When I get lonely these days, I think: So BE lonely. Learn your way around loneliness. Make a map of it. Sit with it, for once in your life. Welcome to the human experience. But never again use another person’s body or emotions as a scratching post for your own unfulfilled yearnings.
… I don’t believe in God as a kind father in the sky. I don’t believe that the meek will inherit the earth: The meek get ignored and trampled. They decompose in the bloody soil of war, of business, of art, and they rot into the warm ground under the spring rains. It is the bold, the loud-mouthed, the cruel, the vital, the revolutionaries, the mighty in arms and will, who march over the soft patient flesh that lies beneath their cleated boots.
—Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via lifeinpoetry)
Here is the handful
of shadow I have brought back to you:
this decay, this hope, this mouthful
of dirt, this poetry.
—Margaret Atwood, “Mushrooms,” from Notes Towards a Poem That Can Never Be Written (via lifeinpoetry)
If Christianity is going to mean anything at all for us now, then the humanity of God cannot be a half measure. He can’t float over the chaos of pain and particles in which we’re mired, and we can’t think of him gliding among our ancestors like some shiny, sinless superhero.
—Christian Wiman, My Bright Abyss, p. 17 (via recycledsoul)
I want to be all that I am capable of becoming.
—Katherine Mansfield (via jimmorrisonlives)
You have to be careful telling things.
Some ears are tunnels.
Your words will go in and get lost in the dark.
Some ears are flat pans like the miners used
looking for gold.
What you say will be washed out with the stones.
You look for a long time till you find the right ears.
Till then, there are birds and lamps to be spoken to,
a patient cloth rubbing shine in circles,
and the slow, gradually growing possibility
that when you find such ears
they already know.
True, I have many voices. I speak like a let-down lover, a diarist, a social critic, straight sass. I fear I am everything, which of course amounts to being nothing.
—Lauren Slater, Prozac Diary (via ikeepsingingthissong)