed for wanting a real body, to put my arms around? Without it, I too am disembodied. I can listen to my own heartbeat against the bedsprings, I can stroke myself, under the dry white sheets, in the dark, but I too am dry and white, hard, granular; it’s like running my hand over a plateful of dry rice; it’s like snow. There’s something dead about it, something deserted. I am like a room where things once happened and now nothing does, except the pollen of the weeds that grow up outside the window blowing in as dust across the floor.
But his heart was in a constant, turbulent riot … each night he added to the pattern of his fancies until drowsiness closed down upon some vivid scene with an oblivious embrace. For a while these reveries provided an outlet for his imagination; they were a satisfactory hint of the unreality of reality, a promise that the rock of the world was founded securely on a fairy’s wing.
Look at us, we’re drifting .
- Our conversations are starting to get shorter.
- It’s harder to find something for us to talk about.
- It doesn’t even feel like it’s affecting you.
- At least tell me if you don’t want to talk any more instead of making me feel like I did something wrong.
- I just miss how we were before.
We are shaped by our thoughts; we become what we think. When the mind is pure, joy follows like a shadow that never leaves.
meteorstorms:
Lately the words haven’t sounded pretty. And I’m not sure why I get so frustrated and upset over this fact. And it’s incredibly hard to explain because it’s all in my head. But when the words don’t sound pretty, I don’t want to talk to anyone or hear anyone. Everyone and everything gets so annoying. Even having hands feels annoying. It’s like why do I have hands. And this is so hard to explain right now. And it must sound awfully silly that I’m annoyed by having hands, but its more of a big picture type of thing. You guys could never understand so I’m just going to go sleep.
How we need another soul to cling to, another body to keep us warm. To rest and trust; to give your soul in confidence: I need this, I need someone to pour myself into.
“
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Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via sixrevolver)
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The Gods envy us. They envy us because we’re mortal, because any moment might be our last. Everything is more beautiful because we’re doomed. You will never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again.
You can explore the universe looking for somebody who is more deserving of your love and affection than you are yourself, and you will not find that person anywhere.
She did not need much, wanted very little. A kind word, sincerity, fresh air, clean water, a garden, kisses, books to read, sheltering arms, a cosy bed, and to love and be loved in return.
