a well-lighted place @focloir - Tumblr Blog

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B tells me she wants to walk away from it all. I'm so tired, she says and I can almost hear the mixture of anger sadness in her words, if I could do it, I'd drop everything, leave and never come back. I ask her why, how did it come to this point. She keeps quiet, not knowing the answer. On my drive home, in the darkness of the highway, a narrative plays on my car stereo. I listen to two people discuss about friendships drifting apart. At one point, they talk about friends becoming parents, how priorities change, how it becomes inevitable that a lot of things get in the way, leading to the slow death of relationships. I think about ours and realise how, in all those years we were friends, it was so easy. B never made me feel that anything changed between us, even after she got married and had kids. Each significant and insignificant moment in her life, she made me a part of. Like the day she found out she was pregnant with her first child, or the day they came home from the hospital and I met her newborn for the first time. How it changed my life forever. These moments came after another, and became a part of my life. Our friendship was fuss-free. We forgave each other without the necessity of words. I tell her I am thankful. I tell her I'm still surprised how something so quiet and uncomplicated is at all possible. I've lost a lot of friends through the years simply because we've grown apart, or just stopped trying. It was never like that with you. Years before, I remember her telling me how each person gets one soulmate. She knew who hers was. We weren't meant to be together, but we taught each other things. I don't share the same belief. I think we don't get just one soulmate. Part of my soul belongs to J; a part of it is yours. Parts of it are reserved to her kids, and I have huge chucks to give to my future children. I understand that there are loves that can be tumultuous, and I think that's okay. But all the loves I've known, with my family, my best friend, with my husband, these loves are quiet, easy, uncomplicated. Like warm, sleepy afternoons spent in the sun and lulls you to sleep. A certain kind of peace.

#viii

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I can never get used to sleeping alone in hotel rooms. I have done this countless times in the past and still do it, but always, the experience leaves me with an unsettling feeling in my stomach. There's a certain sadness to it, a melancholy that's penetrated into the this small space and often manifests itself in the simplest forms - a small stain in the shower curtain, a chip in one corner of the bedside table, a name or a number written in pencil on a notepad that had not been previously discarded by housekeeping.

These simple details leave a lot to the imagination, and I keep thinking about all these people that had come and gone in this room, passing through this space after each one, without ever meeting. I keep thinking about all the bodies that had slept in this bed, how many had woken up smiling with the sunlight creeping in through the curtain, and how many were there who didn't even make it through the night. Were they sad, question mark. Did they have someone to hold them while they cried, question mark. I keep thinking about all the faces that stared into the mirrors. When they saw the reflection staring back at them, did they like what they saw, question mark. I keep thinking about the sound of their laughter, and also their weeping. And how it all feels so lonely. How we can share things like this and yet, there's still so much distance left. So many things in between. I used to believe each human being was connected to each other in some way, but maybe that's just what I'm hoping for, but not the reality. Existing in this funny place called earth is so difficult, so very difficult you know, and we only have each other. Still, wouldn't it be pretty that way?

#viii

theegreywolf-deactivated2019112

Love of my life, you Are lost and I am Young again. A few years pass. The air fills With girlish music; In the front yard The apple tree is Studded with blossoms. I try to win you back, That is the point Of the writing. But you are gone forever, As in Russian novels, saying A few words I don’t remember- How lush the world is, How full of things that don’t belong to me- I watch the blossoms shatter, No longer pink, But old, old, a yellowish white- The petals seem To float on the bright grass, Fluttering slightly. What a nothing you were, To be changed so quickly Into an image, an odor- You are everywhere, source Of wisdom and anguish.

Parousia by Louise Gluck (via theegreywolf)

#lit

donna-marieriley-deactivated202

three minute personality test

(after Jonathan Safran Foer)

How many people have you kissed whose names you don’t remember? Do you use more than the advised amount of softener when you do laundry? Where would you go if no one had to know you were there? If you are reading a book and the book stirs something deep inside you, and nobody is around to hear it, do you still make a sound? When you are faking eye contact, do you look at someone’s eyebrows, mouth, or nose? What is your mother’s maiden name? Do you know where your house keys are right now? Are you first to sadness or to anger? How many texts that you haven’t replied to are currently in your inbox? Does this mean you are too popular or too distant? If you had to watch a montage of all the worst things you’ve ever done, would you still be able to sleep that night? Do you check your shoes for spiders before you put them on? Are you ever afraid you’re not very good at kissing? Is there anything cruel about love? Is there a rule against laughing insincerely? If there was, would you still break it? When you think of your family home, why are there so many ashtrays? Why does rage flood through you? When you think of the person you’ve loved most in this world, why do your hands start shaking? Who ever taught you to tie your shoelaces? If you were offered all the happiness in this lifetime in exchange for the next not having any, would you forsake your future self in order to benefit this one? If you’re caught on a bridge and there’s no way forward and no way back, is there still a way off it? If you answered no, have you had too few tragedies? If you answered yes, have you had too many or are you assuming the fall won’t kill you? Is your best story your own story? Is there ever a moment at the end of the day when you are fully at peace with yourself? If you had to write your own eulogy, would you make your own mother cry? Do you apologize too much? Do you apologize enough? Whose face do you think of when I say the word regret? Would you give up having children for a better childhood of your own? What is the best way to nurse a large and brutal heartache? Do your dreams reveal you? Can you miss someone you haven’t met yet? What ever happened to your baby teeth? If you run away from all your problems, does it still count as exercise? What’s the most awful thing you’ve ever done to another human? If someone made you answer all these questions, and you had to be truthful, could you still look them in the eye afterwards? If someone made you answer all these questions, and you had to be truthful, would you be grateful to unload it all? If you had to answer, and you had to be truthful, who would you want to be asking the questions?

#lit

thisisnottony

Visit Original Link

Otis Redding - Sitting on the Dock of the Bay

#sways gently

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shinji--moon-deactivated2017123

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there. And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of. It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through the open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high in here and I can’t turn it off. For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking, I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve, I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it. Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning. What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and then more of it. But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass, say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless: I am living. I remember you.

Marie Howe, “What The Living Do” (via notebookings)

#I'm crying #dammit

light lovers, tender beings @pouvoires @theegreywolf

today is Victor Hugo’s birthday. I cried all morning reading, the pages blurring with the tears, unsure if it was because of reading the deaths of the characters I’ve loved and have spent months laughing and weeping with, or because I was nearing the end of the book. Maybe it was of both. I don’t think that there are words to sum up the entire experience of reading this monumental piece of literature. My heart still feels heavy

#v #victor hugo

thewisewordofquotes

to love life, to love it even when you have no stomach for it and everything you’ve held dear crumbles like burnt paper in your hands, your throat filled with the silt of it. When grief sits with you, its tropical heat thickening the air, heavy as water more fit for gills than lungs; when grief weights you like your own flesh only more of it, an obesity of grief, you think, How can a body withstand this? Then you hold life like a face between your palms, a plain face, no charming smile, no violet eyes, and you say, yes, I will take you I will love you, again.

Ellen Bass

#hmmm #lit

cleromancy

a thing to learn about cooking is, that isnt enough garlic. there is not enough garlic in there. yeah i know you already put garlic in but shhh, listen, listen to the pot, it says it wants more garlic. seriously more garlic come on i said put in some more garlic fucking dO it you piece of shit. what do you mean that that’s all the garlic you had well i suppose theres nothing for it we have to go pick up some more come on then

#garlic philosophies #same feelings towards butter

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tender little things #mail

#mail #v

203. THEORIES OF UNHAPPINESS

In another lifetime, you will fall in love with me. We’re called different names, and you like to keep your hair long enough to touch your neck. We live in an apartment full of morning light, quiet linen curtains on the windows. I sit on the chair and watch you cook pancakes behind the kitchen counter. The neighbor is old and hears with difficulty, so he plays Johnny Cash on the record player and turns it to full volume. A few months later, we will fall out of love and you will hate me.

In the lifetime that follows, you are a painter. But we never meet because I was born when you were too old to hold a brush without your hands trembling. You forget your name. You keep books inside the fridge and milk cartons on the bookshelf. You’ve seen better days, your face marked with laughlines of the boisterous youth of a man who refused to marry for love. In your bedside, you keep a watch that you refuse to wear because it took too much trouble to wind it over and over each time it stops. With it, the time is 12:01 forever. Your father had given it to you before he left your mother for another woman. None of that matters anymore. You die in your sleep, holding a little white flower while slumped almost recklessly against a rocking chair. A few weeks later, we move across the street and my mother teaches me how to spell my name.

In the next one, you are a soldier, and I am an old woman living by herself in a house, with vines creeping up on one side of the wall. You walk past my house daily, and nod in polite greeting when you see me outside to water the flowers in the garden. You say, They are beautiful. I say, Thank you. You ask, What are they called? Birds of paradise. I offer you rice cakes but you decline every time. Years later, I die of dysentery while the flowers bloom in the summer. You come to the funeral but don’t stay. You lay down a handful of Birds of Paradise beside the coffin.

Across several lifetimes, you take many different forms, but never the same one twice. You had been, at least once, a knight, a carpenter, a prince, a nomad. And often, someone else’s lover. We have been together with different people. Some time periods, we meet only once and briefly, pass each other on a crowded street and catch a glimpse of each other’s faces. We pause in partial recognition of the other one, but we hesitate and go on separate ways. We could say, ‘I have met you in another life. We loved. We hurt.’ But some time periods, we are together for much longer. And yet. Each of our lives all end in the same way. One of us dies. One of us disappears. One of us hurts. And the other hurts back. Unhappiness becomes us. Time is unforgiving. This is our tragedy.

#prose

this-tragic-affair

ok so all these guys who are like “men have it hard too!!! we’re expected to be manly and emotionless, we have feelings!!!” do realize that it’s other men who enforce those standards on guys. literally guys created those standards to be more powerful than women. so maybe instead of getting angry at girls for talking about their oppression, realize that you should be fighting with girls against unfair gender expectations and inequality

historicaltimes

Bob Dylan and Suze Rotolo, 1963

via reddit

#cutiepies

i woke up at 5.41am before the sun woke up, made myself a cup of coffee with a pretty gold cup i found at the flea market yesterday and prepared some bread. spent a few calm minutes in meditation while listening to the neighborhood stirring awake, the chilly morning wind quiet on my skin. one of the lovebirds died yesterday. the other one refuses to come out of the bird hole, i haven’t seen him all morning. he hasn’t eaten his food. the other pairs seem keen to comfor him. but i'll never know, i don't speak their language. some creatures have their own rebellious way of mourning. the sun hasn’t fully come out yet. the grey clouds i can see from where i’m sitting cross-legged on a chair has soft silver linings. It looks like it’s going to rain.

#iv

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