Dear diary,
Maybe i didn't give anything to my parents to be proud of.
He asked me when I fell in love with him and I knew it sounded dramatic to say the moment I saw him, so I told him this story of my grandma who had Alzheimer's- she forgot her name and the words for fruit and food, she forgot her address and how to use the washroom, all her life lost to the disease. The only thing she remembered was her son's name and when that began to fade, the one thing she always remembered was that she loved him, even in illness, even in insanity. She saw this 6 foot 2 man with a scrubby beard and she didn't know him but she said she trusted him, she asked him to hold her hand when she died. When does memory end and love begin? All I know is- she loved him before she remembered him.
-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The world is a sphere of ice and our hands are made of fire
Ah, fine literature.
Pt.2
“I’m shocked that somebody has not yet experienced passionate feelings for me, poetically in a museum or a book store”
—
Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out by Richard Siken
Raskolnikov is to me what the Joker is to straight men
When Beatrice said “I would eat his heart in the marketplace." ” I felt that
A concept.
but who cares? it's just us
please please PLEASE reblog this if you care
I was reading about Francis Crick and James Watson’s discovery of DNA in 1953…and admiring Santiago’s beautiful drawings of neurons…and Alan Hodgkin et Andrew Huxley’s mathematical discovery of calculating how action potentials propagates along a neuron…I couldn’t help but think how romantic it all is. To me it’s so interesting learning about the process of discovery. It’s incredible because all these people were just like us—students. It’s romantic because it’s human—a human experience—an insatiable thirst for knowledge, curiosity that knows no end. A perseverance to succeed. The ultimate quest to generate a novel idea before anyone else does. How can anyone say that science is not poetic? Science is poetry written in a different language, an esoteric one at that. But poetry nonetheless.
Beware of the barrenness of a busy lifestyle | I write sometimes | 18
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