#quote spam

“The raw silk blouse the color of parrot plumage and edged in red. The heavy gunghroo bells and jimikki earrings that looked so like her mother’s. Laila raised the costume to her nose, inhaling deeply. It even smelled of India. That mix of camphor, dye, and sandalwood incense. Looking at the outfit, a cold fury spread through her. She heard her mother’s voice curling through her thoughts: You want to feel real, my daughter? Then dance. Dance and you will know your truth. Laila had thrown her soul into dance, giving her body to the rhythmic invocations, the sharp movements that stamped out whole stories with nothing but her limbs. It could be sensuous. But it was always sacred. It was, as her mother used to say, proof that she had a soul. That she was real.”

Sorry, not sorry

It doesn’t make sense to call ourselves ugly, because we don’t really see ourselves. We don’t watch ourselves sleeping in bed, curled up and silent with chests rising and falling with our own rhythm. We don’t see ourselves reading a book, eyes fluttering and glowing. You don’t see yourself looking at someone with love and care inside your herat. There’s no mirror in your way when you’re laughing and smiling and happiness is leaking out of you. You would know exactly how bright and beautiful you are if you saw yourself in the moments where you are truly yourself.

He’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same

After all, it is only the ones you love that can break your heart.