I Am Good. I Am Loved.

Cherry blossoms float;

Flurries of delicate snow

in the heart of spring

— Haruki Murakami, 1Q84

[text ID: We cannot simply sit and stare at our wounds forever. We must stand up and move on to the next action.]

Wednesday, 28th July 2021

Love is more than the dream wistfully painted across torn pages in dripping ink and meadows of wildflowers, by writers and poets huddled by candlelight seeing love written in beloved faces. Seeing love in yearning clouds slowly chasing after the sun's fragile rays. Love is heartache and hurt and pain - a climbing river pushing back against everything you know. It inspires and challenges, it breathes life and ends it. It is everything we want and everything we do not dare to have. Love can bring just as much destruction to the harmony it creates. But it’s never about what love is or what it is not - it is how we shape its destiny within our own lives that counts. Love will always be with you, but will you let it stay? And sometimes we know that we just have to chase it away. 

Fallen angels are only humans in disguise, reincarnated to follow a new purpose - heal others in order to heal yourself.

Thursday, 26th August 2021

I haven't left but the spiders are already moving in

I find them in my bed, my curtains, dead and coiled in an old blanket fort

They ring the chimes that hang from my ceiling light

And find space among the creaking boards

I had a dream of this once, spiders hung in every corner and footfall

Taking over my life, my memories, as they crawl into the space left before

It is only when I know I am leaving, that I see the dust in the corner

And the tide coming in from the far away shore

there is no force of nature that says “come here” like the ocean

I don’t know where I’m going. Where I came from is disappearing. I am unwelcome. My beauty is not beauty here. My body is burning with the shame of not belonging, my body is longing. I am the sin of memory and the absence of memory.

Warsan Shire, from Bless the Daughter Raised by a Voice in Her Head; “Home”

we are that which is foreign; daisies which drift & dwell upon the air of elegance, delicately untouched by the vast twine of such sorrow, only ever shared but never held & never seen.

you never truly appreciate the intimacy of the expression “I'll gut you like a fish” until you actually gut a fish

Women in Greek Tragedy

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