"And I went home and wept because my heart
was no longer a mystery. This thing stirring
in me was rhythmic, vascular. What if the world
can explain everything?"
Traci Brimhall, ‘On a Mission Trip to Philadelphia I Begin to Fear the Inside of My Body’ (via injusticeworth)
What I Talk About When I Talk About Cigarettes
I stay up all night with broken lungs. I sing to them, to nurse them back to health, but there’s still holes somewhere and I can’t feel them and I can’t see them but they must be there they must be stopping me from breathing properly they are there they must be they must be. I’m under the covers and thinking did you know that oxygen is what decays us. We are like iron. We are like iron in the way we think we are indestructible but we’re not. I imagine rust around my dirty old bone curves. I imagine sleepy rust in my eyelids.
Imagine every feeling you’ve ever felt and then imagine feeling them all at once. That’s what I talk about when I talk about cigarettes. Cigarettes are secret knives and secret empty stomachs and I am disguised as everything at once. I am disguised as a girl who would fuck you then never call you back. When you pull my eyelids back I love everything and hate everything and it’s an ice cave or a waterfall.
Cigarettes are a cognitive dissonance that I can’t help. Cognitive dissonance is a cigarette that keeps me up at night with it’s firelit tip. I imagine my lungs and I imagine you in them and you are not smoke and I can almost touch you.
"Sit in a room and read—and read and read. And read the right books by the right people. Your mind is brought onto that level, and you have a nice, mild, slow-burning rapture all the time."
The Power of Myth (via ashramof1)
The worn tired stars say
you shall die early and die dirty.
The clean cold stars say
you shall die late and die clean.
The runaway stars say
you shall never die at all,
never at all.
Carl Sandburg, “Slabs of the Sunburnt West” (via ratmessiah)
"Here is the topography of false starts. Here
a whole constellation is lousy with desire.
Here what passes for love is the same
as anywhere. Here no one has said
a prayer for the stars, and here no one
comes, except to leave, except to stay
long enough to bruise."
Paul Guest, from “The Report from Home,” in The Resurrection of the Body and the Ruin of the World: Poems (New Issues Press, 2003)
"Dear God, I don’t want to have invented my faith to satisfy my weakness. I don’t want to have created God to my own image as they’re so fond of saying. Please give me the necessary grace, oh Lord, and please don’t let it be as hard as Kafka made it."
Flannery O’Connor, A Prayer Journal (via selkfolk)
"One mode of purification: to pray to God, not only in secret so far as men are concerned, but while thinking that God does not exist."
Simone Weil (via selkfolk)
"Suddenly I had a flash of insight: I am a monster, I realized, a monster that wants to stalk through the woods, free and alone, and cannot even bear so much as the touch of a branch on its skin."
Marlen Haushofer, The Loft. (via hooking)
I looked at all the trees and didn’t know what to do.
A box made out of leaves.
What else was in the woods? A heart, closing. Nevertheless.
Everyone needs a place. It shouldn’t be inside of someone else.
I kept my mind on the moon. Cold moon, long nights moon.
From the landscape: a sense of scale.
From the dead: a sense of scale.
I turned my back on the story. A sense of superiority.
Everything casts a shadow.
Your body told me in a dream it’s never been afraid of anything."
Richard Siken, “Detail of the Woods,” from War of the Foxes (publisher & date not given)