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@realistsnightmare

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New beginnings are often disguised as painful endings. Yet in these dark places, when we think we have been buried...actually, we have been planted.
Catherynne M. Valente, from her novel titled "The Melancholy of a Mechagirl," originally published in 2023
My love is an abandoned house.
It's dark; it creeps up on you. You think of it for days until you must visit. It treats every guest, knowing who will stay and who won’t. My love lives in forgotten fragments of your being, the ones you’d rather not recall. I haunt this place and have for decades, collecting hopes into one centerpiece, set just so. I show you life through tinted, broken windows: No matter how unreachable they seem your dreams are dreams after all. My love creaks with those old wooden stairs; each step reminds you of the places I occupy in your mind. The cinammon smell you have forgiven but will not forget. This is the house of you, me, and us. You pass by it every day. My love is the abandoned home you've lost.
I'd rather have my name dragged through filth than erased in silence. Let it burn in your mouth with hate—at least it's still on your lips.

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Everytime Sartre. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.
Intimacy by Jean-Paul Sartre
The Straw that Breaks the Camel's back...?
Gerrit Komrij
All of it shall pass and I hope the next thing I love kills me
The contempt I bear for myself doesn't let me drink a cup of coffee.
There's no room for more.

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All writers were very good at remembering details of their lives.
Swimming Lessons by Rohinton Mistry
Women Talking (2022), Sarah Polley
"I asked for love not knowing what else to ask for?"
"He is every Man who wants. Just as I am every Woman who seeks love."
— An Introduction, Kamala Das
“Some people meet their ghosts, and some don’t. But we’re all haunted by them.”
Love and Longing in Bombay by Vikram Chandra
The universal human experience of longing for the past, especially when it is no longer accessible.
My Grandmother's House by Kamala Das

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At sixteen, you still think you can escape from your father. You aren’t listening to his voice speaking through your mouth, you don’t see how your gestures already mirror his; you don’t see him in the way you hold your body, in the way you sign your name. You don’t hear his whisper in your blood.
The Courter by Salman Rushdie
I am sinner. I am saint. I am the beloved and the betrayed.
An Introduction by Kamala Das