Things That Make Me Feel - Tumblr Posts
“Aside from myself, there was no sign of me.” ― Nicole Krauss
1.Rumi | 2.Holly Warburton | 3.Maggie Stiefvater | 4.Fyodor Dostoyevsky | 5.Nickie Zimov | 6.Clarice Lispector | 7.Nigel Van Wieck | 8.Georgia O’Keeffe | 9.Andrew Wyeth | 10.Mary Oliver | 11.Ilenia Tesoro | 12.Sylvia Plath | 13.Walt Whitman | 14.Nickie Zimov | 15.Jean-Paul Sartre | 16.Lydia Roberts | 17.Natalie Wee | 18.Lew Thomas | 19.Albert Camus
i think if i gave u my heart, u would treat it tenderly
- Damianos of Akielos; Prince Gambit, CaPri #2
“& god, forgive me for the way that I worship him.”
— Brenna Twohy, & I’m Sorry, Forgive Me My Salt (via arckhaic)
“Isn’t all that rage so ugly? And isn’t it mine, still? Good god, isn’t it mine?”
— Ashe Vernon, from “Buried,” Not a Girl (via lifeinpoetry)
litany in which certain things are crossed out - richard siken // mirages: an unexpurgated diary of anaïs nin, 1939-1947 - anaïs nin // 2x06 - fleabag // love is my religion- ziggy marley // take me to church - hozier // 1950 - king princess // fine line - harry styles // today I'm someone else - chelsea hodson // a letter to fanny brawne, 13 october 1819 - john keats // sacrilege redux - ashe vernon // planet of love - richard siken // song of the fox - margaret atwood // the brothers karamazov - fyodor dostoevsky // sappho // horatio - t. j. klune // red, white, and royal blue - casey mcquinston // the raven king - maggie stiefvater // nox - anne carson // i know what you think of me - tim kreider // figuring - maria popova // journals and miscellaneous notebooks 1838-1842 - ralph waldo emerson // on earth we're briefly gorgeos - ocean vuong // more than friends - faraaz kazi // red doc> - anne carson // 3x10 - wtfock // red, white, and royal blue - casey mcquinston // jenny slate // an oresteia - euripides (trans. anne carson) // wuthering heights - emily brontë // the song of achilles - madeline miller // global cultures: a transnational short fiction reader - elisabeth young-bruehl // red, white, and royal blue - casey mcquinston // a child's definition of love // small wire - anne sexton // the dead poet's society - peter weir // our beutiful life when it's filled with shreiks - christopher citro // stay here - gaho // keith haring diaries - keith haring // latin phrase // hozier // dooms day - bastille // guilty of dust - frank bidart
when ocean vuong said "don’t we touch each other just to prove we are still here?" and natalie wee said "like any unloved thing, I don't know if I'm real when I'm not being touched" and jenny slate said "about me: I am supposed to be touched" and richard siken said "but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body"
ernst haas | @stevebucky | peter waterschoot | my own tags | mcnair evans | phoebe bridgers | spirited away | the handmaiden | peter schmidtberger
on tangerines and tenderness 🍊
@rosewater1997 / @ljza / ‘tinin in tibet’ by mount eerie / youqing wang / ‘we are okay’ by nina lacour / @sunsbleeding
“In that predicament, if I’m lucky, I’ll remember the observation, usually attributed to Joan Baez, that “action is the antidote to despair.” People tend to quote this in the context of political or environmental activism, but it applies to everything else, too: an overfilled inbox, a cluttered garage, an intimidating creative project or overdue tax return. If you can get yourself over the gap between knowing what you need to do and taking an action, things can only get better from there. Which means that at least the nature of the immediate challenge is clear: not to “become more productive” or “get motivated” or “make a plan for the month” or something like that, but just to do one thing to address whatever situation you’re in. […] If you can approach your daily life in this way for a while – as a sequence of momentary, self-contained, eminently doable actions, rather than as an arduous matter of chipping away at enormous challenges – you might notice something profound, which is that, in fact, this is all you ever need to do. You can make your way through life exclusively in this manner. (As E. L. Doctorow said of writing, it’s “like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.”) And not just that: actually, it’s all you ever could do. There is no achievement, in the history of human civilisation, that has ever been accomplished by any means other than as a sequence of doable actions. In the end, it isn’t really a question of “breaking big projects down into small chunks.” It’s more a matter of seeing that “big projects” are nothing but psychological constructs, quasi-illusory entities summoned into existence by taking a particular view of what our lives really consist of – which is moments, and the actions that unfold in them. After all, in any given moment, we’re never actually “working on a big project” or “addressing a major challenge” or anything similar. We’re always just taking an action. And then another. And another.”
— Oliver Burkeman, How to get out of a rut
No one loves me. I’m all alone. Everyone hates me. My mom never loved me. I'm bad luck.
The Lullaby
by William Bronk
Howl, world, in your hurt: that certainty always to bear, be born. Never to fail. Hearing the wind, I hear the world’s wail. Let me go sleep on it. Sing, sing.
The Fire
by Mary Oliver
That winter it seemed the city was always burning -- night after night the flames leaped, the ladders pitched forward. Scorched but alive, the homeless wailed as they ran for the cold streets. That winter my mind had turned around, shedding, like leaves, its bolts of information -- drilling down, through history, toward my motionless heart. Those days I was willing, but frightened. What I mean is, I wanted to live my life but I didn’t want to do what I had to do to go on, which was: to go back. All winter the fires kept burning, the smoke swirled, the flames grew hotter. I began to curse, to stumble and choke. Everything, solemnly, drove me toward it -- the crying out, that’s so hard to do. Then over my head the red timbers floated, my feet were slippers of fire, my voice crashed at the truth, my fists smashed at the flames to find the door -- wicked and sad, mortal and bearable, it fell open forever as I burned.
