Credit Card Reform in Action (+playlist)

Dumb Ways To Marry - iBluebottle.com

The Maccabeats - Smart Ways to Live

dumb ways to die: sketched

The Maccabeats - Smart Ways to Live

The Riddle of the Childscape

Kith: The Riddle of the Childscape by Jay Griffiths – review

This was so much better and healthier, we insist, than the protected life of the younger generation now. (Of course, we rarely stop to reflect that we are the very ones who have imposed that protective regime on our own children: no dens in tumbledown sheds for them – think of the risks.)

 ("Children can be mavericks of malice", she concedes at one point), for the most part she holds a sentimental, rosy view of their nature – one that would hardly survive any prolonged face-to-face experience of a boisterous gang of under-10s. Try telling the average parent that, as Griffiths puts it, "there is a space around a child where even the air seems sensitive", or "children are the musicians of thought". Maybe that is how our kids would be, if only we gave them the space to be so; but I very much doubt it. As most parents have known for millennia, the issue is that children are a curious amalgam of little devils full of (for want of a better word) "original sin" that needs to be controlled, and blessed innocents whose autonomy and natural goodness need to be cherished. That's what makes childrearing such a challenge – and the one-sided views of Kith so misleading.

Perhaps the most important theme of the book, though, is the idea that children should be allowed their autonomy, to roam, to explore the wild woods of their "kith" and, crucially, to take risks. "Children need accidents," she writes, "little ones, ideally, accidents the right size, through which they learn to avoid bigger accidents later." We all know what she means: kids cannot know how to manage risk unless they have experienced some danger. But she gives no hint about how we might achieve accidents of "the right size". The truth is that, partly because of all those tedious rules and regulations, Britain really has become safer for children (as the Unicef report recognised, and as a quick scan of any 19th-century newspaper, with its litany of child fatalities from drowning, skating accidents or falls from carts, will attest). The dilemma is that many us might favour, in general, a less risk-averse world – but not if it's our kids that end up at the bottom of the pond.

Collect Stories

http://www.1947partitionarchive.org/Collect_Stories

In such a jocund company

Besides the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

continue each other in an endless flow.

The existence of which we are most assured and which we know best is unquestionably our own, for of every other object we have notions which may be considered external and superficial, whereas, of ourselves, our perception is internal and profound. What, then, do we find? In this privileged case, what is the precise meaning of the word “exist”? Let us recall here briefly the conclusions of an earlier work. I find, first of all, that I pass from state to state. I am warm or cold, I am merry or sad, I work or I do nothing, I look at what is around me or I think of something else. Sensations, feelings, volitions, ideas—such are the changes into which my existence is divided and which color it in turns. I change, then, without ceasing. But this is not saying enough. Change is far more radical than we are at first inclined to suppose. For I speak of each of my states as if it formed a block and were a separate whole. I say indeed that I change, but the change seems to me to reside in the passage from one state to the next: of each state, taken separately, I am apt to think that it remains the same during all the time that it prevails. Nevertheless, a slight effort of attention would reveal to me that there is no feeling, no idea, no volition which is not undergoing change every moment: if a mental state ceased to vary, its duration would cease to flow. Let us take the most stable of internal states, the visual perception of a motionless external object. The object may remain the same, I may look at it from the same side, at the same angle, in the same light; nevertheless the vision I now have of it differs from that which I have just had, even if only because the one is an instant older than the other. My memory is there, which conveys something of the past into the present. My mental state, as it advances on the road of time, is continually swelling with the duration which it accumulates: it goes on increasing—rolling upon itself, as a snowball on the snow. Still more is this the case with states more deeply internal, such as sensations, feelings, desires, etc., which do not correspond, like a simple visual perception, to an unvarying external object. But it is expedient to disregard this uninterrupted change, and to notice it only when it becomes sufficient to impress a new attitude on the body, a new direction on the attention. Then, and then only, we find that our state has changed. The truth is that we change without ceasing, and that the state itself is nothing but change.

 

This amounts to saying that there is no essential difference between passing from one state to another and persisting in the same state. If the state which “remains the same” is more varied than we think, on the other hand the passing from one state to another resembles, more than we imagine, a single state being prolonged; the transition is continuous. But, just because we close our eyes to the unceasing variation of every psychical state, we are obliged, when the change has become so considerable as to force itself on our attention, to speak as if a new state were placed alongside the previous one. Of this new state we assume that it remains unvarying in its turn, and so on endlessly. The apparent discontinuity of the psychical life is then due to our attention being fixed on it by a series of separate acts: actually there is only a gentle slope; but in following the broken line of our acts of attention, we think we perceive separate steps. True, our psychic life is full of the unforeseen. A thousand incidents arise, which seem to be cut off from those which precede them, and to be disconnected from those which follow. Discontinuous though they appear, however, in point of fact they stand out against the continuity of a background on which they are designed, and to which indeed they owe the intervals that separate them; they are the beats of the drum which break forth here and there in the symphony. Our attention fixes on them because they interest it more, but each of them is borne by the fluid mass of our whole psychical existence. Each is only the best illuminated point of a moving zone which comprises all that we feel or think or will—all, in short, that we are at any given moment. It is this entire zone which in reality makes up our state. Now, states thus defined cannot be regarded as distinct elements. They continue each other in an endless flow.

The tracking down of all varieties of fascism, from the enormous ones that surround and crush us to the petty ones that constitute the tyrannical bitterness of our everyday lives.

 

A critique of the 1999 Budget

By SIDDHARTH VARADARAJAN

EVER since the programme of liberalisation was launched in 1991, a
certain mystique has surrounded the Union Budget. For finance
ministers, it is something akin to an alchemist's manual, a magical
document that will turn dust into gold. Thus we had Mr Yashwant
Sinha tell us on Saturday that ``the basic needs of our people for
food, shelter, health, education and employment will be met within a
decade from now''. If one is overcome by a sense of deja vu, it is
only because such astonishing claims have been made by every finance
minister in recent years, to no discernible effect.

But if the BJP-led government is guilty of sophistry, many of the
criticisms of the Opposition are equally facile. Just as all
finance ministers describe their Budgets as ``pro-poor'', opposition
leaders are quick to dub the same as ``anti-poor''. While there is
plenty in Budget 1999 that would fit this description, two points
are in order here. Neither previous Congress Budgets nor the
Budgets of the United Front (which the Left parties voted for on the
floor of the House) have been different in terms of expenditure.
Second, rather than focussing on human development as a policy
objective to be met by hiking allocations but keeping the basic
direction of the economy the same, debate needs to focus on the
structural constraints in the Indian economy that militate against
the satisfaction of basic needs.

Fiscal Fetish

A big obstacle in the way of rational discussion is the
fetishisation of the fiscal deficit. Indeed, one tends to forget
that the deficit is endogenous and reflects underlying trends. Far
from being an independent variable, budget deficits move in a
counter-cyclical fashion. When the economy is in recession and
output is low, budgets tend to be in deficit; during a boom, the
deficit falls or even turns into a surplus. In a developed economy
like the US, recessions lead to a fall in tax revenues and an
increase in government spending as `transfer payments' (on social
welfare) go up. But in India, it is primarily slack tax revenues
that put pressure on the fisc.

In Budget 1999, Mr Sinha has sought to finance the fiscal deficit by
increasing taxes. He has also tried to revive growth by giving a
fillip to housing and to the financial markets, via his concessions
to UTI, mutual fund and gold owners. Though markets have reacted
positively, investors will soon realise that what Keynes called
`animal spirits' are not enough to kickstart the economy. What is
needed is tax-funded higher government expenditure, especially on
the capital side. This Mr Sinha is unable to deliver.

The fact is that low tax revenues are written into the political
contract on which the Indian state is based. There are several
elements to this contract. Farmers must sell their crop cheap to
the state so that food for workers can be priced low and the
industrial wage bill held down. In return, the rural sector, or
rather the rural rich, cannot be taxed. Indeed, any attempt by the
Centre to force the issue will lead to conflict with state
governments, and the regional parties which dominate them. As if
the inability to tax the agricultural sector were not bad enough,
the fiscal deficit is further strained by cheap or free electricity
and water for wealthy farmers. Finally, in urban areas, the state
is too weak (or too unwilling) to ensure that mandated tax and
utility revenues from individuals and corporations actually accrue
to it; there is also the problem of business houses lobbying with
the government to get concessions and subsidies. The revelations of
Mr Mohan Guruswamy, who resigned as advisor to the finance minister
a few weeks ago, illustrate that the last factor is not an
insignificant one.

Capacity Utilisation

So long as growth -- at the `Hindu' rate, of course -- was taking
place on the basis of debt-financed public expenditure, these fiscal
constraints did not bite. But when the level of indebtedness
reached an unsustainable level, the constraint was translated into
cuts in public investment and attempts were made to ensure private
investment, Indian or foreign, filled the gap. Unfortunately,
investment has occurred in a limited cluster of industries. Despite
the generous fiscal concessions doled out to investors,
Infrastructure remains a bottleneck, as does the overall size of the
market.

Today, Indian industry is in recession precisely because the
capacity created during the first wave of reforms has proved to be
unsustainable. Even if we do not accept Jozef Steindl's argument
that excess capacity is endemic to mature economies, it is obvious
that any fall in capacity utilisation rates tends to prolong
stagnation as the fear of excess capacity weighs heavily on the
investment decision of firms. In the US and Western Europe during
the post-War `golden age', governments circumvented this problem
from the demand side by increased expenditure, especially on the
military, financed by higher taxes. But in India, as we have seen
above, any such attempt will not be tenable. That is why Mr Sinha
has not been able to produce a more growth-oriented Budget.

Industrial Recovery

Mergers and acquisitions offer one way for the corporate sector to
weather the downturn. In fact, Mr Sinha's Budget even tries to
encourage this process. Indian firms are also not averse to using
the state to gain advantages over their rivals in order to buck the
recession. If Mr Guruswamy is to be believed, this process is going
on today as well. But ultimately, unless the size of the
`nation-market' expands -- either through domestic consumption or
exports -- any industrial recovery will only be temporary.

There is a way out but it is not possible to achieve that solution
merely by juggling with budgetary arithmetic. The economy must be
put on a new basis; one which treats the fulfilment of basic needs
as the starting point -- rather than an illusory derivative -- of
policy. In such a society, it is not the size of the budget deficit
which will be constitutionally guaranteed, as the Economic Survey
has advocated, but the citizen's fundamental right to education,
health, food, shelter and employment.

Arundhati roy, imploringly persuading the possibility of having ambedkar today.

Yes, I know. It wasn’t easy to write it either. But in these times, when all of us are groping in the dark, despairing, and unable to understand why things are the way they are, I think revisiting this debate between Gandhi and Ambedkar, however disturbing it may be for some people, however much it disrupts old and settled patterns of thought, will actually, in the end, help illuminate our path. I think Annihilation of Caste is absolutely essential reading. Caste is at the heart of the rot in our society. Quite apart from what it has done to the subordinated castes, it has corroded the moral core of the privileged castes. We need Ambedkar—now, urgently.  

Do not become enamored of power.

Do not use thought to ground a political practice in Truth; nor

political action to discredit, as mere speculation, a line of thought. Use

political practice as an intensifier of thought, and analysis as a multiplier

of the forms and domains for the intervention of political action.

I look around the store, packed with products that promise connection.

I could get a whiff of you in the air, today. .

Anonymous inquired I fall in love with you the more I know about you. I love it when you talk about yourself. It's not a romantic kind of love though. It's that kind of love where you know a person has overcome so much and it makes them even more beautiful. When you love and appreciate people simply for existing. I love that you are hard to figure out and that you have layers because that means you have lived a hell of a life and have many stories to share. I wish you all the love and happiness in the world.

If your own stance towards them was consciously appreciative, you know how much you loved them; and if that love could manifest itself in any outwardly discernible behavior, it could have done so only while they were here. You can't gather affection points, as it were, in retrospect

As soon as you can save that value from being eclipsed by emotions of grief, you'll give your love a more appropriate tribute.

A slight sense of you aromatic presence.   

DON’T FALL IN LOVE WITH A CURIOUS ONE.

.

THEY WILL WANT TO KNOW WHO YOU ARE, WHERE YOU COME FROM, WHAT YOUR FAMILY WAS LIKE.

THEY WILL LOOK THROUGH YOUR PHOTOGRAPHS AND READ ALL OF YOUR POEMS. THEY WILL COME OVER FOR DINNER AND SPEAK TO YOUR MOTHER ABOUT HOW THEIR CURIOSITY HAS TAUGHT THEM THINGS OF USE TO HER. THEY WILL ASK YOU TO RANT WHEN YOU’RE ANGRY AND CRY WHEN YOU’RE HURT.

THEY WILL ASK WHAT THAT RAISED EYEBROW MEANT. THEY WILL WANT TO KNOW YOUR FAVORITE FOOD, YOUR FAVORITE COLOR, YOU FAVORITE PERSON. THEY WILL ASK WHY.

THEY WILL BUY THAT CAMERA YOU LIKED, PAY ATTENTION TO THAT BAND YOU LOVE IN CASE THERE’S A SHOW NEAR BY, THEY WILL GET YOU THE SWEATER YOU SMILED AT ONCE. THEY’LL LEARN TO COOK YOUR FAVORITE MEALS.

THE CURIOUS PEOPLE DON’T SETTLE FOR YOUR SHELL, THEY WANT THE INSIDES.

THEY WANT WHAT MAKES YOU HEAVY, WHAT MAKES YOU UNEASY, WHAT MAKES YOU SCREAM

FOR JOY, AND ANGER, AND HEARTBREAK.

THEIR SKIN WILL TURN INTO PAGES

THAT YOU LEARN TO POUR OUT YOUR ENTIRE BEING IN.

DON’T FALL IN LOVE WITH THE CURIOUS ONE.

THEY WON’T LET A SIGH GO UNEXPLAINED.

THEY WILL WANT TO KNOW WHAT THEY DID

EXACTLY WHAT THEY DID TO MAKE YOU LOVE THEM.

YEAR, MONTH, WEEK, DAY.

“WHAT TIME WAS IT? WHAT DID I SAY? WHAT DID I DO?

HOW DID YOU FEEL?”

DON’T FALL IN LOVE WITH A CURIOUS ONE BECAUSE I’VE BEEN THERE.

THEY WILL UNBUTTON YOUR SHIRT

AND READ EVERY SCAR

EVERY MARK

EVERY CURVE.

THEY WILL DISSECT YOUR EVERY LIMB, EVERY ORGAN, EVERY THOUGHT, EVERY BEING.

 

8 WAYS TO SAY I LOVE YOU

1. SPIT IT INTO HER VOICEMAIL, A LITTLE SLURRED AND SOUNDING LIKE THE SHOT WHISKEY YOU DOWNED FOR COURAGE. FEEL AS ASHAMED AS YOU DO WALKING INTO WORK IN LAST NIGHT’S CLOTHES. WAKE UP CRINGING FOR DAYS, WAITING FOR HER TO MENTION IT.

 

2. SIGH IT INTO HER MOUTH, WEDGED IN BETWEEN TEETH AND TONGUES. DON’T EVEN LET YOUR LIPS MOVE WHEN YOU SAY IT, EVER SO LIGHTLY, INTO THE AIR. MAYBE IT WAS JUST AN EXHALATION OF ECSTASY.

 

3. BUY HER FLOWERS. BUY HER CHOCOLATE. BUY HER A TEDDY BEAR, BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT EVERY ROMANTIC COMEDY HAS TAUGHT YOU. TAKE HER OUT TO A NICE RESTAURANT WHERE NEITHER OF YOU FEEL COMFORTABLE AND SPEND THE WHOLE NIGHT CLEARING YOUR THROAT AND TUGGING AT YOUR TIE. FEEL LIKE YOUR ACTIONS ARE MORE SUITED TO A PROPOSAL THAN THE SIMPLE CONFESSION OF SOMETHING YOU’VE ALWAYS KNOWN.

 

4. WHISPER IT INTO HER HAIR IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, AFTER YOU’VE COUNTED THE SPACE BETWEEN HER BREATHS AND ARE CERTAIN SHE’S ASLEEP. SHUT YOUR EYES QUICKLY WHEN SHE SHIFTS TOWARD YOU IN ASKANCE. MAYBE YOU WERE JUST SLEEP WHISPERING.

 

5. BLURT IT OUT IN THE MIDDLE OF AN IMPROMPTU DANCE PARTY IN THE KITCHEN, AS CLUMSY AS YOUR TWO LEFT FEET. WHEN TIME SEEMS TO FREEZE, HASTILY TACK ON “IN THAT SHIRT” OR “WHEN YOU MAKE YOUR AWARD-WINNING MEATBALLS” OR, IF YOU ARE FEELING PARTICULARLY BRAVE, “WHEN WE DO THIS.” RESUME DANCING AND PRETEND YOU DON’T FEEL HER EYES ON YOU THE REST OF THE NIGHT.

 

6. WRITE HER A LETTER IN WHICH THE AMOUNT OF CIRCUMNAVIGATING AND ANGST COULD RIVAL MR. DARCY’S. DEBATE WHERE TO LEAVE IT ALL DAY – ON HER PILLOW? IN HER COAT POCKET? THROW IT AWAY IN FRUSTRATION, CONVENIENTLY LEAVING IT FACE UP IN THE TRASHCAN, HER NAME SCRAWLED ON THE FRONT IN YOUR SLOPPY HANDWRITING. LET HER WONDER IF YOU MEANT IT.

 

7. WAIT UNTIL SOMETHING TERRIBLE HAS HAPPENED AND YOU CAN’T NOT TELL HER ANYMORE. WAIT UNTIL SHE ALMOST GETS HIT BY A CAR CROSSING WABASH AGAINST THE LIGHT AND AFTER YOU ARE DONE CURSING AT THE SHIT-FOR-BRAINS CAB DRIVERS IN THIS CITY, REALIZE YOU ARE ACTUALLY JUST TERRIFIED OF LIVING WITHOUT HER. TELL HER WITH YOUR HANDS SHAKING.

 

8. SAY IT DELIBERATELY, YOUR TONGUE A SPRINGBOARD FOR EVERY SYLLABLE. OVER COFFEE, BRUSHING YOUR TEETH SIDE-BY-SIDE, AS YOU TURN OFF THE LIGHT TO GO TO SLEEP – IT DOESN’T MATTER WHERE. DO NOT ADORN IT WITH EXTRA WORDS LIKE “I THINK” OR “I MIGHT.” DO NOT SIGH HEAVILY AS IF ADMITTING IT WERE A BURDEN INSTEAD OF THE MOST JOYOUS THING YOU’VE EVER DONE. LOOK HER IN THE EYES AND PRAY, HEART THUMPING WILDLY, THAT SHE WILL TURN TO YOU AND SAY, “I LOVE YOU TOO.”

by R. MCKINLEY

 

" TO LOVE YOU JUST AND JUST AND SOLELY…sorely "

" ‘IF THE GIRL HAD BEEN WORTH HAVING SHE’D HAVE WAITED FOR YOU?’

NO, SIR, THE GIRL REALLY WORTH HAVING WON’T WAIT FOR ANYBODY. "

by F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise

" MY HEART IS UNREGRETTABLY PALLIATING AT THE ECHOES OF YOUR MERE BREATHING. "

by Frida Kahlo, from The Diary Of Frida Kahlo: An Intimate Self-Portrait

" YOU CAN TALK WITH SOMEONE FOR YEARS, EVERYDAY, AND STILL, IT WON’T MEAN AS MUCH AS WHAT YOU CAN HAVE WHEN YOU SIT IN FRONT OF SOMEONE, NOT SAYING A WORD, YET YOU FEEL THAT PERSON WITH YOUR HEART, YOU FEEL LIKE YOU HAVE KNOWN THE PERSON FOR FOREVER. CONNECTIONS ARE MADE WITH THE HEART, NOT THE TONGUE. "

by C. Joybell C

" I PUT MY HAND ON HIM. TOUCHING HIM WAS ALWAYS SO IMPORTANT TO ME. IT WAS SOMETHING I LIVED FOR. I NEVER COULD EXPLAIN WHY. LITTLE, NOTHING TOUCHES. MY FINGERS AGAINST HIS SHOULDER. THE OUTSIDES OF OUR THIGHS TOUCHING AS WE SQUEEZED TOGETHER ON THE BUS. I COULDN’T EXPLAIN IT, BUT I NEEDED IT. SOMETIMES I IMAGINED STITCHING ALL OF OUR TOUCHES TOGETHER. HOW MANY HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS OF FINGERS BRUSHING AGAINST EACH OTHER DOES IT TAKE TO MAKE LOVE? "

by Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

" YOU ARE SO BRAVE AND QUIET I FORGET YOU ARE SUFFERING. "

by Ernest Hemingway

" THOUGH I MAY SEEM AT TIMES SOMEWHAT DISTANT FROM YOU, THROUGH THE GRAY MIST OF MY OWN MOODS, I AM NEVER FAR; MY THOUGHTS ALWAYS CIRCLE AROUND YOU. "

by Friedrich Nietzsche

" MAYBE NOT NOW, BUT MAYBE LATER WE’LL FALL BACK IN PLACE TOGETHER. "

" IT WAS PROBABLY NOTHING BUT IT FELT LIKE THE WORLD. "

" IF IT WERE UP TO ME

I WOULD LIVE WHERE YOU LIVE

IN A SMALL DARK CORNER OF YOUR SOUL

MORNINGS I WOULD WATER

THE ROSES AND THE POPPIES,

AND EVEN THE WILD FLOWERS THAT GROW

ON THE BANKS OF YOUR REMEMBERINGS "

by Silvia Antonia Brandon Pérez

" I ADORE THE STRUGGLE YOU CARRY IN YOURSELF. I ADORE YOUR TERRIFYING SINCERITY. "

by Anaïs Nin in a letter to Henry Miller

" I LOVE YOUR SILENCES, THEY ARE LIKE MINE. YOU ARE THE ONLY BEING BEFORE WHOM I AM NOT DISTRESSED BY MY OWN SILENCES. YOU HAVE A VEHEMENT SILENCE, ONE FEELS IT IS CHARGED WITH ESSENCES, IT IS A STRANGELY ALIVE SILENCE, LIKE A TRAP OPEN OVER A WELL, FROM WHICH ONE CAN HEAR THE SECRET MURMUR OF THE EARTH ITSELF. "

by Anaïs Nin, Under the Glass Jar

 

“THERE’S A CURIOSITY IN YOU THAT WILL MOVE MOUNTAINS SOME DAY

AS EFFORTLESSLY AS YOU’VE MOVED ME FOR YEARS.”

" I WANTED TO KNOW YOU MOVED AND BREATHED IN THE SAME WORLD WITH ME. "

by F. Scott Fitzgeral

There are thousands of ambitions that each such wish could consume my life. My desires, and I experience them all intensely, aren’t enough for this one lifetime. All these desires now drive my heart and I could die of each that no matter how much I suffer from them, it’s still not enough. So don’t cry, my love, you didn’t cause this pain. It was my fault that I fell so intensely in love with you.

" THAT’S WHAT IT FEELS LIKE WHEN YOU TOUCH ME. LIKE MILLIONS OF TINY UNIVERSES BEING BORN AND THEN DYING IN THE SPACE BETWEEN YOUR FINGER AND MY SKIN. SOMETIMES I FORGET. "

by Iain Thomas, I Wrote This For You

" YOU CAN KEEP AS QUIET AS YOU LIKE, BUT ONE OF THESE DAYS SOMEBODY IS GOING TO FIND YOU. "

by Haruki Murakami

 

" EVERYTHING IS ENERGY AND THAT’S ALL THERE IS TO IT. MATCH THE FREQUENCY OF THE REALITY YOU WANT AND YOU CANNOT HELP BUT GET THAT REALITY. IT CAN BE NO OTHER WAY. THIS IS NOT PHILOSOPHY. THIS IS PHYSICS. "

by Albert Einstein

" I SAT WATCHING A FLOWER AS IT WAS WITHERING. I WAS EMBARRASSED BY ITS HONESTY. "

 

 REMEMBER THAT THE BEST RELATIONSHIP IS ONE IN WHICH YOUR LOVE FOR EACH OTHER EXCEEDS YOUR NEED FOR EACH OTHER. "

by The Dalai Lama

" ALL I WANTED TO DO WAS SNEAK OUT INTO THE NIGHT AND DISAPPEAR SOMEWHERE, AND GO AND FIND OUT WHAT EVERYBODY WAS DOING ALL OVER THE COUNTRY. "

by Jack Kerouac, On the Road

" LET ME GLIMPSE INSIDE YOUR VELVET BONES. "

by Edgar Allan Poe

On the capacity for transformation and it’s prerequisite of letting go.

In a relationship, one mind revises the other; one heart changes its partner. This astounding legacy of our combined status as mammals and neural beings is limbic revision: the power to remodel the emotional parts of the people we love, as our Attractors [coteries of ingrained information patterns] activate certain limbic pathways, and the brain’s inexorable memory mechanism reinforces them.

…I thought

that pain meant

I was not loved.

It meant I loved.

" - Louise Glück, from First Memory

 

Who we are and who we become depends, in part, on whom we love.

Sarah Paretsky

 

 

 

 

 

Henri Cartier Bresson one of the greatest in the profession was into it too. He was of course French and as is their wont, the French elevate everything to high art. So in French a loafer is called a flaneur; a far more respectable terminology. Balzac another Frenchman, described the flaneur as the sort of person who is a connoisseur of the smells, the sounds, the drama of the streets he walks in and he described the activity of loafing as the ‘’gastronomy of the eye’’.

Conversations, as they tend to play out in person, are messy—full of pauses and interruptions and topic changes and assorted awkwardness. But the messiness is what allows for true exchange. It gives participants the time—and, just as important, the permission—to think and react and glean insights. “You can’t always tell, in a conversation, when the interesting bit is going to come,” Turkle says. “It’s like dancing: slow, slow, quick-quick, slow. You know? It seems boring, but all of a sudden there’s something, and whoa.”

Occasional dullness, in other words, is to be not only expected, but celebrated. Some of the best parts of conversation are, as Turkle puts it, “the boring bits.” In software terms, they’re features rather than bugs.

The logic of conversation as it plays out across the Internet, however—the into-the-ether observations and the never-ending feeds and the many, many selfies—is fundamentally different, favoring showmanship over exchange, flows over ebbs. The Internet is always on. And it’s always judging you, watching you, goading you. “That’s not conversation,” Turkle says.

She wants us to reclaim the permission to be, when we want and need to be, dull.

She advocates limiting our device usage in “sacred spaces” like the dinner table, the places where phones and their enticements may impede intimacy and interaction. She wants us to look into each other’s eyes as we talk. She wants us to read each other’s movements. She wants us to have conversations that are supremely human.

Homing

Homing | There’s no place like home

 

provocative questions about belonging and unbelonging

It evokes, for instance, homing pigeons with their unerring instinct, however far afield they may have flown, to return, to find once more the familiar. All of us have that homing instinct. Even extraterrestrials, as Steven Spielberg showed us, just want to “phone home”.

The famous diarist - on love and life, illustrated.

“Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage.”

Vladimir Nabokov

Vladimir Nabokov on Writing, Reading, and the Three Qualities a Great Storyteller Must Have

Literature is invention. Fiction is fiction. To call a story a true story is an insult to both art and truth. Every great writer is a great deceiver, but so is that arch-cheat Nature. Nature always deceives. From the simple deception of propagation to the prodigiously sophisticated illusion of protective colors in butterflies or birds, there is in Nature a marvelous system of spells and wiles. The writer of fiction only follows Nature’s lead.

In the cold -

" IT’S ALL ABOUT FALLING IN LOVE WITH YOURSELF AND SHARING THAT LOVE WITH SOMEONE WHO APPRECIATES YOU, RATHER THAN LOOKING FOR LOVE TO COMPENSATE FOR A SELF LOVE DEFICIT. "

Remembering Hunter S. Thompson, the father of Gonzo journalism. Yesterday was his death anniversary, here are some of my favorite quotes by him:

“Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow! What a Ride!”

“In a closed society where everybody's guilty, the only crime is getting caught.... In a world of thieves, the only final sin is stupidity.”

“Journalism is not a profession or a trade. It is a cheap catch-all for fuckoffs and misfits -- a false doorway to the backside of life, a filthy piss-ridden little hole nailed off by the building inspector, but just deep enough for a wino to curl up from the sidewalk and masturbate like a chimp in a zoo-cage.”

“I would feel real trapped in this life if I didn't know I could commit suicide at any time.”

“The TV business is uglier than most things. It is normally perceived as some kind of cruel and shallow money trench through the heart of the journalism industry, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free and good men die like dogs, for no good reason.”

“An outlaw can be defined as somebody who lives outside the law, beyond the law and not necessarily against it.”

“I’m a word freak. I like words. I’ve always compared writing to music. That’s the way I feel about good paragraphs. When it really works, it’s like music.”

“Graffiti is beautiful; like a brick in the face of a cop.”

“Journalism is "a low trade and a habit worse than heroin, a strange seedy world of misfits and drunkards and failures.”

STOP ACTING SO SMALL. YOU ARE THE UNIVERSE IN ECSTATIC MOTION.

by Rumi

- "For me, it's not important, as missing you is.."

" AT NIGHT I DREAM THAT YOU AND I ARE TWO PLANTS

THAT GREW TOGETHER, ROOTS ENTWINED,

AND THAT YOU KNOW THE EARTH AND THE RAIN LIKE MY MOUTH,

SINCE WE ARE MADE OF EARTH AND RAIN. "

by Pablo Neruda

The Diary of Frida Kahlo

" I THINK IT’S GREAT FOR TWO PEOPLE TO BE TOGETHER. THAT IS A GOOD NUMBER. I THINK, THAT TO KEEP IT ALIVE THOUGH, YOU CAN’T SPEND EVERY DAY TOGETHER. IT WEARS OUT THE MAGIC, LOVE MEANS NOTHING TO ME IF IT’S NOT FORTIFIED WITH FIERCE, PAINFUL LONGING, BRIEF EXPLOSIVE INSTANCES OF FURIOUS PASSION AND INTIMACY AND THEN A SAD PARTING FOR A TIME. IN THAT WAY, YOU CAN GIVE YOUR LIFE TO IT AND STILL HAVE A LIFE OF YOUR OWN. I THINK SOME COUPLES SPEND TOO MUCH TIME TOGETHER. THEY FLATTEN OUT THE POTENTIAL FOR EXPERIENCE BY CONSTANT CLOSENESS. PASSION BUILDS OVER TIME LIKE STEAM. LET IT RAGE UNTIL IT’S EXHAUSTED AND THEN LEAVE IT ALONE TO LET IT BUILD UP AGAIN. WHY CAN’T LOVE BE INSANE AND DISTORTED? HOW CAN IT BE VITAL IF IT HAS THE SAME THRESHOLD AS NORMAL DAY-TO-DAY EXPERIENCE? WHY CAN’T YOU WRITE BURNING LETTERS AND LET YOUR NOCTURNAL SELF SMOLDER WITH DESIRE FOR ONE WHO IS NOT THERE? WHY NOT LET THE DAYS BEFORE YOU SEE HER BE EXCRUCIATING AND FERMENT IN YOUR MIND SO ON THE DAY YOU GO TO THE AIRPORT TO PICK HER UP, YOU’RE NEARLY SICK WITH ANTICIPATION? AND THEN WHEN DESIRE SHOWS THE FIRST SIGN OF CONTENTMENT, THROW IT BACK IN ITS CAGE AND LET IT SLOWLY BUILD ITSELF BACK INTO A STATE OF STARVED FURY. THEN WHEN YOU ARE TOGETHER, IT ALL MATTERS. SO THAT WHEN YOU LOOK INTO HER EYES, YOU LOSE YOUR BALANCE, SO THAT WHEN SHE TOUCHES YOU, IT FEELS LIKE YOU HAVE NEVER BEEN TOUCHED BEFORE. WHEN SHE SAYS YOUR NAME, YOU THINK IT WAS SHE WHO NAMED YOU. WHEN SHE HAS GONE, YOU BURY YOUR FACE IN THE PILLOW TO SMELL HER HAIR AND YOU LIE AWAKE AT NIGHT REMEMBERING YOUR FACE IN HER NECK, HER BREATHING AND THE AMAZING SMELL OF HER SKIN. YOUR EYES GO WET BECAUSE YOU WANT HER SO BAD AND MISS HER SO MUCH. NOW THAT IS WORTH THE MILES AND THE TIME. THAT MATCHES THE INFERNO OF LIFE. OTHERWISE YOU POISON EACH OTHER WITH YOUR PRESENCE DAY AFTER DAY AS YOU DRAG EACH OTHER THROUGH THE INEVITABLE MUNDANE ASPECTS OF YOUR LIVES. THAT IS THE SLOW DEATH THAT I SEE SLAPPED ON FACES EVERYWHERE I GO. IT’S PART OF THE WORLD’S SADNESS THAT’S MORE EMPTY THAN COLD, POORLY LIT ROOMS IN CITIES OF THE AMERICAN NIGHT. "

" WHAT IF SHE WAS MEANT TO BE, OR COULD HAVE BEEN, SOMEONE IMPORTANT IN MY LIFE? I THINK THAT’S WHAT SCARES ME: THE RANDOMNESS OF EVERYTHING. THAT THE PEOPLE WHO COULD BE IMPORTANT TO YOU MIGHT JUST PASS YOU BY. OR YOU PASS THEM BY. "

" EVERYTHING FALLS APART AT THE EXACT SAME TIME

THAT IT ALL COMES TOGETHER PERFECTLY FOR THE NEXT STEP "

" EVERYTHING WAS SURROUNDED BY THE GREEN MIRACLE OF THE LANDSCAPE OF YOUR BODY. UPON YOUR FORM, THE LASHES OF THE FLOWERS RESPONDED TO MY TOUCH, THE MURMUR OF STREAMS. THERE WAS ALL MANNER OF FRUITS IN THE JUICE OF YOUR LIPS, THE BLOOD OF THE POMEGRANATE, THE HORIZON OF THE MAMMEE AND THE PURIFIED PINEAPPLE. I PRESSED YOU AGAINST MY BREAST AND THE PRODIGY OF YOUR FORM PENETRATED ALL MY BLOOD THROUGH THE TIPS OF MY FINGERS. SMELL OF OAK ESSENCE, MEMORIES OF WALNUT, GREEN BREATH OF ASH TREE. HORIZON AND LANDSCAPES = I TRACED THEM WITH A KISS. OBLIVION OF WORDS WILL FORM THE EXACT LANGUAGE UNDERSTANDING THE GLANCES OF OUR CLOSED EYES. = YOU ARE HERE, INTANGIBLE AND YOU ARE ALL THE UNIVERSE WHICH I SHAPE INTO THE SPACE OF MY ROOM… FROM YOU TO MY HANDS, I CARESS YOUR ENTIRE BODY, AND I AM WITH YOU FOR A MINUTE AND I AM WITH MYSELF FOR A MOMENT… THE GREEN MIRACLE OF THE LANDSCAPE OF MY BODY BECOMES IN YOU THE WHOLE OF NATURE. I FLY THROUGH IT TO CARESS THE ROUNDED HILLS WITH MY FINGERTIPS, MY HANDS SINK INTO THE SHADOWY VALLEYS IN AN URGE TO POSSESS AND I’M ENVELOPED IN THE EMBRACE OF GENTLE BRANCHES, GREEN AND COOL. I PENETRATE THE SEX OF THE WHOLE EARTH, HER HEAT CHARS ME AND MY ENTIRE BODY IS RUBBED BY THE FRESHNESS OF THE TENDER LEAVES. THEIR DEW IS THE SWEAT OF AN EVER-NEW LOVER. IT’S NOT LOVE, OR TENDERNESS, OR AFFECTION, IT’S LIFE ITSELF, MY LIFE, THAT I FOUND WHEN I SAW IT IN YOUR HANDS, IN YOUR MOUTH AND IN YOUR BREASTS. I HAVE THE TASTE OF ALMONDS FROM YOUR LIPS IN MY MOUTH. OUR WORLDS HAVE NEVER GONE OUTSIDE. ONLY ONE MOUNTAIN CAN KNOW THE CORE OF ANOTHER MOUNTAIN. "

by Frida Kahlo, The Diary of Frida Kahlo

Teeny tiny trotting !!

keep a box of mementos, souvenirs of your current world. in a couple of years you’ll look through it with the detached sentimentality of a stranger who has vaguely known your stories. you’ll read over the letters and skim through journals. you’ll mark the nights that have changed you. you’ll mark the nights that you just barely survived. collect the movie stubs, the small gifts, birthday cards. remember who is in your life. remember who has left. put on the one elephant earring that maria had given you at the barn when you were fourteen and needed a miracle. hold it in your palm. remember that drive home in the sunlight when rodney only smiled in the driver’s seat while you looked out the window and cried and laughed and cried and laughed. read through all of it and you will see how you’ve grown, how even your handwriting has changed, how you have become sloppier with language, how your priorities have toppled over each other and rebuilt into different homes. remember fondly the past selves that you have grown out of, shed, and found a new shell to call your own. remember the old haircuts, your favorite blouses. acknowledge it all. all the hurt and all the sadness, all of the love that you have received and all the love that you have given out. then, let go of all the things that keep you from moving forward. try to understand, from a far away perspective, why you hurt when you hurt. try to understand why that night in his bed you could not say let me be free. understand why your loneliness defined you for so long, and then let it go. there will be more nights. most memories blur with time. faces smudge, facts get misshapen, and sooner or later you realize that those nights that you depended on for solace are no longer what you need to survive. think of you at sixteen sitting in that dark room, cleaning the pink throw up off the wooden floors. think of her and understand that that moment was necessary, but no longer defines you. that night will be replaced with sneaking onto the roof of your elementary school with the boy that you will one day love, kicking basketballs off of the roof with one, no two shooting stars tailgating overhead. understand who you were and kiss that self on the cheek, say thank you, say goodbye. let go of all that is keeping you from moving forward, from climbing your way into the new stage of your life.. it’s going to be so hard to peel all these selves back. it will be so hard to let go of the things that you no longer need. but you must, love. you must. you have so much to look forward to. let go of all the memories holding you by the tail end of your shirt. let go. it will be okay.

Tell The People You Love That You Love Them

" FIND ECSTASY WITHIN YOURSELF. IT IS NOT OUT THERE. IT IS IN YOUR INNERMOST FLOWERING. THE ONE YOU ARE LOOKING FOR IS YOU. "

I LOVE BEING HORRIBLY STRAIGHTFORWARD. I LOVE SENDING RECKLESS TEXT MESSAGES (BECAUSE HOW RECKLESS CAN A FORM OF DIGITIZED COMMUNICATION BE?) AND TELLING PEOPLE I LOVE THEM AND TELLING PEOPLE THEY ARE ABSOLUTELY MAGICAL HUMANS AND I CANNOT BELIEVE THEY REALLY EXIST. I LOVE SAYING, “KISS ME HARDER,” AND “YOU’RE A GOOD PERSON,” AND, “YOU BRIGHTEN MY DAY.” I LIVE MY LIFE AS STRAIGHT-FORWARD AS POSSIBLE.

 

BECAUSE ONE DAY, I MIGHT GET HIT BY A BUS.

 

MAYBE IT’S WEIRD. MAYBE IT’S SCARY. MAYBE IT SEEMS DOWNRIGHT IMPOSSIBLE TO JUST BE—TO JUST LET PEOPLE KNOW YOU WANT THEM, NEED THEM, FEEL LIKE, IN THIS VERY MOMENT, YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SEE THEM, HOLD THEM, TOUCH THEM IN SOME WAY WHETHER ITS YOUR FEET ON THEIR THIGHS ON THE COUCH OR YOUR TONGUE IN THEIR MOUTH OR YOUR HEART IN THEIR HANDS.

 

BUT THERE IS NOTHING MORE BEAUTIFUL THAN BEING DESPERATE.

 

AND THERE IS NOTHING MORE RISKY THAN PRETENDING NOT TO CARE.

 

WE ARE YOUNG AND WE ARE HUMAN AND WE ARE BEAUTIFUL AND WE ARE NOT AS IN CONTROL AS WE THINK WE ARE. WE NEVER KNOW WHO NEEDS US BACK. WE NEVER KNOW THE MAGIC THAT CAN ARISE BETWEEN OURSELVES AND OTHER HUMANS.

 

WE NEVER KNOW WHEN THE BUS IS COMING."

by Rachel C. Lewis, Tell The People You Love That You Love Them

I’ve never really been good at small talk.

" I LOVE YOU BECAUSE THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE CONSPIRED TO HELP ME FIND YOU. "

by Paulo Coelho

" NOTHING COMPARES TO YOUR HANDS, NOTHING LIKE THE GREEN-GOLD OF YOUR EYES. MY BODY IS FILLED WITH YOU FOR DAYS AND DAYS. YOU ARE THE MIRROR OF THE NIGHT. THE VIOLENT FLASH OF LIGHTNING. THE DAMPNESS OF THE EARTH. THE HOLLOW OF YOUR ARMPITS IS MY SHELTER, MY FINGERTIPS TOUCH YOUR BLOOD. ALL MY JOY IS TO FEEL LIFE SPRING FROM YOUR FLOWER-FOUNTAIN THAT MINE KEEPS TO FILL ALL THE PATHS OF MY NERVES WHICH ARE YOURS. "

by Frida Kahlo, The Diary Of Frida Kahlo

" I AM THAT CLUMSY HUMAN, ALWAYS LOVING, LOVING, LOVING. AND LOVING. AND NEVER LEAVING. YOU ARE A STONE. WE WEEP TOGETHER AND MAKE A BED FOR RAIN. "

by Frida Kahlo, The Diary Of Frida Kahlo: An Intimate Self-Portrait

" SOMETIMES YOU MEET SOMEONE, AND IT’S SO CLEAR THAT THE TWO OF YOU, ON SOME LEVEL BELONG TOGETHER. AS LOVERS, OR AS FRIENDS, OR AS FAMILY, OR AS SOMETHING ENTIRELY DIFFERENT. YOU JUST WORK, WHETHER YOU UNDERSTAND ONE ANOTHER OR YOU’RE IN LOVE OR YOU’RE PARTNERS IN CRIME. YOU MEET THESE PEOPLE THROUGHOUT YOUR LIFE, OUT OF NOWHERE, UNDER THE STRANGEST CIRCUMSTANCES, AND THEY HELP YOU FEEL ALIVE. I DON’T KNOW IF THAT MAKES ME BELIEVE IN COINCIDENCE, OR FATE, OR SHEER BLIND LUCK, BUT IT DEFINITELY MAKES ME BELIEVE IN SOMETHING. "

PEOPLE ALWAYS SAY THAT IT HURTS AT NIGHT

AND APPARENTLY SCREAMING INTO YOUR PILLOW AT 3AM

IS THE ROMANTIC EQUIVALENT OF BEING HEARTBROKEN.

 

BUT SOMETIMES

IT’S 9AM ON A TUESDAY MORNING

AND YOU’RE STANDING AT THE KITCHEN BENCH WAITING FOR THE TOAST TO POP UP

 

AND THE SMELL OF DUSTY SUNLIGHT AND EARL GRAY TEA MAKES YOU MISS HIM SO MUCH

YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH YOUR HANDS.

 On Missing Them, Rosie Scanlan

 

" I WANT IN FACT MORE OF YOU. IN MY MIND I AM DRESSING YOU WITH LIGHT; I AM WRAPPING YOU UP IN BLANKETS OF COMPLETE ACCEPTANCE AND THEN I GIVE MYSELF TO YOU. I LONG FOR YOU; I WHO USUALLY LONG WITHOUT LONGING, AS THOUGH I AM UNCONSCIOUS AND ABSORBED IN NEUTRALITY AND APATHY, REALLY, UTTERLY LONG FOR EVERY BIT OF YOU. "

by Franz Kafka

" WE SPOKE ALL NIGHT IN TONGUES,

IN FINGERTIPS, IN TEETH.

" HE HURT ME MORE THAN ANYONE EVER HAS, BUT HE LOVED ME BETTER THAN ANYONE EVER DID, TOO. "

by Nyrae Dawn, Measuring Up

" CAN YOU REMEMBER WHO YOU WERE, BEFORE THE WORLD TOLD YOU WHO YOU SHOULD BE? "

by Danielle LaPorte

YOU ARE AT ONCE BOTH THE QUIET AND THE CONFUSION OF MY HEART. "

by Franz Kafka, from Letters To Felice

" SO I WROTE TO HER. LETTERS I NEVER SENT. LETTERS I THREW IN THE GUTTER OR FLASHED AWAY. - LIKE BOTTLES INTO THE SEA? - INTO AN OCEAN OF SHIT, MAYBE. NO, IT’S FAR MORE ROMANTIC. PICTURE IT: A HERMIT, A CAVE-DWELLER, WHO LIVES IN THE SEWERS, DISCOVERS THE LETTERS. HE COLLECTS THEM, READS THEM, THEN STARTS DREAMING. EVEN ENVIES THAT LOVE, PERHAPS. I THINK I WROTE A THOUSAND LETTERS, THAT TIME. I STILL REMEMBER THAT ROOM IN THAT LITTLE COTTAGE. ALL OF THIS IS OFF THE RECORD OF COURSE. I COULD’VE WRITTEN HER A SONG INSTEAD. NE ME QUITTE PAS, SOMETHING LIKE THAT. BELGIANS SPEAK SLOWLY BUT THEY KEEP IT SIMPLE. “WHERE ARE YOU?”, “WHAT ARE YOU WEARING?”, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” THOSE WERE QUESTIONS I’D ASK MYSELF WHEN I WOKE UP. THINKING OF HER. AND I’D GO TO BED…WITH THE SAME QUESTIONS. "

 

 " THERE ARE SOME PEOPLE, IF YOU’RE LUCKY, THAT WILL SORT OF FLOAT INTO YOUR LIFE, SURROUNDED BY SOME KIND OF OTHERWORLDLY GLOW AND YOU’LL FIND YOURSELF ASKING WHAT YOU’VE EVER, EVER DONE TO DESERVE TO EVEN, LIKE, LIVE ON THE SAME PLANET WITH SOMEONE WHO RADIATES SUCH LOVELINESS

 

" PEOPLE WHO BELIEVE THEY’LL BE HAPPY IF THEY GO AND LIVE SOMEWHERE ELSE, LEARN IT DOESN’T WORK THAT WAY. WHEREVER YOU GO, YOU TAKE YOURSELF WITH YOU. "

" HOW ARE YOU?

NO,

DON’T TELL ME THAT YOU’RE DOING GOOD

OR THAT YOU ARE FINE,

YOU AND I BOTH KNOW THAT YOU ARE SO FAR FROM BOTH OF THOSE THINGS,

TELL ME,

WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU THOUGHT ABOUT DEATH?

WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED AND WHAT FINALLY MADE THE TEARS FALL AFTER ALL THAT TIME?

WHAT IS YOUR STORY OF LOSS?

WHAT WORDS BREAK YOU?

WHAT WORDS PUT YOU BACK TOGETHER?

WHEN WAS THE FIRST TIME YOU UNDERSTOOD THE DEPTH OF THE WORD “GOODBYE?”

WHEN WAS THE FIRST TIME THE ONLY THING YOU COULD DO WAS LAY ON THE FLOOR AND CRY BECAUSE NOTHING ELSE IN THE WORLD MADE SENSE BUT BROKENNESS?

WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU REALLY AND TRULY LAUGHED?

CAN YOU REMEMBER THAT FAR BACK?

WHAT WAS ON YOUR MIND WHEN YOU GOT THOSE SCARS ON YOUR LEG?

WHAT LIES HAVE YOU BELIEVED LATELY?

WHEN WAS THE FIRST TIME YOU UNDERSTOOD WHAT “I LOVE YOU” MEANT?

WHO MADE YOU SO BROKEN?

HAVE YOU EVEN TRIED TO PUT YOURSELF BACK TOGETHER?

TELL ME,

TELL ME,

DO YOU LOVE YOURSELF?

HOW MUCH OF YOUR SKIN CAN YOU FIND CONSTELLATIONS IN?

HAVE YOU EVER TRIED TO UNDERSTAND YOUR EYES?

HAVE YOU PRESSED YOUR FINGERTIPS TO YOUR OWN LIPS HOPING NOTHING ELSE MATTERED IN THE WORLD IF YOUR LIPS WERE YOUR OWN?

HAVE YOU EVER MADE YOURSELF BELIEVE THE LIE THAT YOU AREN’T WORTH IT?

WHY?

HOW IS THE WEATHER IN YOUR HEART?

IS IT A HURRICANE OR A TSUNAMI?

IS THERE FOG SURROUNDING YOUR SOUL?

HAVE YOU EVER LOVED ANOTHER MORE THAN YOU LOVED TO BREATHE?

WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU REALLY AND TRULY BELIEVED THAT YOUR LIFE WAS WORTH LIVING? "

by I’ve never really been good at small talk

" HOW ARE YOU?

NO,

DON’T TELL ME THAT YOU’RE DOING GOOD

OR THAT YOU ARE FINE,

YOU AND I BOTH KNOW THAT YOU ARE SO FAR FROM BOTH OF THOSE THINGS,

TELL ME,

WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU THOUGHT ABOUT DEATH?

WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED AND WHAT FINALLY MADE THE TEARS FALL AFTER ALL THAT TIME?

WHAT IS YOUR STORY OF LOSS?

WHAT WORDS BREAK YOU?

WHAT WORDS PUT YOU BACK TOGETHER?

WHEN WAS THE FIRST TIME YOU UNDERSTOOD THE DEPTH OF THE WORD “GOODBYE?”

WHEN WAS THE FIRST TIME THE ONLY THING YOU COULD DO WAS LAY ON THE FLOOR AND CRY BECAUSE NOTHING ELSE IN THE WORLD MADE SENSE BUT BROKENNESS?

WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU REALLY AND TRULY LAUGHED?

CAN YOU REMEMBER THAT FAR BACK?

WHAT WAS ON YOUR MIND WHEN YOU GOT THOSE SCARS ON YOUR LEG?

WHAT LIES HAVE YOU BELIEVED LATELY?

WHEN WAS THE FIRST TIME YOU UNDERSTOOD WHAT “I LOVE YOU” MEANT?

WHO MADE YOU SO BROKEN?

HAVE YOU EVEN TRIED TO PUT YOURSELF BACK TOGETHER?

TELL ME,

TELL ME,

DO YOU LOVE YOURSELF?

HOW MUCH OF YOUR SKIN CAN YOU FIND CONSTELLATIONS IN?

HAVE YOU EVER TRIED TO UNDERSTAND YOUR EYES?

HAVE YOU PRESSED YOUR FINGERTIPS TO YOUR OWN LIPS HOPING NOTHING ELSE MATTERED IN THE WORLD IF YOUR LIPS WERE YOUR OWN?

HAVE YOU EVER MADE YOURSELF BELIEVE THE LIE THAT YOU AREN’T WORTH IT?

WHY?

HOW IS THE WEATHER IN YOUR HEART?

IS IT A HURRICANE OR A TSUNAMI?

IS THERE FOG SURROUNDING YOUR SOUL?

HAVE YOU EVER LOVED ANOTHER MORE THAN YOU LOVED TO BREATHE?

WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU REALLY AND TRULY BELIEVED THAT YOUR LIFE WAS WORTH LIVING? "

by I’ve never really been good at small talk

" YOU WILL BURN AND YOU WILL BURN OUT; YOU WILL BE HEALED AND COME BACK AGAIN. "

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky