Accurate Representation Of Me In Literally ANY Place That Sells Books.

"Grey time-worn marbles

Hold the pure Muses;

In their cool gallery,

By yellow Tiber,

They still look fair."

- Consolation by Matthew Arnold

by David G. Forés

We belonged to each other, but had lived so far apart that we belonged to others now.

André Aciman, Call Me By Your Name (via terxture)

I was always hungry for love. Just once, I wanted to know what it was like to get my fill of it — to be fed so much love I couldn't take any more. Just once.

— Haruki Murakami

perhaps the goddesses of old still live

i. perhaps artemis can be found in the wild girls. perhaps she is in the woman who brings signs and banners to protests, the woman who guards the wildlife that is left. perhaps in the protected forests, perhaps in the girls who tie themselves to the thousand year old sycamores, perhaps in their chains. 

ii. perhaps hestia can be found in the woman who runs the homeless shelter for women. perhaps in her wrinkled hands which knead dough over and over again to feed those without. perhaps in her eyes, which age every time another girl comes in with a hijab torn off, or her skin bruised, or her home taken from her. 

iii. perhaps athena can be found in the women who invent a new world. in the way that their computers blink as they find ways to reshape the universe. perhaps in the stars, which they will be the first to fine. perhaps in the professor of science, the woman who taught her children to be smarter than her. perhaps in the books which she writes, or the podium which she carves for herself.

iv. perhaps demeter can be found in the gardens which the caretaker in the retired community tends to. perhaps in the soil and the seeds and the stems and the little green sprout. perhaps she can be found in the girls who tend to fields of daisies, or in the girls who tend to fields of corn. perhaps in the songs the earth sings, or in the girls who still know the language. 

No one could ever understand me better

Life is tragic simply because the earth turns and the sun inexorably rises and sets, and one day, for each of us, the sun will go down for the last, last time. Perhaps the whole root of our trouble, the human trouble, is that we will sacrifice all the beauty of our lives, will imprison ourselves in totems, taboos, crosses, blood sacrifices, steeples, mosques, races, armies, flags, nations, in order to deny the fact of death, which is the only fact we have. It seems to me that one ought to rejoice in the fact of death—ought to decide, indeed, to earn one’s death by confronting with passion the conundrum of life. One is responsible to life: It is the small beacon in that terrifying darkness from which we come and to which we shall return. One must negotiate this passage as nobly as possible, for the sake of those who are coming after us.

James Baldwin, The Fire Next Time (via merulae)

This absence. This emptiness. This hollowness. This nothingness. I feel them too much.

Sophia Carey (via wordsnquotes)