The world is full of painful stories. Sometimes it seems as though there aren't any other kind, and yet I found myself thinking how beautiful that glint of water was through the trees.
Parable of the Sower, Octavia Butler

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@headpats
The world is full of painful stories. Sometimes it seems as though there aren't any other kind, and yet I found myself thinking how beautiful that glint of water was through the trees.
Parable of the Sower, Octavia Butler

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The Love Poems of Rumi, First published 1273
“but if i communicate it perfectly then they will understand me” WRONG 10,000 years of suffering
beloved , on this the eve of your punishment (10 thousand years suffering immediately no parole), you may be tempted to think - but i really could have communicated it better, then they would have understood me.
you can try as long as you like to explain something: if the other person is not curious, kind, and willing to learn, no explanation will ever work. you would know if someone was trying their absolute best to understand you, despite the immortal problem of all humans being exactly the same and also never quite alike.
there is a difference between being heard and being listened to. i am a little blind in my left eye - you can explain what i do-not-see, but i will not be able to see it. i will listen, though, and you will feel heard. my perspective maybe not be exactly what you meant, perhaps, but no poem ever really escapes unscathed from the poet. the book i write about you will never really capture every facet. communication is imperfect and fluid; that's why it is behind all forms of art.
sometimes it is not even that you said something wrong, sometimes it is that you said something at all; and they do not respect you. sometimes it is that what you said is true, and they are scared to face that truth. sometimes it makes them feel wrong (guilty, ashamed), and they cannot listen or they will have 10 thousand years suffering in the personality equivalent of forced rhubarb growth.
ah. i see you rattling your chains. yes, my love, the hard part: this means the largest part of it was them, and their choice. after all, if you had been approached by someone pleading for understanding, wouldn't you have endeavored to at least attempt some degree of civil engagement? you would have, i know you. which means they saw you like that - desperate, wild, someone they were supposed to love - and they still thought this is not enough.
you have been begging them. they have watched you beg them for understanding, and they have not moved. you did not have a communication issue. the issue was with how they treated you.
this is the manner where we will begin your torture. what is immediately and impossibly evident to you is impenetrable to them: and that lack of understanding is, in all likelihood, at least a little bit on purpose.
i am sorry to say it because if you turn your eyes downwards to my ankles you will find i am also serving my 10 thousand years. i am saying this from the place you will be soon. before the dungeon swallows you, one final remark, i suppose: it wasn't your fault, and I love you.
I’ve thought a lot about the fall of troy as the end of the world in terms of framing the odyssey and the aeneid as post-apocalyptic narratives, but I’m really grateful to christa wolf for pulling that into focus and asking what it means to the trojans to be living at the edge of the end of the world. building a life where there can’t be one. living happily during the war when they are bombing your houses. and the way she talks in the accompanying essays about living in east germany with such certainty of impending nuclear war and the annihilation of the entire continent of europe within the next three or four years at most—
the world is about to end. you wash the dishes. your lover comes home. you don’t talk about it. you go to the market. every so often something shifts and you see yourself clearly for a moment and it drives you insane. you get used to it.
October, Louise Glück

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this is probably the former closing dishwasher in me but few things are as personally satisfying as washing the dishes at the end of the night . something something michael chabon “either a surrealistic nightmare of the ordinary or a plunge into the warm waters of beautiful of routine” quote
the full quote from the mysteries of pittsburgh which has nothing to do with washing dishes but nevertheless has stuck with me
The red-winged blackbird’s song is deeply comforting and familiar it’s like walking into the marsh and hearing an old friend
─ Hisham Siddiqi
Linda Pastan
Always always always thinking of this quote from Dear Senthuran by Akwaeke Emezi

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oh im gonna be weird about this for so long
Mary Oliver, Everything
Ada Limón on Preparing the Body for a Reopened World

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what's the opposite of feeling sand slip through your fingers because I feel this poem more and more as time passes
Danez Smith, from "alive", Bluff