• “Grief, I’ve learned, is really love. It’s all the love you want to give but cannot give. The more you loved someone, the more you grieve. All of that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes and in that part of your chest that gets empty and hollow feeling. The happiness of love turns to sadness when unspent. Grief is just love with no place to go.”

    As the lights wink out…  (via aishawarma)

  • To excell at self-punishment. To remain in the grip of it. Such waste and disgrace. And I want the wind to stop–it has to stop.
    Anna Akhmatova, from a journal entry featured in The Akhmatova Journals: 1938 - 1941
    (via kaylor)

    Let me

    say it plain: I loved someone

    and I failed at it. Let me say it
    another way: I like to call myself wound

    but I will answer to knife.

    Nicole Homer, “Underbelly,” via poets.org (via bostonpoetryslam)
    Tragedy is clean. It’s restful, it’s certain… In melodrama— with its traitors and fanatic villains, with its persecuted innocence, its avengers, its heroic Saint Bernards, its glimmers of hope— death becomes horrible, like an accident. The hero might have saved himself, the nice young man might have arrived in time with the police. Tragedy is relaxing. For one thing, everyone is among friends, since everyone is innocent, after all. It doesn’t matter that someone kills and someone else is killed. That’s just how the roles were assigned. And then, most importantly, tragedy is peaceful, because you know that there’s no hope, no filthy hope; that you’re caught, like a rat in a trap, the sky has fallen on your back, and the only thing left to do is to shout— not to whine, no, not to complain— to shout at the top of your voice whatever you have to say, things you’ve never said and, maybe, didn’t even know were in you. And for no reason: to hear yourself say them, to learn them for yourself. In melodrama, you struggle because you’re hoping to escape. That’s demeaning, it’s practical. Here, it’s gratuitous. It’s kingly. And, in the end, there’s nothing more you can do.
    Jean Anouilh, Antigone (tr. Zander Teller)
  • ““I’m in love with people’s hands and the way they clench their fists and the way their fingertips lightly press down onto piano keys or thighs. Calloused fingers or dainty fingers. Hands writing poems or memos or parking tickets. Hands writing futures. To me, every crease on the palm is a love line.””

    — Mesogeios
    (via naturaekos)

  • tbh being able to freely admit when you’re wrong without getting defensive or angry is a skill we should all be working on more as a species

  • Every single repressed gay character, attempting some sort of confession to whoever they’ve been pining after: what if we… ran away together,,,, went somewhere else? away from all this?,,, just the two of us?? …. haha just kidding,,,, unless?