Part VI
tightness around their eyes
pinched mouth
sour expression on their face
crossed arms
snorting angrily
turning their eyes upward
shaking their head
fast breathing
chest heaving
trembling of their hands
weak knees, giving in
tears flowing down their face uncontrollably
laughing while crying
not being able to stand still
tension leaving their body
shoulders dropping
standing still
opening mouth
slack jaw
not being able to speak correctly
slowed down breathing
wide eyes open
softening their gaze
staring unabashingly
vacant stare
looking down
turning their head away
cannot look at another person
putting their head into their hands
shaking their head
blushing
looking down
nervous smile
sharp intake of breath
quickening of breath
blinking rapidly
breaking eye contact
trying to busy their hands
playing with their hair
fidgeting with their fingers
opening mouth without speaking
Part I + Part II + Part III
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"If you listen very closely when you smile at me, you can hear the birds singing in my soul."
not to worry mutuals, I’ve recruited a halfling to detect any and all spike traps on your dashboard, just make sure not to scroll too fast so he has time to find them
Maya C. Popa, from “Dear Life”, Wound Is the Origin of Wonder
— Devin Kelly, Ordinary Plots substack
Anyone who's ever done anything creative needs to fucking see this.
2025 wants this to be reblogged again!
Black cats are lucky. (via leahweissmuller)
— On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous, Ocean Vuong
Find the poets, my friend said. They will not speak of the things you and I speak about. They will not speak of economic integration or fiscal consolidation.
They could not tell you anything about the burden of adjustment.
But they could sit you down and tell you how poems are born in silence and sometimes, in moments of great noise, of how they arrive like the rain, unexpectedly cracking open the sky.
They will talk of love, of course, as if it were the only thing that mattered, about chestnut trees and mountain tops, and how much they miss their dead fathers.
They will talk as they have been talking for centuries, about holding the throat of life, till all the sunsets and lies are choked out, till only the bones of truth remain.
The poets, my friend, are where they have always been— living in paper houses without countries, along rivers and in forests that are disappearing.
And while you and I go on with life remembering and forgetting,
the poets remain: singing, singing.
-Tishani Doshi
not all of it is bad i think….…. we are going to be okay i think.
Notebooks 1951-1959 by Albert Camus // The Knight of the Flowers (detail) by Georges Rochegrosse // The Way to Keep Going in Antarctica by Bernadette Mayer // Little Weirds by Jenny Slate // Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre // The Fairy Glen by Steve Gill // The Carrying by Ada Limón // All the Gay Saints by Kayleb Rae Candrilli // Mirrors X by Nikki Giovanni // The Poet by Reynier Llanes // The Wanderings of Oisin by W.B Yeats // Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke // Letter to Gustave Flaubert X by George Sand // When I Grow Up I Want to Be a List of Further Possibilities by Chen Chen // Waterlilies by Claude Monet