“Desire, I Think, Is A Portal Where We Look At The Thing We Want, But We Also Look At The Other Things

Joy Sullivan, Instructions for Traveling West

Do Angels Exist? A Google Search a Week off Antipsychotics, Dante Émile

“The warm and grey rain that falls in long, diagonal lines on the sea. The kind that barely wets anything and whose voice is not heard. She seeks no shelter from it, instead, offers her cheek. Because of its softness, she knows she exists.”

— Jean-Michel Maulpoix, from “Loves is what she calls these departing sailors and sailboats…”, A Matter of Blue: Poems (trans. Dawn M. Cornelio)  

One day you think: I want to die. And then you think, very quietly, actually I want a coffee. I want a nap. A sandwich. A book. And I want to die turns day by day into I want to go home, I want to walk in the woods, I want to see my friends, I want to sit in the sun. I want a cleaner room, I want a better job, I want to live somewhere else, I want to live.

40,000 years ago, early humans painted hands on the wall of a cave. This morning, my baby cousin began finger painting. All of recorded history happened between these two paintings of human hands. The Nazca Lines and the Mona Lisa. The first TransAtlantic flight and the first voyage to the Moon. Humanity invented the wheel, the telescope, and the nuclear bomb. We eradicated wild poliovirus types 2 and 3. We discovered radio waves, dinosaurs, and the laws of thermodynamics. Freedom Riders crossed the South. Hippies burned their draft cards. Countless genocides, scientific advancements, migrations, and rebellions. More than a hundred billion humans lived and died between these two paintings—one on a sheet of paper, and one on the inside of a cave. At the dawn of time, ancient humans stretched out their hands. And this morning, a child reached back. 

I'm going to *remembers suicide is often not a desire for death itself but rather an attempt to radically change one's life because the current state of being has become unbearable but the person can't think of any way to change it other than death* kill myself

Source: 𝑹𝒂𝒃𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝑻𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒓𝒆, 𝑩𝒆𝒏𝒈𝒂𝒍𝒊 𝒑𝒐𝒆𝒕, 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒓, 𝒑𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒐𝒑𝒉𝒆𝒓, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓

i love this website i Hope we all Make It