Sit With Me In My Bedroom When It Is Dark Outside And Quiet Within, And You Will See A Part Of Myself

think it's a deep consolation to know that spiders dream, that monkeys tease predators, that dolphins have accents, that lions can be scared silly by a lone mongoose, that otters hold hands, and ants bury their dead. that there isn't their life and our life. nor your life and my life. that it's just one teetering and endless thread and all of us, all of us, are entangled w it as deep as entanglement goes. v neat i think.

Queen of hearts, bows to the fools parade, insanity is a strange thing to take comfort in. ‘Mere blood and bone’ will lure you to depths of life/hell which human hand (only) must (only) touch. Vega of the lyre and bellatrix of the Orion in a dance of lights and life, bitterness sings a frayed melody to the hearthstone, listen to her woebegone voice in the soft refrain, fold away your letters and give away your life, for its not sadness but despair that requests it. Believe in phantoms, and one as old as yourself wants to touch your windows and watch its fragile hands pass through the glass. 

It’s odd how the only time you are hit with a profound feeling of despair or any kind of hopelessness is when you either have nothing to do or when you are at least not actively engaged in something, I’ve had people tell me that that is why they keep themselves busy all the time, boredom breeds nihilism, etc. But isn’t that also implying - basically acknowledging, however unconscious that might be - that without the presence of an ever hovering distraction, everything is essentially arbitrary ? ( i.e the current state of matters is so terrible that you need a constant diversion to keep from falling into depression) How inattentive do you need to be to not notice that ? Maybe, just maybe, everyone is always in a hurry because of this need for their thoughts to revolve around some external thing ? Societal Indoctrination of behaviour ? Inadvertent familial conditioning ? What is it ?

when you get this, please respond with five things that make you happy! then, send to your last ten people in your notifs (anonymously). you never know who might benefit from spreading positivity♡♡♡

Thank you!

1. Kitten’s paws on table counters,I don’t know but that always makes me want to melt into puddle of awws and never let the poor cat go.

2. Stray wildflowers growing between the cracks in the footpath, can never have enough, all my old books are littered with little leaves and and flower spoil.

3. You know when it rains really hard and there are puddles everywhere and you can’t find a place wide enough to put your foot in and it’s like the earth has been broken into little glass pieces which you must not step on?

4. Finishing notebooks, particularly ones I’ve filled with midnight ramblings and things I’ve absentmindedly said to the doorknobs and curtains.

5. Someone, anyone, remembering me, and perhaps even sending me a message in spite of my extreme reluctance to initiate conversations.

And I can’t leave this one out, - learning something that I am not required to, I’ve an intense fixation with astrophysics, history and philosophy. my folks think it is a waste of time that could be spent reading my textbooks, thus it has also the sublime satisfaction of rebellion attached to it. So there’s that.

smokeinsilence / sightofsea / young love by bts / nizar qabbani / abeba birhane / the waves by virginia woolf / franz kafka letters to milena / ratsandlilies.art / the butterflys burden by mahmoud darwish / underneath the stars by mariah carey

What more foolish than to believe happiness is the ultimate ambition of a society whose very foundation is built upon a thwarted craving for meaning and its pillars insatisfaction ? Unhappiness and insufficiency are the driving forces behind economic expansion. The horror of contentment, the very notion of it is injurious to capitalism. So, in a way, a constant search for and accumulation of wealth is equated with success and to not deliriously overwork oneself in the name of ambition becomes failure, or as an excellently absurd term puts it ‘wasted potential’. Perhaps the implication here that any ability to create or produce is disqualified to be of any value unless it is yielded in a way enabling it to be monetised is collectively unacknowledged by society, or consciously endorsed. A bit of prodding into this brings one to the despaired question. What indeed is humankind’s core want? Or in other words, what would compel a thinking person to serve bureaucracy if their fundamental need were met and a decent standard of living provided?

Also another thing that bothers me is the quasi-philosophical belief that suffering is somehow superior to happiness in both meaning and virtue. The dreadfulness of pain masquerades as intellectualism and, to borrow a phrase from LeGuin, the banality of evil is wrapped up in folds of mystery. The ideology that ‘suffering should be endured for the potential of a reward later’ (and not to seek any meaning in itself, which, although questionable is a manifold better reason to engage in masochism) is one that is encouraged and spread by those in power. This is an abuse of religion and an exploitation of people’s values done more or less solely for the purpose of keeping people perceived beneath them in check. This state of affairs is more prevalent than it appears to be at first glance and is a disgrace to the few who actually work for the welfare of people. This has been a rant. Thank you.

Loneliness sometimes takes strange shapes I suppose, there is a kind that the fervently wants recorded in word or image every thought and deed, an underlying fear of being forgotten, afraid of never being truly known. Perhaps the feverish words scrawled in the middle of the night are just intended to be a reaffirmation of your existence, even though no one might read it.

Salman Rushdie is inside my head and I can’t make him stop talking.

Journal entries

25th June,

Pardon the hand that once wrote with astonishing impudence that sunsets were better than sunrises. I had woken early this morning with the sole purpose of watching the sun rise and stumbled drowsily up to the terrace, expecting a glaring orb of sunflower tints, but was pleasantly surprised when a golden and blue frenzy of cloud met my gaze. I caught my breath and spun around, inhaling all the delightful freshness of the dawn. The sky was entirely covered in a single expanse of white cloud, breaking away here and there to reveal some soft lavender or violent cobalt. I strolled over to a ledge and seated myself upon it, my foot dangling a few foot above the ground, preparing to lose myself in a reverie. The place where the mountains usually were was shrouded in a fog so thick that the only things visible were the glistening peaks of the far off valley. I found myself thinking of the sea, for the entire thing seemed to be an elaborate imitation of the ocean. In the indented wave of the soft white cloud, in the unpredictable changes of tint, in the light twinkling upon the slim corners of a half broken drift, in the glints of the half risen sun from behind a pale golden shroud, every where I turned, there it was. And the sun ascended leisurely, flooding the mist covered valley with a light that transformed the whole range into a dreamy golden harbour. I have fallen in love with gold, not the crude yellow of the metal, but this intoxicating hue which has now adorned the sky with its gorgeous shades. And so the prodigal son has returned, I whispered under my breath, as my eyes traced the path of a swallow across the scene. I looked at the sun until tears started to my eyes and I could no longer bear the scorching intensity of her gaze, whereupon an old friend of the squirrel tribe wandered across to say good morning and all was forgotten and I now sit here, as a cool breeze blows, twirling a loose strand of hair and writing.