February 2012
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“Others imply that they know what it is like to be depressed because they have...”
– Kay Redfield Jamison, An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness
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The moon was painfully exquisite, but I never looked at it in the sky. I saw its reflection in a puddle, grand and bright.
And it was only then I realized this is the way we see people—
not directly, only through parallels, only in glimpses, not fully and not as striking or majestic as they could be from another view.
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Feelings of Disconnection →
People from books, people from times long past, people only existing in her imagination seem more real to her than the people she sees walking down the street. The people she sits across from on the train seem blurry and endlessly far away. Much further away than the people she saw in paintings in a museum when she was a child. Much further away than Dorian Gray or David Copperfield. It is hard...
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moledro
n. a feeling of resonant connection with an author or artist you’ll never meet, who may have lived centuries ago and thousands of miles away but can still get inside your head and leave behind morsels of their experience, like the little piles of stones left by hikers that mark a hidden path through unfamiliar territory.
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(43) →
You didn’t know me when I was young enough to believe that you could bloom love like orchids on the kitchen table.
My father loved my mother the way Degas loved his ballerinas. He wanted to carve her out of marble, but forgot that statues don’t have heartbeats.
— only cold palms, and silk folds of stone.
How do you learn to love when you were never taught to as a child?
Trial...
October 2011
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October
n. a month in which I have lost count on how many times I have wanted to put myself into a medically induced coma and just wake up on the first of November.
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Sadness →
She snuggles up to her sadness, thinking about all the years she spent trying to get rid of it. One day she just had to accept her sadness is here to stay. Not forever probably, but for a long time to come. So she stopped fighting against it, and she tried to get used to that nagging feeling in her stomach reminding her of all that is wrong in her life. There is nothing she can do now, but treat...
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“Why are you sad?
Because you speak to me in words, and I look at you with...”
– Anna Karina, Pierrot Le Fou
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Lonely →
She’s under the impression she will never be understood. She has friends, parents and a boyfriend, but she doesn’t feel she can be herself with any of them. When she says what she feels they look at her with eyes full of confusion. Then they look at each other, mouthing ‘What is she talking about?’ Maybe they think she can’t see it through her tears, but of course she can. She is an observer,...
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September 2011
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“I mean, they say you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second...”
– Banksy
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ambedo
n. a kind of melancholic trance in which you become completely absorbed in vivid sensory details—raindrops skittering down a window, tall trees leaning in the wind, clouds of cream swirling in your coffee—which leads to a dawning awareness of the haunting fragility of life, a mood whose only known cure is the vuvuzela.
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WatchPassing Time
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Words made her happy. →
She was happy or she was sad. There was no in-between.
Words made her happy. She collected them on a string and tied them around her neck. They rested close to the pulse in her throat, the thump of her heartbeat counting syllables. She wrote them on her pillowcase to help her fall asleep. She woke up with clairvoyant, serendipity, stardust, croissant, debauchery, and euphoria tattooed...
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August 2011
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Phosphenes
noun. the stars and colors you see when you rub your eyes.
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There are not enough words. →
I adore the English language, but sometimes I feel that there aren’t enough words in it and that I can’t always say what I mean using this limited vocabulary. There is, for example, no word to express “I really love you, but not in the way you want me to” or “I don’t hate you, but I can’t forget what you did.” There is no name for the place we keep our innermost secrets or for the feeling that...
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“I want to know what it feels like.”
“What?”
“The end of missing someone.”
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I dreamt about you thrice for the past month. For the briefest moments, I was happy. But I can never write when I’m happy, so maybe it’s sad. Maybe it’s sad that the only place I can see you is beneath closed eyelids. Maybe I, miss and you are the words I’m looking for. But I’ll never say them. I never do. And now, all I am left with is a sea of words I refused to...
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July 2011
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“I’m almost never serious, and I’m always too serious. Too deep, too shallow. Too...”
– Ferdinand von Schrubentaufft