Repeated attempts to return to a mind that is not what it once was...
…let you brush my matted fur. How I’d knead into your chest while you were sleeping, your shallow breathing made me purr. But I can’t remember the sound that you found for me.
But now I will give up on this wall that we have fought with, never uncover meaning behind our rich words. If I could, I would make you a raging river, with angry rapids, supplied with rain, so you could always meander, and forever be able to run away without contending with myths wrongly interpreted, with pain. The Weakerthans, “Without Mythologies”
Being born a woman is an awful tragedy. Yes, my consuming desire to mingle with road crews, sailors and soldiers, bar room regulars—to be a part of a scene, anonymous, listening, recording—all is spoiled by the fact that I am a girl, a female always in danger of assault and battery. My consuming interest in men and their lives is often misconstrued as a desire to seduce them, or as an invitation to intimacy. Yet, God, I want to talk to everybody I can as deeply as I can. I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night. Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via interweber)
I know now, even more than before, you’ve got to hold friends high. Ben Kweller
He became lost in misty byways, in times reserved for oblivion, in labyrinths of disappointment. Cien Anos de Soledad
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