poem: my favorite book
i let you borrow my book
and i am still waiting for it back—
i wonder if you are too afraid
to tell me that you have lost it,
or if you are still reading it and
only got distracted—
does it sit on your shelf gaining dust
like it did on mine till you borrowed it,
are you reading the notes i etched in margins,
are you writing your own?
did you wonder how the spine got so cracked,
how much i must have loved it,
and how i let it go to you
all the same—
it has been months since you took it from
my grasp,
and even though there is no time limit
on its return,
i just want to know,
do you enjoy
my favorite book?
-j.g. edge
ye bhi mazaak hi toh hai
by Edgar Allan Poe
From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were; I have not seen As others saw; I could not bring My passions from a common spring. From the same source I have not taken My sorrow; I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone; And all I loved, I loved alone. Then – in my childhood, in the dawn Of a most stormy life – was drawn From every depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still: From the torrent, or the fountain, From the red cliff of the mountain, From the sun that round me rolled In its autumn tint of gold, From the lightning in the sky As it passed me flying by, From the thunder and the storm, And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view.
—reasons to keep a diary/written record of existence.
credits: 1. anais nin; 2. sophocles; 3. fanny howe; 4. @pigmenting ; 5. louise erdrich; 6. tristine rainer; 7. clarice lispector; 8. sei shonagon; 9. elaine feinstein; 10. susan goldsmith wooldridge.
“Man is always prey to his truths. Once he has admitted them, he cannot free himself from them.”
— Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus
“I’m not wise at all. I told you, I know nothing. I know books, and I know how to string words together—it doesn’t mean I know how to speak about the things that matter most to me.”
~ André Aciman , call me by your name
serotonin dose guys!
Write about butterflies, write about your morning, write about the cup of chai you had, write about your crush that doesn't text you back. Write anything you love or colur like red and blue, cus eventually that will be yours, the true you
i made coffee, and i was stirring it calmly, gazing into the empty space on my table wondering about how small i am, this world and how i'll find my "mate" and how'd i hug her just to tell her that she's warm, like those calm raindrops along with the sun shining and its making rays making their way through the thick layer of dark clouds.
I didnt realise it until now,
It was a leisurely feeling
The way this quote slips through my ribcage and strangles my heart
just a lost 18 year old kid in search of something (he/him)
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