Heartleap

sometimes you just have to read your old journals to realize that not only did it not pass, but it also got worse

"Should I be grateful or should I curse the fact that despite all misfortune I can still feel love, an unearthly love but still for earthly objects." – Diaries of Franz Kafka, 1910-1923

تصویر سمت چپ: سوزان سانتاگ توضیح میده که چرا عاشق لیست کردن چیزهای مختلفه تصویر سمت راست: لیستی از چیزهایی که سانتاگ دوستشون داره یا ازشون خوشش نمیاد

"I think sometimes I am not a woman, but the light that falls on this gate, on this ground. I am the seasons, I think sometimes, January, May, November; the mud, the mist, the dawn."

"I begin to draw a figure and the world is looped in it, and I myself am outside the loop; which I now join – so – and seal up, and make entire. The world is entire, and I am outside of it, crying, “Oh, save me from being blown for ever outside the loop of time!”

دو سال از زمانی که The Waves از وولف رو خوندم می‌گذره و هنوزم هرروز دارم به خودش، به جملاتش و تک تک کلماتش فکر می‌کنم

suddenly the sentences all sound simlish in my head (sul sul, oh feebee lay)

trying to write ONE sentence while going through a writer's block

that's exactly how it is i guess

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has withered from the lake, And no birds sing. O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel’s granary is full, And the harvest’s done. I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever-dew, And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too. I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful—a faery’s child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild. I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She looked at me as she did love, And made sweet moan I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A faery’s song. She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild, and manna-dew, And sure in language strange she said— ‘I love thee true’. She took me to her Elfin grot, And there she wept and sighed full sore, And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four. And there she lullèd me asleep, And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!— The latest dream I ever dreamt On the cold hill side. I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci Thee hath in thrall!’ I saw their starved lips in the gloam, With horrid warning gapèd wide, And I awoke and found me here, On the cold hill’s side. And this is why I sojourn here, Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing. — La Belle Dame sans Merci by John Keats