“My life is a struggle between my need for acceptance, my fear of rejection, and a desire to not care at all.”
— Unkown
Guillaume Apollinaire, from Aubade (tr. by Donald Revell); Alcools: Poems, 1913
(via soracities)
YOU
ONLY
LIVE
ONCE
(is not true)
YOU
ONLY
DIE
ONCE
(is much better)
YOU
LIVE
EVERY
DAY
(do you not?)
“It was after dinner. You were talking to me across the table about something or other, a greyhound you had seen that day or a song you liked, and I was looking past you over your bare shoulder at the three oranges lying on the kitchen counter next to the small electric bean grinder, which was also orange, and the orange and white cruets for vinegar and oil. All of which converged into a random still life, so fastened together by the hasp of color, and so fixed behind the animated foreground of your talking and smiling, gesturing and pouring wine, and the camber of your shoulders that I could feel it being painted within me, brushed on the wall of my skull, while the tone of your voice lifted and fell in its flight, and the three oranges remained fixed on the counter the way stars are said to be fixed in the universe. Then all the moments of the past began to line up behind that moment and all the moments to come assembled in front of it in a long row, giving me reason to believe that this was a moment I had rescued from the millions that rush out of sight into a darkness behind the eyes. Even after I have forgotten what year it is, my middle name, and the meaning of money, I will still carry in my pocket the small coin of that moment, minted in the kingdom that we pace through every day.”
— Billy Collins, “This Much I Do Remember”
![typewriter-worries:
“flowerytale:
“Margaret Atwood, from “Late Poems”, Dearly
”
[ Text ID: These are the late poems. / Most poems are late / of course: too late, / like a letter sent by a sailor / that arrives after he’s drowned. ]
”](https://64.media.tumblr.com/76a75541c606003149f3671a3d4e258c/5ad06bc959c0d7a1-80/s1280x1920/0e7f9ea7c9aa4b63c4af090dbb811011aa17e536.png)
Margaret Atwood, from “Late Poems”, Dearly
[ Text ID: These are the late poems. / Most poems are late / of course: too late, / like a letter sent by a sailor / that arrives after he’s drowned. ]
(via soracities)
this one is so sweet
“Someday. That’s a dangerous word. It’s really just a code for never.”
—
“Sometimes even to live is an act of courage.”
—
(via danger)
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