The Wanderer

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Would I Rather?

Would I rather be untouchable
and outsidely whole,
a whole hole inside notwithstanding,
cold and immovable,
safe?
Or would I rather expose it all,
naked and raw and vulnerable,
a whole of a hole showing,
in danger?
A life refusing love,
or love refusing a life,
again and again and again.

(Source: mols)

(Source: mols)

Dear Belgium,

Sorry about everything last year. I promise to come back and actually see you someday, instead of just throwing up on you.

Love,

A Penitent Former Exchange Student

I’ve had the lyrics from “Punching in a Dream” stuck in my head all day. Specifically the phrase “punching in a dream”, which I suppose could tell you a lot about my poor dreams right now. Ouch.

(Source: leahhkaye, via sad-soulful-sleepyhead)

I have often asked myself why I enjoy writing (manually, that is) to such a great extent that usually the pleasure of having a nice sheet of paper and a good pen in front of me (as if it were the work bench of the bricoleur) makes up for the often thankless tasks of intellectual labor. Even as I reflect on what I should write (as is happening at this very moment), I feel my hand move, turn, connect, dive, rise, and often enough, as I make my corrections, erase or even obliterate a line. This field expands until it reaches the margins, thus creating, out of seemingly functional and minuscule traces (letters), a space which is quite simply that of art. I am an artist, not because I represent an object, but more fundamentally, because, as I write, my body shudders with the pleasure of marking itself, inscribing itself, rhythmically, on the virgin surface (virginity being the infinitely possible)… . Writing is not only a technical activity, it is also a bodily practice of jouissance.

Roland Barthes, from the preface to La civilisation de l’écriture by Roger Druet and Herman Grégoire (via awritersruminations)

1 day ago -

99

Whatever I looked at was alive, everything had a voice,
but I never found out were you a friend, an enemy,
was it winter, summer? Smoke, singing, midnight heat.
I wrote thousands of lines. Not one told me.

Anna Akhmatova, from “Fragment, 1959,” trans. Stephen Berg (via proustitute)

1 day ago -

209

Carry me with you
and find me in all you see
wherever you go.

Daily Haiku on Love by Tyler Knott Gregson (via tylerknott)

(via sad-soulful-sleepyhead)

2 days ago -

659

People think of me as someone they can talk to rather than sleep with.

Robert Smith, 1987 (via cityyandcolour)

(Source: youholdmehypnotised, via sad-soulful-sleepyhead)

2 days ago -

137